Free Ghosts of James Bay by John Wilson Page B

to look at me. “How did you come to this place, Master Al?”
    This was it. The direct question I had been dreading. Impossible-to-explain images of trains, pickup trucks, and helicopters flooded my tired brain.
    â€œBy canoe,” I said, “but it hit a rock and was holed. I was attempting to walk back when I met Jack on the beach.”
    â€œThen it is possible to walk to this Ottawa of which you spoke?”
    I was trapped. I couldn’t mention the camp by the big rock without explaining why it wasn’t there or, more correctly, wouldn’t be there for centuries.
    â€œYes,” I lied, “but it’s very far. A canoe would be easier, but your boat’s too big for the rivers that lead that way.”
    Hudson nodded. “And to what purpose came you here?”
    That was a tough one. To dig up garbage tips to try toprove someone came here before you didn’t seem like a very good answer. “I came to see if the stories my people had heard of strangers visiting this land were true.”
    â€œThe salvage who came to trade in the winter,” Staffe interjected.
    â€œIt would seem so,” Hudson said, “although we have probably been much observed without our knowing it. Certainly news travels fast in these lands. In any case, your arrival here, young Master Al, and your knowledge of this land I take as a sign. We must look to our own resources if we are to escape. Thus we must make contact with the French at Quebec.” Hudson’s eyes met mine, and there was an intensity to them that seemed to burn out of the sunken cheeks. “Will you help us to that end, or at least to achieve your Ottawa?”
    There was no way I could refuse the plea. In any case, what would be the point? I had nowhere else to go. I had no control over returning to my own time and, if I was stuck here in 1611, I was in the same predicament as Hudson and his party.
    â€œCertainly,” I replied. “My people would be honoured to meet you.” At least my father would.
    â€œGood.” Hudson gave me a weak smile. “Then there is no point in delay. Come the morrow, you Jack, Philip, and Al must go south. You will—”
    â€œWhat of you, Father?” Jack interrupted.
    â€œI will remain here with Wydhowse and Fanner. I am too old and weary for the journey you have before you. God willing, you will return with succour before the winter sets in.”
    It was a slim hope—we could all see that—but what choice was there? Wydhowse and Fanner could barely walk a few hundred metres, let alone the hundreds of kilometres of hard going before we could hope for assistance, and Hudson wasn’t in much better shape. Jack, Staffe, and I were easily thefittest. But even we had no chance that I could see to negotiate successfully what must be close to a thousand kilometres between James Bay and Quebec. Our only chance was to meet up with some friendly First Nations people.
    Hudson must have been thinking much the same. Reaching back into his pouch, he took out the angel.
    â€œJack, take this. If there be any truth in Greene’s tale, then there are, somewhere upon these shores, people who may yet recognize this coin and for its sake offer shelter and succour to the bearer.”
    Jack took the coin from his father’s hand and looked at it. The firelight glistened on the tears in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hudson didn’t give him the chance.
    â€œAnd there is one more thing you must take,” he said, reaching beneath the folds of his coat and producing a small leather-bound book. “This is my journal. It tells of all our trials and how we have come to this sorry pass. I think Juet, Greene, and the others will either starve or drown long ’ere they spy England. If any are to know of our exploits and our great discoveries, it will be from our mouths or through the pages of this writing. Keep it secure and pass it on to safe