The Plains of Abraham

Chapter 7

Malcolm and I paddled westward, parallel to the southern shore of the lake, keeping a distance of a few hundred feet off shore. The first day was uneventful, and I allowed myself to relax and imagine facing no greater obstacle than sore muscles during the remainder of our journey. I even knocked on wood. Which required little effort since the canoe was made of wood.

The second day was more eventful.

Smell is the first of the senses to detect an approaching storm. The nose captures the moisture, the subtle change in humidity, the microscopic scouts that precede the squall and warn the birds. The birds behave erratically until moments before the rain begins, whereupon they disappear.

The skin registers the sudden temperature drop, the stiffening breeze. The trees begin to speak of it, and no longer in soft whispers.

Halfway through our second day on the lake the sky was torn by lightning. Malcolm turned to me and nodded. His nose was telling him the same tale mine was telling me. We steered toward shore and pushed hard.

But the storm pushed harder. The horizon was bruised and swollen. Clouds that until now had squatted deviously in waiting now darkened and trundled toward our fleeing vessel.

A clap of thunder. More splintered flashes, and almost immediately thereafter an ear-splitting crash. The storm was on us.

"Paddle," Malcolm said.

He didn't have to tell me. I was ploughing the water as if sea monsters were after me. Waves rose, encouraged by the wind, and impeded our progress. They stretched ever higher with clear intent to swamp the boat.

"It feels like we're going backwards," Malcolm said.

"Or else the shore is moving away from us."

"I wouldn't doubt it. Paddle with everything you've got."

"You mean I have to stop lollygagging around?"

We reached the shore with the assistance of a large and accommodating wave that tossed us onto the mud and tried to snatch the canoe away as it receded. Malcom and I each grabbed a thwart and dragged the canoe into the trees.

"Good Wilbur," Malcolm said.

"I thought you didn't like the name."

"I'll forgive him any name as long as he saves our lives."

"How about Sweet Pea?"

"Don't test your luck."

The clouds dumped their cumbersome loads. The forest canopy failed to shield us from the downpour, instead acting as a sponge, collecting rainwater and squeezing it down on our heads. We tipped Wilbur upside down, propped him against a stump, and crouched beneath. A canoe made a good house, even if the rooms were wobbly and narrow. There was no question of erecting our regular shelter; the wind would turn the birchbark slabs into sails and send them flying back to Kebek.

The sounds of the storm beat against the hull. Between wind, rain, and thunder was little room for talk and even less for complicated thought.

"This is icky," I shouted at Malcolm.

"Yep."

"Wouldn't now be a good time for prayer?"

"There's an old saying." A crash of thunder almost drowned out his voice. "Whoever would learn to pray to God must go upon the sea."

Peaking out from under the canoe, I inspected the lake. Roiling waves rose to my standing height. Farther out they appeared even taller. High above, funnel clouds spun in ominous circles, alternating between fast and slow, teasing the lake until they dipped into it, drank its water, and swelled into full-fledged tornadoes, the most chilling and diabolical of natural phenomena.