Kirk's Ferry Studio


Hear my MP3 reading of "The Sack of Souls" THE SACK OF SOULS A New Year’s Story Retold by Doug McArthur (based on La légende de la CHASSE-GALERIE) I am living outside the village of Wakefield Québec, 25 miles north of Ottawa on the banks of the slow and powerful Gatineau River. From my window I look across the deep cut valley to the cliffs that hold the river in. My river speaks little English and a bit of Français, but mostly Algonkian and other mysterious murmers that voice the same clay tones as the low dark hills and the wild wide sky. In winter when the sun burns low, the highways ice over and the snow is a silent fist upon the land, then we, alone in tiny farmhouses dotted across the hills of the Gatineau, turn our backs to the wilderness and warm ourselves around a fire of myth and memory. Before the roads and the hydro grid, before the satellites policed the starry night and before the fingers of digital information groped their way into the Gatineau Valley from radio masts high on Camp Fortune, the river was the only highway: the only way in and the only way out. In the spring the river was filled from shore to shore with great jams of white pine. All winter was spent cutting and skidding the logs in camps frozen on the shore. The worst time for the rough young men of the logging camps was the stretch between Christmas and New Years. This was when the days were shortest and the nights long and full of regret. Every man dreamt of home and family. Every man thought of celebrations going on without them along the North Shore in Tadoussac or on the far reaches of the Gaspésie. It was then that something very old uncoiled along the river. It was then the light was weakest, then the need was strongest, then that the devil came up the Gatineau. He spoke to them from the smoke and the whiskey. He spoke from the ancient forest. He spoke from the river in the tongue that was not English, was not French nor Algonkian: “I will take you home.” It was New Year’s Eve. Outside in the moonlight, floating just above the river, not touching the water at all, the men found a long birch bark canoe of a kind not seen since the days of Radisson. The devil sat high in the stern clutching his great bone paddle and as the young loggers climbed aboard the devil took their souls and dropped them like heavy coins one by one into his sac å dos. Then the wild ride began! Up into the freezing air they flew all washed with starlight while the river wound black far below through the silver forest. The men were afraid at first and clutched the sides of the great canoe but as they flew faster and higher down the Gatineau and swung East above the powerful Ottawa they began to laugh and point and grew more and more excited at the hope of seeing home again. By the time they ploughed the air over the mighty St. Lawrence and the lights of Montreal and Québec were behind them their joy knew no bounds! At the devil’s feet the sack of souls writhed and pulsed. His paddle bit deep into the air. There! There were the lights of home! Then somehow each young man found himself wrapped in the bosom of his family. Food and drink were hungrily consumed, children hugged and kissed, presents exchanged then quiet time spent with wives and lovers - all the happy hours swirled past like drifting ice in the black river. The morning light was thin and cruel.The loggers sprawled in the canoe restive and uneasy. The glorious memories of the night before were fading quickly, the air grew steadily colder and the devil seemed to paddle even faster on the return up the St. Lawrence, anxious to deliver his cargo. But to where? The sack of souls was almost still now but for the odd twitch and rattle. The great canoe swerved north west at Lac des Deux Montagnes and up the Ottawa. Soon the frightened loggers could see ahead the icy mist of the falls at Chaudiére and the curtain of Rideau. The fantastic canoe began it’s final turn North to follow the Gatineau but the men knew now that they were not ever going home. Close by a bell was tolling.A great cry went up to see the spires of the church so close above the village beside the river. As one man the terrified loggers rushed to that side of the canoe. The canoe began to tip. Caught off guard, the devil slid from his seat of command, almost dropping his great bone paddle to the earth below. Roaring an oath he reached out to balance the canoe. Subtle as an angel’s breath the bony finger of Lucifer grazed the golden cross atop the village steeple. The great canoe spun wildly down from the sky, slid on the icy face of the Eardsley cliffs and skidded through the snowy brush to rest finally overturned hard by the rapids.The loggers ran like laughing fools into the woods, one of them holding high the sack of souls and calling to his friends.The devil, caught under his canoe, could only watch them go. These are the stories that are dreamed by the dark hills of the Gatineau. These are the murmuring tales the river tells.

Hear my MP3 reading of "The Sack of Souls"

THE SACK OF SOULS
A New Year’s Story Retold by Doug McArthur
(based on La légende de la CHASSE-GALERIE)

I am living outside the village of Wakefield Québec, 25 miles north of Ottawa on the banks of the slow and powerful Gatineau River.

From my window I look across the deep cut valley to the cliffs that hold the river in.

My river speaks little English and a bit of Français, but mostly Algonkian and other mysterious murmers that voice the same clay tones as the low dark hills and the wild wide sky.

In winter when the sun burns low, the highways ice over and the snow is a silent fist upon the land, then we, alone in tiny farmhouses dotted across the hills of the Gatineau, turn our backs to the wilderness and warm ourselves around a fire of myth and memory.

Before the roads and the hydro grid, before the satellites policed the starry night and before the fingers of digital information groped their way into the Gatineau Valley from radio masts high on Camp Fortune, the river was the only highway: the only way in and the only way out.

In the spring the river was filled from shore to shore with great jams of white pine. All winter was spent cutting and skidding the logs in camps frozen on the shore.

The worst time for the rough young men of the logging camps was the stretch between Christmas and New Years.

This was when the days were shortest and the nights long and full of regret. Every man dreamt of home and family. Every man thought of celebrations going on without them along the North Shore in Tadoussac or on the far reaches of the Gaspésie.

It was then that something very old uncoiled along the river.

It was then the light was weakest, then the need was strongest, then that the devil came up the Gatineau.

He spoke to them from the smoke and the whiskey. He spoke from the ancient forest. He spoke from the river in the tongue that was not English, was not French nor Algonkian:

“I will take you home.”

It was New Year’s Eve.

Outside in the moonlight, floating just above the river, not touching the water at all, the men found a long birch bark canoe of a kind not seen since the days of Radisson. The devil sat high in the stern clutching his great bone paddle and as the young loggers climbed aboard the devil took their souls and dropped them like heavy coins one by one into his sac å dos.

Then the wild ride began!

Up into the freezing air they flew all washed with starlight while the river wound black far below through the silver forest.

The men were afraid at first and clutched the sides of the great canoe but as they flew faster and higher down the Gatineau and swung East above the powerful Ottawa they began to laugh and point and grew more and more excited at the hope of seeing home again.

By the time they ploughed the air over the mighty St. Lawrence and the lights of Montreal and Québec were behind them their joy knew no bounds! At the devil’s feet the sack of souls writhed and pulsed. His paddle bit deep into the air.

There! There were the lights of home!

Then somehow each young man found himself wrapped in the bosom of his family. Food and drink were hungrily consumed, children hugged and kissed, presents exchanged then quiet time spent with wives and lovers - all the happy hours swirled past like drifting ice in the black river.

The morning light was thin and cruel.The loggers sprawled in the canoe restive and uneasy. The glorious memories of the night before were fading quickly, the air grew steadily colder and the devil seemed to paddle even faster on the return up the St. Lawrence, anxious to deliver his cargo. But to where?

The sack of souls was almost still now but for the odd twitch and rattle.

The great canoe swerved north west at Lac des Deux Montagnes and up the Ottawa.

Soon the frightened loggers could see ahead the icy mist of the falls at Chaudiére and the curtain of Rideau. The fantastic canoe began it’s final turn North to follow the Gatineau but the men knew now that they were not ever going home.

Close by a bell was tolling.A great cry went up to see the spires of the church so close above the village beside the river. As one man the terrified loggers rushed to that side of the canoe.

The canoe began to tip.

Caught off guard, the devil slid from his seat of command, almost dropping his great bone paddle to the earth below. Roaring an oath he reached out to balance the canoe.

Subtle as an angel’s breath the bony finger of Lucifer grazed the golden cross atop the village steeple.

The great canoe spun wildly down from the sky, slid on the icy face of the Eardsley cliffs and skidded through the snowy brush to rest finally overturned hard by the rapids.The loggers ran like laughing fools into the woods, one of them holding high the sack of souls and calling to his friends.The devil, caught under his canoe, could only watch them go.

These are the stories that are dreamed by the dark hills of the Gatineau. These are the murmuring tales the river tells.