A Print of a Man

By Edmond Alcid

I had walked out of the bush an old man. How Old, I did not know? The years had passed without the need to celebrate the remembrance of a birth date. There was something familiar about the place.
I noticed a man rocking lazily on an open porch. The old man resembled the face I have when I gaze at my own reflection. We pause and stop, our eyes studying each and every feature of the other. He is familiar; I search my memory for names to place with the face before me.
He seems satisfied that after consideration, he has placed a name to my face. I have not placed a name to suit his likeness.
"Thomas?"
"Yes, I am Thomas Chapais."
"Thomas, I am . . . Nicolas."
Two old men stood there dumb-founded with nothing to say but to repeat each other's name with favour, contempt, anger, sadness and an undying love that only kinship knows. Without an embrace, nor a handshake we bonded as brothers need to. Our eyes were reluctant to gaze away for fear of the image disappearing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose Hide Books imprint of Moose Enterprise Publishing
• Release date: Jan 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781894650793

Book preview

A Print of a Man

A Print Of A Man

a PRINT of a MAN

a

NOVEL

by

EDMOND ALCID

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

cover illustration by Marc Cove

A PRINT OF A MAN

by

Edmond Alcid

Copyright March 1, 2002

Published May 1, 2007

by

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

Imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

684 WALLS SIDE ROAD

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

P6A 6K6

web site www.moosehidebooks.com

NO VENTURE UNATTAINABLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED, THIS INCLUDES STORING IN RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ELECTRONIC MEANS, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHER, WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THIS PUBLISHER.

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION, NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

CREATED IN CANADA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Alcid, Edmond, 1953-

A print of a Man / Edmond Alcid.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-894650-18-2 9 (paper back). –ISBN 978-1-894650-79-3 (pdf)

I. Title.

PS8576.O977P74 2007C813'.54C2007-902119-0

PS8576.0977P74 21010aC813’.54C2010-903348-5

DEDICATION in REMEMBRANCE

of

FERNAND

son of

EDMOND

son of

BARTHELEME

son of

THOMAS MOUSSEAU

A man leaves an essence of being a man in lasting impressions imprinted on ancestors to be evaluated.

What worth shall one leave for reference toward;

‘a Print of a Man’.

a PRINT of a MAN

ONE

I walked out of the bush an old man.

How old, I did not know? The years had passed without the need to celebrate the remembrance of a birth date. There was something familiar about the place I stood, where the bush bordered the tilled land of a farmer’s field. Slowly, faint memories recalled past moments of my life. As a young man, I had walked across this field many times. Several head of Heifers and draft horses grazed on summer hay in this field. Under winter’s snows and cold northern winds, I harvested snowshoe rabbits from a snare line.

Hesitating, unable to step forward or retreat into the safety of the bush, I studied the differences between security and the unpredictable. The openness of the field presented a fear of the unknown. For most, the dark foreboding forest held demons, wild animals and death for those lost within its bowels. I cherished and sought to hide behind the shroud the wilderness presented. Even at a tender age of a five-year-old child, I would venture past the tree line into the forest. With each year of age came the need to venture deeper into the bush, to explore, to see what adventure lay behind a tree, over streams of cool flowing water and beyond the next mountain ridge.

Standing in this familiar spot, I noticed a man rocking lazily on an open porch across the field. The house, familiar in its change, a simple home I remember in a past memory. The old man resembled the face I have when I gaze at my own reflection. He lacks a beard and the full head of hair that I retain. In my heart, fearful emotions tell me to embrace him and let tears cleanse away my past.

If I were young of strength, I would bound across the field to embrace the stranger before me. A stranger, why would I embrace a stranger? I hesitated to pass through the fence wire. I see him stand, his gaze in my direction. There is an urge to turn, run, hide behind the security of the forest, my home, my sanctuary. He steps from the porch, hesitating before advancing towards me. I feel that I must reciprocate.

To cross the threshold into an era, time, a place unfamiliar to my way of life. Childish fear ravishes an old man’s mind. I sweat beneath the buckskin coat and trousers that cover a stout but aging man. Two old men advance crossing the field, each with different thoughts questioning the mind, or similar thoughts. Is he going to confront me, attack?

A soft wind rustles the dry grasses that have begun to seed. An old gelding horse lifts its head briefly. It is not his concern that two humans approach each other, he returns to nibbling on wheat seed heads. My feet feel the soft moistened earth, it triggers a memory of running barefoot through the field with brothers and sisters. Brothers, sisters? There are flashes of images in my mind of parents, relatives, of an old gelding looking familiar to the white-haired Clydesdale across in the field now. A descendant by chance.

I know the man approaching, there is a twinkle in his eye. He looks old with warm grand-fatherly chubby cheeks, his belly reminiscent of Father-Christmas. His balding head and clean-shaven face is so much like a Grandfather of my youth. A grandfather that a grandchild plays a game of checkers with.

We pause and stop, our eyes studying each and every feature of the other. He is familiar, I search my memory for names to place with the face before me. There is a strange scent of cologne in the air, I sniff in the fragrance of the man. I know that I do not emit a pleasant odour. Though I have bathed a night previously, my leather clothes have an earthly aroma. He does not sniff the air, but slowly smiles, a tear cresting an eye lid. He seems satisfied that after consideration, he has placed a name to my face. I have not placed a name to suit his likeness.

Thomas?

I hesitate, shocked by the sound of someone speaking my name. Yes, I am Thomas Chapais.

Thomas, he repeats in a voice reminiscent of a voice from my past, my youth. Thomas, I am . . .

My brother, Nicolas. I had remembered a name, a face. Nicolas.

We stood there frightened by the ghosts we had become to each other, frightened to embrace each other. Nightfall’s wind tickled the tall dry grass to dance. Dry strands of wheat and oats gave a rustled sound. The wind stirred up a lifetime’s worth of forgotten memories. A setting sun blanketed the field in golden hues. His face shone with wonderment and a grieving relief. I felt blood begin to blossom a flower’s rouge onto my cheeks, my lips parted into a smiling grin.

Two old men stood there dumb-founded with nothing to say but repeat each other’s names with favour, contempt, anger, sadness and an undying love that only kinship knows. Without an embrace, nor a handshake we bonded as brothers need to. Our eyes were reluctant to gaze away for fear of the image disappearing.

This way, please, said Nicolas, pointing towards his home. Please visit, stay awhile. He wore my Grandfather’s welcoming smile and my Grandmother’s twinkling eyes.

Side by side we walked through the tall grass, my hands brushing over the soft seed heads. The heavy plodding of the gelding followed a breath behind us as we slowly and deliberately made our way towards our childhood home.

TWO

Grizzly looking in his unkempt white hair and prickly white facial stubble, Dad refused to bend over to lace up his boots.

Sixty-five years of life, hard work and weathered winkles covered his face. It was too damn early to get up this early in the morning. It seemed that he had worked his entire life on this homestead. Born, rolled in linen diapers in the dust then picked up the leather reins of a team of plough horses and began his working life. Bartheleme leaned lazily back against the hand hued oak chair, one of his son’s handy work. Nicolas was not a farmer, but give him a piece of lumber and his hands would craft anything required for a farmer or a farmer’s wife.

In a quiet moment, he gazed at his three boys with self pride. He had done well producing fine young men of integrity and stature. Not all of the accolades belonged to him, Mother Delia bore the brood. Seeing his boys downing the early morning meal, across the slab pine table, gave him delight. By no means was it easy feeding children or young men. Young, hell, Thomas was forty, single with an empty stomach. A darn good worker and provider. It was his idea to rise before the light of day to venture out for a fall deer hunt.

Scratching his stubble chin, Bartheleme raised his eyes to the ceiling of the log home that his Grandfather had built. Surely it was a hard life before the turn of the century when the six-foot-four bull of a man stood on this land, and claimed it as his homestead. ‘Eighteen-ninety-six,’ he thought to himself. A lot of things have changed since those early homestead years. Life seemed content in nineteen-fifty-eight, comfortable, no lack of want.

Bartheleme smiled, his cheeks a rosy red with delight. ‘A fine family,’ he praised himself in thought. Sleeping in silence housed above the warm, wood burning stove-heated-kitchen, mother Delia hugged the empty side of their bed, her long white hair covering her soft face. Baby Arthur, Nicolas’s son, all of three years of age slept silently in the cedar chest turned bed. Daughters, Yvonne and Yvette snuggled under their Grandmother’s quilt.

Father, had caught his thoughts and reined in his delight. Daughters, they were almost twenty, soon men would be invading his home with intentions. It would be nice if proposing men married them and provided homes for them. There was no more room here, too many family members. Families are close, he was raised that way, his father and mother lived with Granddad as he and his new bride lived with his parents as did brothers and sisters.

It was getting crowded in the old home. At his age, he did not want to add on another room to the house. Nicolas, wife Shirly and son Arthur had the big room. Edmond and his wife Marie had the boy’s old room. And, Thomas, the oldest son, the single son had set up to stay in the tack room. He seemed comfortable out there.

Wiping a happy tear from the corner of his eye, the eye he told everyone, ‘that it just leaked all of the time’, Father watched his boys devour their Breakfast. Thomas dipped toasted bread into his bowl of oatmeal. His manner quiet, as if planning the day’s hunt. Edmond, six years younger and thirty-pounds heavier varied his consumption between oatmeal, bacon, toasted bread and last evening’s baked bean. Nicolas, two years older, as short and fighting to be heavier, dunked his bacon filled toasted-bread into his oatmeal. Obviously in a hurry to cut down on time, but at the same time devour a hearty Breakfast.

Sipping on a cup of heavy coffee, Father glanced down at his untied boots. Noticing the blackness of morning through the kitchen window, he delayed the effort to attempt to tie up the boots. ‘Why do they need me for this hunt?’ he thought through moving lips. ‘I could be sleeping, my love’s arms embracing me.’ These men were his sons, and sons do need their father. Bartheleme placed a strip of bacon between a folded piece of warm bread. ‘Not bad,’ he thought. ‘Nicolas may have something there with this bacon between a bread thing.’

From the side of his eye he studied his boys, the similarities, the differences and the likeness to their ancestors. Thomas, six-foot-two, skinny, college educated took after Great-Grandfather Thomas. Given the times of growing up in the Eighteen-hundreds, Great-Grandfather acquired a higher learning of education. Both Edmond, at thirty-four and Nicolas at thirty-six showed the signs of early hair loss. Both were short and stout like their Grandfather Edmond.

Like their Father, Bartheleme, their eyes and noses were all from the family Chapais. Lifting his coffee to his lips, he smiled at the similarities of the amount of Breakfast all three boys devoured. His bowl of oatmeal sat untouched, he did place another piece of bacon between folded bread.

Dad, mumbled Nicolas, his toasted bread waiting. You going to take more bacon?

Father, blinked his eyes back to the present. No, son, you need it more then I do.

Looking out the window, Edmond judged the time of morning. Sun will be up soon, we can’t wait for you to have another Breakfast.

I’m not, this is to take with me, answered Nicolas, laying the remaining strips of bacon onto his toasted bread.

Wiping the last of the oatmeal from the bowl, Thomas glanced at Nicolas’s sandwich. Too bad you can’t fit your oatmeal into the sandwich.

Funny, snorted Nicolas.

Not to be lacking when hunger grumbling occurred, Edmond stuffed baked beans between two thick slices of baked bread. Well, I’m ready. You got your boots tied up yet, Father?

Tilting his head, Father watched the loose boots flop as he shuffled his feet. I was waiting for them to tie themselves. He shrugged his tired shoulders.

Once outside of the house, the men stood on the open porch looking to the east sky. Night stars blinked in the moonless sky. Nicholas bit into his warm bacon sandwich as Dad turned to him knowing the answer to his unasked question.

Yea, Dad, it is good, Nicolas mumbled through a full mouth. You want a bite?

No, son, it’s a long walk across the field, you need to keep up your strength.

Edmond and Nicolas, standing behind Father and Thomas placed their strapped 30-30 Winchester rifles over their shoulders. They waited for Thomas and Father to step off of the porch. Father, placed his 32-special Winchester rifle under his arm pit and over his forearm then placed cold hands into his coat pockets. Looking intently across the field, Thomas cradled his 32-special Winchester across his chest. Scrunching his shoulders, he took a deep breath before he spoke up.

Morning light will cress the top of the trees before we reach the end of the field. Thomas stepped down from the porch, stepping over the step.

Watch that step, Pa, warned Edmond.

Too late, Father had stepped onto the loose end of the step sending the plank flipping into the air. Someone should fix that step before someone gets hurt. Father, he looked at the plank as if it were about to walk away on its own. Nicolas, fix that step before your mother nags at me.

Hound, fetch, called Edmond to his hound sprawled lazily by the door.

Father, pleaded Nicolas. No one uses that step but, you.

That’s not the point, fix it.

Before Father tuned to kick at the plank, hound had it fixed between his teeth and was hauling it onto the porch where he lay.

Edmond, why don’t you train that dog of yours to put the step back where it belongs?

Trying Dad, but, you know, like you say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

The boys snickered under their breaths as they followed their father down the path to the field gate. Sleeping heavily by the gate, a team of horses snorted lightly knowing that for them it was not a work day. Thomas gave each a shelled peanut to nibble on. The early morning sod crinkled under the men’s feet. Late September’s frost began to take hold on the last nibbled grass. Heifers stood huddled together, their faces facing east, waiting for the sun’s rays of warmth.

Roosting on top of the chicken coup protecting its domain, the roaster hesitated to give out his wake-up call. Too early, even for him. Beyond the water trough, Edmond and Nicolas separated and headed in opposite directions along the flanks of the quarter section of land. Father and Thomas continued down through the middle of the field towards the pond where the swamp began in a lowland cedar swamp.

The faint shadowy figures of Nicolas and Edmond moved against the blackness of the forest. Odd was the movement of Edmond’s arm rising and falling. Odd to the others, for Edmond, the movement served a purpose, fulfilling the need to place the baked bean sandwich into his mouth. Hunger cravings arrived early.

Son, whispered Father, a warmed hand raising the coat’s collar against his ears. Son, when are you leaving home?

Why would I want to leave? Thomas replied with a question, shocked by his father’s abrupt question. You want me to leave?

No, no, I don’t mean leave farming, Father, coughed out his words of misunderstanding. You are what, forty-five . . .?

Forty,

Forty, kind of old to be living under your Ma and Pa’s roof.

I live in the tack room.

Scratching at the scruff of whiskers, Father pondered his line of questioning. Son, you take your meals in the house, your mother cooks your meals.

Ma cooks Nicolas and Edmond’s meals.

Son, they have wives.

Thomas laughed amusingly, his hand rubbing the growth of his fall beard. Pa, those two women can’t cook a decent meal between them.

You are missing the point, son.

Playing with his father’s awkwardness, Thomas milked the situation for all of its worth. No need to leave home, what’s your point?

A wife is the point. Your mother has been nagging me for years about this. She has been talking to the women folk at town socials, Switching arms to cradle his rifle, Father pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. about whose daughters are available.

Haven’t found one suitable yet, I have been looking.

So was that old bull that old man Barns sent over. It just kept looking. That was all it did. Now he is our winter supply of meat.

I ain`t no washed up old bull, I’m still potent, Pa. said slightly, embarrassed with having to convince his father of his capable virility. Thomas pulled his brown toque tighter over his ears, Mother’s knitted red puff ball bobbed lightly on the top of his head.

Glad to hear that, son. Now I can tell your mother that we had our little talk.

Quickly turning the conversation away from the subject, Thomas asked Father about Great-Grandfather Thomas. Dad, where did Great-Grandfather come from?

Night stars began to fade giving way to the dawning morning. A haze of yellow crested the tips of the evergreen trees. Though the sky lightened, the forest darkness would prevail for another hour. Father and son continued the slow walk towards the pond, hoping to arrive when thirsty deer passed by stopping to quench their thirst.

Great-Grandfather Thomas came from the Calumet Islands in north-west Quebec.

THREE

Father, paused, taking in a breath he slowly turned, his eyes taking in the panoramic of the fields bordered by forest.

Fir trees hugged the wet lowland areas. Maple and birch trees, with their leaves falling, still brightened the scene with colours of a warm rainbow. Small rolling hills were becoming a blanket of crunching leaves. He paused to rest and reflect what his ancestors had left for him, and of what he would leave for his sons.

I guess Grandfather Thomas was an adventurer, he wanted to see what lay beyond the walls of education. There was something about the openness and the unknown. Bartheleme rubbed the back of his hand under his running nose. I don’t have his courage to leave the security of home and kin. I am happy here.

Waiting, knowing Father needed to take a rest, Thomas tried to see what had captured Father’s eyes. Feeling that the rest was over, he slowly stepped ahead making sure not to hurry. Reflecting on Thomas’s question, Father paid no attention to the act of hunting, that he left to his son.

He just up and left. One day he decided to adventure forth. The next day oxen’s carts were packed and he left. How a man could do that, I don’t know. It takes courage, or a fool unafraid of the unknown. Father said, as aged legs placed his feet cautiously forward. Grandfather, had no destination in mind, he just pointed in a direction then followed its path.

Then he had no intention of coming to this area of Northern Ontario? asked Thomas, his eyes always alert for the faint flash of white deer hair. What made him stop here?

We were never told much details about the time frame between the beginning of his travels and his arrival here. Us kids, never asked. You kids ask questions, that is good, but sometimes I don’t have answers.

Father, did not notice Thomas’s wave to Nicholas and Edmond. Both men had reached their positions of watch. Sitting down into a cluster of brambles, Edmond retrieved the other half of his baked bean sandwich from his pocket. A smack of satisfaction parted his lips as he began to nibble on the sandwich, savouring the taste of his Mom’s baked beans.

Edmond hoped that his new bride would pay close attention to the way his Mom cooked. He was sorely disappointed the first time he partook of a meal at his soon-to-be in-laws. Marie was pretty and skinny. That should have been a warning. Marie’s mother noted that her lovely daughter had cooked her first entire meal. Forcing the meal down was a chore. Edmond ate daintily, unaccustomed to the strangeness of the meal. Between nibbles, even Mr. Goots frowned disappointedly at the dismal meal.

After the prolonged meal when both men sat uncomfortably in the parlour, where Edmond had planned to ask Mr. Goots for his daughter’s hand, the air was silent. It was Mr. Goots who stated, ‘Young man, I hope you won’t fault my daughter for this meal, my wife is to blame. I do the cooking in this home, if I didn’t, I would starve’.

Comforted by the fact that his Mother was a great cook, Edmond enthusiastically asked for Marie’s hand. Now it was up to Mother to show the young bride the art of providing a hearty meal. Shivering the thought of that one horrible meal from his mind, his lips smothered the remains of the baked bean sandwich. A warm smile crossed his lips, he had the best of both worlds, his Mother’s meals and the affection of a loving wife.

Reaching the edge of the field, Thomas held the strands of fence wire apart while Father crossed through. Both men placed their butts onto the first downed tree trunk they came across. Lifting his head, Thomas glanced over tall cat-tails to inspect the glass-like pond. A glitter of early morning light reflected off of the black water of the shallow pond. Long-legged water spiders slept motionless on the stagnant surface.

The long walk across the field tired Bartheleme, he forced deep breaths into his lungs. Age was partly the cause of his exertions, he was not used to talking and walking at the same time. But, he felt that when a question is asked, manners dictated a prompt reply. Thomas could have waited until they had reached the pond before asking for family history.

Somewhere between the western Quebec boarder and the settlement of Massey, Ontario, Grandfather had married Grandmother and was soon to be a father. I guess, that the thought of a family settled his wanderings. Shrugging his shoulders, bemused by the thought of the simplicity of the past history, Bartheleme rubbed his chin into the collar of his warm coat. Grandfather, stood on the hill cresting this small valley and told Grandmother that he would stake this section of land as their homestead. That was that, and this is it.

Looking back across the field at the log home on the crest of a small hill, Thomas envisioned a tall man surveying the future. A chest length straight-haired beard and mustache covering a childish grin. Great-Grandfather Thomas Chapais, an educated man, who embraced the ruggedness and struggle of carving a home and a family out of the hardships of the Canadian wilderness.

It would have been simpler to use his education working for his Grandfather, on his Mother’s side, as a merchant. Use the mind instead of his back. What lay in store for a homesteader would be beyond simplicity. Thomas wanted to ask that mountain-of-a-man to reveal every thought that crossed his mind. Under the rising sun, the log home awoke from a night’s rest. A haze hovering beside the home on the crest of the hill disappeared. That mountain-of-a-man returned to the confines of Thomas’s imagination.

FOUR

What an accomplishment it has been for a Father, Grandfather and for the Great-Grandfather of young Thomas Chapais.

What accomplishment has Thomas available to hold up to praise? Great-Grandfather arrived to this place in the middle of nowhere. Miles and miles of rivers, lakes and forests separated homesteaders from other folks of the same temperament. To eke out a living in an unforgiving land must have weighed heavily on the minds of providers. Whether arriving in the warmth of summer, where mosquitoes and blackflies swarm, or in the