(a Ronnie Atchison story)
“Come children. Let’s gather round. Let me tell you about the most amazing job interview I ever had. Yes, yes, stop with the moans and groans. I guarantee you this time it will amaze you more than the last. I remember new details! Wonderous details. So, let’s begin.
Our story starts as it has always started, with me walking along rue Duluth and the sound of soft spring-snow beneath my boots, heading to an interview for a cooking job. All I knew about the restaurant was its address and the time I was to be there.
When I arrived and opened the front door, a waft of heat hit my face from a wood oven that roared at the restaurant’s entrance. I began to take off my hat and unzip my winter coat, when I noticed a lean young man sitting on a captain’s barstool. He sat in front of a rustic wood bar-counter that faced an open kitchen. He leaned back in the captain’s barstool and stretched out his arms as if he had just woken up. As he yawned, I noticed the backing of his chair was made from a pair of polished deer antlers, a rich dark brown. I continued towards him as I pulled out my resume from my coat pocket and nervously mumbled a few words in French.
The man in the chair ignored my words and pointed to a door at the back of the kitchen. His arm was long and wiry. I stared at him for a moment. He reassured me with a nod of his head. I opened the door and looked inside. I saw a downward flight of stairs with a quick turn to the right after a few steps. Moreover, with each downward step the path darkened. I looked back to the man making a quizzical face to show my hesitation. He grinned a grin that offered no option to return.
As I made my descent, the sounds under my feet changed. Creaking wooden boards gave way to the crunch of crisp cold snow and the light was that of a winter’s night sky. Just as my left hand tightened its grip on the handrail, it too felt different - the handrail bounced and sprung like a tree branch. While my left hand was confused by what it held, my right hand instinctively brushed away limbs of maples and pines. When I reached the last step, I stood in snow almost up to my knees and felt cold clean forest air touch my face. I could smell smoke from a campfire and hear a murmur of voices in the short distance. I paused and looked up through a forest canopy. The sky shimmered black and blue, with early stars to the west and the promise of a moon to the east. I was in the woods.
I turned towards the voices. I saw a low-burning campfire in a small opening with two men sitting on either side. I walked towards them. They were sitting on wooden stumps and mopping up food from plates with chunks of bread. As I came closer, I could see the two men’s features. On the left was a young man dressed like a Coureur des Bois, a ‘runner of the woods’, a 17th century fur trader you have certainly seen in a schoolbook. He wore a beaver pelt hat that rested just above his eyebrows and covered his ears. From his neck down his outfit was a mishmash of fur pelts, stitched together with rawhide, and on his feet were moccasins. On the right was a lumberjack, dressed in a red-and-black checkered coat and a woolen toque. Unlike the Coureur des Bois, who seemed to have no hair under his cap, the lumberjack sprouted black fuzzy hair from beneath his hat and frothed at the top of his shirt and barrel chest. He wore grey woolen socks that were visible above his work boots. Both the men had backpacks at their sides.
Behind the lumberjack, in the glow of the campfire, I could see a beautiful birch-bark canoe. It must have been twenty-five feet in length and four feet wide. Tied to the canoe’s gunnels, three feet apart, were five wine bottles. A cord secured each bottle with enough slack to let it lie in the snow. Inside the canoe were two old stainless steel milk tins, a few throw blankets, and three wooden paddles. Three ropes were fastened to the three thwarts that crossed the front, middle, and rear of the canoe. I could not hear any river nor see any lake, which made the scene even more puzzling.
Then children, your father’s heart almost stopped. Behind the canoe, where the fire’s light barely touched and the forest’s opening began to close, a figure casually leaned against a tree. Man or creature, it was hard to say at first sight. He wore a small top hat and a taut dark green three-button waistcoat, cut high above his hip. Beneath the waistcoat his bare skin was taut and smooth and reflected a deep red tone in the fire’s light. From the hips down he had the most elegant deer legs I had ever seen; the fur was well groomed and shined. His one leg comfortably crossed the other, as a human would. His eyes stared straight at me, and I froze. Then the lumberjack spoke. “Don’t mind him, l’Anglais, he is with us. L’Diable is our guide tonight.” Then the Devil cracked an effortless grin.
The lumberjack continued, “So, I hear you wish to work with us.”
“Yes.” I replied.
“Good, it will be a beautiful thing. Come, have a seat”. I had not noticed a third stump between the two men before this very moment. I sat.
Then the lumberjack motioned with his eyes and head towards the Coureur des Bois, who offered me my own plate of stew and a chunk of bread slathered with butter and crunchy fleur-de-sel.
“Eat now, it is going to be a long cold night. It is a Pot-au-feu made with Cerf. I think that’s deer in English. No?”
Before I pushed the meat into my mouth, I looked towards the Devil. He stared at me and slowly nodded his head with a consensual smile as he patted his hip. Then I took my first bite. The meat broke apart in the mouth, and the broth was deep in taste and texture - different from the veal stocks I was used to. One flavour I could not identify floated gently above the rest. Its taste was like the woods itself, as if I was eating a fruity evergreen tree with a little nippy bite at the end. I twisted my head towards the Coureur des bois for an answer.
“Genévrier, Juniper in English” said the Coureur des Bois, breaking his silence. “When it is fresh you can chop it up fine or leave it a little larger and chewy. But you do not put too much, it is crazy strong. It is what the Cerf eats in the forest.”
I looked at the fire, the glow reflecting on the snow, the canoe waiting, the two men eating in silence, the small embers rising in the night, the Devil rolling a cigarette in his raw hands, and the long faint shadows of trees travelling across the forest floor. Even though the setting was strange, the calmness of it all put me at ease. I was in a different land now, not mine.
The lumberjack stood up and said “On y va ou Allons-y”. I shoved the last morsel of meat into my mouth and rose along with the Coureur des Bois. The two men began to fill their backpacks with various elements of the evening dinner, salt and pepper shakers, tin pans, hunting knives. I was instructed to scrape my plate into the fire and rub it in the snow. All that remained were three tin coffee mugs and a bottle of Calvados. The lumberjack poured us each a gulp.
“One for warmth” he said. We drank.
“One for courage” the Coureur des Bois said. We drank.
The lumberjack stuffed the Calvados bottle into his backpack and the two finished loading the canoe before returning to the fire where I had remained. Then without hesitation they untied their pants and began to pee on the fire.
“Come, we need to put out this fire”. Again, I did as I was instructed. The fire dimmed and only the night sky was left to illuminate the forest. The stars and rising moonlight reflected off the snow and the forest no longer seemed so daunting. In fact, it was beautiful.
The lumberjack walked towards the rear of the canoe and the Coureur des Bois to the front. The lumberjack pointed to the middle of the vessel for me to take my position. They both cautiously stepped into the canoe as if it was beside a dock on a lake, or on a river’s bank. They sat and took hold of their paddle. As absurd as it all seemed, I did the same and got into the canoe. Once I was in place, the two men began to wrap a rope around their bellies and pulled blankets over their legs. I did the same, tied the rope around my mid-section and pulled a blanket over my legs.
The Devil tapped out his cigarette on one of his hoofs and pointedly walked through the snow to the bow of the canoe. He looked like a great actor majestically taking the stage. I was in awe as he passed. When he reached the bow, he straddled his legs on either side and sat down. His legs melted and moulded to the canoe’s contours and quickly appeared to be absorbed within the vessel’s body. His torso, arms, and head were perched proudly, like a living figurehead facing an endless forest.
“Aller, mon beau Diable” commanded the lumberjack, and at once our canoe began to rise into the air. As it wobbled, I reached for the gunnels for security. I was now thankful for the rope tied around my waist, it was like a seat belt in our car. Then, as fast as a cat leaps onto a kitchen counter, we were above the trees and our vessel steadied itself. I promptly noticed a second set of wine bottles hanging from the other side of the canoe. Together, the two-sets of bottles must have acted like a ballast for our airship and provided the necessary stability to fly.
The air was calm, and all was quiet.
“We need provisions for the restaurant”. The lumberjack spoke in a matter-of-fact way. “We have to travel all of Quebec in one night to gather them.”
“How?” I asked.
“In this flying canoe and with L’Diable!” the lumberjack laughed. He then went on to explain, “We made this deal with our beau “Bon Vieux Diable” years ago. He will help us with our task and return us safely. However, here’s the deal, if we don’t get everything we need before sunrise, he gets our souls. And forever we will travel with him in the night sky.”
My heart chilled. I had never before put my soul on the line for a job interview.
“Listen, mon ami. Our Devil, as you call him, has three more rules. First, do not touch any church spires; Second, never mention the Big Guy’s name, or his son; and third, he drinks when we drink. Any of us break those rules, we are his.”
“O.K.” I hollered back, accepting the terms. “Where to first?” I then asked.
“To my Grandparent’s house! On the shores of Gaspésie”, proudly championed the Coureur de bois, as he pointed due east.
“Where is that?”
“The southside Golfe-du-Saint-Laurent, where the river opens to the Atlantic.”
We dipped our paddles into the air. Our effortless strokes propelled us rapidly through the night sky; we glided as if on a still lake in the early morning and wisps of clouds parted like mist . The heat of the Devil’s body kept us warm in the fresh cold air. The moon grew as we headed eastward, and the stars served as our guide. To the north, white mountain peaks; to the south, rolling hills. Straight ahead the Saint Lawrence River shimmered with reflections of the night sky carving the dark land like a flow of silver lava.
Children, it was all so wonderous. I wish you had seen it - all of you. No matter how many times I tell this story, I doubt I will ever be able to describe the to beauty I saw that night.
But let’s get back to our tale.
In a few short breaths we were flying over water. The silhouette of a shoreline in the distance and an island below. The lumberjack bellowed, “Paddles up!” and dug his paddle deep into air on the right side of the canoe. We banked to the right with such a centrifugal force the Coureur des Bois and I needed to plant our paddles across the canoe’s gunnels to keep our balance.
Once the turn was completed, the lumberjack laughed and said “It’s les Iles-de-la-Madeleine, beneath us. Lovely lobster and scallops. Always covered with a strong wind. They say if the wind ever stopped, all the people living on the islands would fall over.” Everyone laughed, including the Devil, and soon after we began our descent.
Just beyond the shoreline I saw a small hut on a small hill. From its chimney a constant stream of smoke broke in the wind. We touched down just in front of the weathered wooden structure. It looked like an old man who had given up on talking and wished to sit alone and perform one task in silence. On one side was a pile of firewood, on the other side, a worktable. We were about one hundred yards inland. The land was barren. A well-worn path in the snow led to a house near the road. Its lights were off, save one.
The lumberjack stepped out of the canoe and untied one of the bottles of wine from its side. He opened it and passed it to the Devil. Then he untied one from the opposite side, and passed it to us. “We have to keep balanced,” winked the lumberjack. “And the Diable is thirsty.”
As we walked towards the Hut, the Coureur des Bois started to speak, “This is my grandparents’ smoke house, or the boucanière. We are here to pick up Maquereau fumé.”
I followed the Coureur des Bois into the small hut. In the middle, sitting in the hard-packed earth, was an old wood burning cast iron stove. Through the smoke that irritated my eyes, I saw how it all worked. On either side of the hut were wooden racks, like coat racks, running from the back of the hut to the front. Six racks in total on each side, the lowest one being waist height. Then the racks climb to the ceiling, like a ladder. Draped over the racks were hundreds of fish filets tied together at the tail, like limp bowties, all absorbing the room’s smoke. The Coureur des Bois lifted one of the racks off and carried it outside.
“Can’t be in there too long. You see, it’s covered with cracked pepper. First you marinate it, however you wish, and then you smoke it over night.”
“What wood?” I asked.
“Maple. Taste one.” He tore off two filets and passed me one. “You should let them mellow and dry a couple of days. Let the smoke taste go down.” I popped a chunk in my mouth. The smoke and pepper pounded my tastebuds – in a good way. “Oily, eh?” he said, as he ate his own. I agreed, the fish was dry but fatty. The inherent oils of the fish were not lost in the process and helped to balance and bond the flavours in the mouth.
After he returned the rack to the smokehouse, I saw two bundles in the canoe that had not been there before. The lumberjack finished talking and drinking with the Devil, pointed to them and simply said, “Smoked mackerel, first stop completed. We better move on.”
Soon enough we were up in the air and racing north across the Gulf of Saint Lawerence towards the town of Sept-Iles. One of the few towns ‘at the end of the road’ on the north shore of the Gulf. More bundles appeared in the canoe; lobsters, seasnails, Matane shrimp, razor clams, everything from beneath the water that one could imagine. Salmon, halibut, and cod flopped and flipped in our small hull. The fish slipped through our hands, and I swear to you, I think I heard them laugh and giggle, before we could bundle them with nets that helpfully appeared. The Devil laughed too, as he piloted us northwestward, with his hat miraculously still in place.
The lumberjack and the Coureur des Bois took turns telling the stories of what appeared in our canoe, as we flew from region to region over the land. The recipes and ingredients sounded more like folklore than cookery. Tourtière du Lac-St-Jean, Pâté Chînois, Cipaille and Râgout de pattes de cochon, all arrived, hot and lovely. Some dishes had a story clear as the night. Pâté Chînois was served to the Chinese migrant workers who built the railway and resembled the Scott’s Shepherd Pie (the ones who owned the railway). While others were less clear, like the Cipaille. Or cîpâtes A meat pie with six different morsels of game meats, hence ‘six-pie’. Yet sometimes it is served with chunks of fish! Giving rise to the idea it travelled from New England, changing its name ‘Sea Pie’ to ‘ Cipaille’ along the way. All night long I learned the history of a people through the food they ate. With each tale being more wondrous than the last. But none of these tales readied me for what was to come next: Poutine.
Over the Eastern Townships I saw a remarkable sight on the ground. A circle of cars from the 1950s and 1960s, with their headlights facing inward. In the middle a real rumble was going on. Cooks, waiters, plongeurs, busboys, owners, fighting with rolling pins, tongs, pepper mills, using serving trays as shields. I yelled to the Coureur des Bois “What’s that all about?”
He laughed “It happens every night! You see, three restaurants from three different towns claim to be the inventors of Poutine. La Petite Vache de Princeville, Le Lutin Qui Rit de Warwick, and Le Roy Jucep in Drummondville. They all say they were inventors of poutine. Sometime in the Fifties, or so. All crazy stories, no one is sure. The Diable likes to dip the canoe a little to get a better look. Don’t Ya?” The Devil tilted his head back and let out a laugh. “It’s like a Comic book, like Asterix! You know Asterix?”
The Coureur des Bois could not see me as I nodded ‘yes’ to his question. Then he let out an infectious “Wee-Ha!’ I joined him in chorus as bags of cheese curds and sacks of potatoes filled the canoe. Even a sloppy bucket of gravy tittered on top.
We paddled westward and the mood in the canoe became somber. Two bottles of wine were gently detached from the gunnels, one for us and one for the Devil. We drank in the solitude of the night sky and the story-telling stopped. I noticed floodlights illuminating a ski hill as we began our descent. A sign read ‘Bienvenus à Sutton’ just before we glided over a village. The houses were quiet, a woman walked her dog in the middle of a snowy street, and we ensured our paddles remained silent. After two cozy street blocks, I heard the branches of a tree gently scrape the bottom of the canoe. We were floating over a graveyard, and as I turned and look below, I saw the lumberjack remove his tuque and hold it to his chest. Then slowly the canoe came about, and we headed due north.
“Who’s down there?” I whispered to the Coureur des Bois.
“Madame Jehane Benoit. The Grand Dame of our cuisine. She wrote a cookbook with all the traditional recipes. It was called L’Encyclopédie de la CUISINE CANADIENNE. She was famous on tv, too!”
“She sounds like Julia Child.”
He honestly responded “Who’s that?”, and I knew I was truly in a different land.
Kids, I will show you your grand-mère’s copy when we are done with our tale. It’s filled with her scribbled notes on recipes, and I have added a few too. Now back to our story.
With jars of Ketchup Maison and marinated green tomatoes we headed north along the river Saint-Jean-sur- Richelieu. Ahead I saw a dim glow on the horizon where I expected to see the bright lights of Montreal. There was no Olympic Stadium yet; nor the tall Place Ville-Marie. Only Church spires and factory smokestacks stood above the humble row houses. Pont Jacques Cartier was to the east, the Lachine Canal and a railway were below. We were floating over the boroughs of Pointe Saint-Charles, Saint-Henri, and u-Petite-Bourgogne. The sound of Beebop jazz piano filtered through the air and the lumberjack roared, “It’s about to get fun!”
The Devil grinned a playful devilish grin and the Coureur des Bois leaned forward to ready himself. Air turbulence dipped and bounced the canoe. It felt as if we had found ourselves in rapids. Musical notes popped in the air as we dodged around church spires and smokestacks. They seemed to appear on every street corner. The music played on. The lumberjack skillfully dug his paddle on one side of the canoe, then the other, while the Coureur des Bois pushed and swatted his paddle in the air. In tandem they worked to avoid every obstacle in our path. The Devil’s laugh turned into the heckle of a hyena as we came closer and closer to touching each spire. One wrong stroke and our souls were his! Spire! Smokestack! Spire! Faster and faster! The rough air pushed us from side to side. Just as we rounded the last spire my sense of time froze. I was mesmerised by its gilded cross, how its polished copper seemingly reflected all the light in an infinite night sky. I had an urge to touch it. My hand began to stretch beyond the limits of our canoe. The lumberjack yelled at me, “HEY MAUDIT ANGLAIS! Get your hand back”, breaking my hypnotic state. I quickly retrieved my hand and the Devil turned his head and winked at me with a smile.
The bow of the canoe began to rise as we began to climb a hill and I could see open air ahead of us. The fun stopped and houses became mansions, trees replaced the smokestacks.
Once we reached the small summit the lumberjack said, “We will stay up high until we reach the north shore of the island, that was enough fun for one night.”
“Then where to?” I asked.
“One last stop. To get more sweet stuff!” The Coureur des Bois answered.
Only once we past Montreal did I notice Pouding Chômeur and Creton spread had popped into the canoe. Ahead was flat farmland and the Laurentian Mountains in the distance.
“We are heading north to a Cabane à Sucre near St-Agathe-des-Monts, to pick up our maple syrup and pay our respects to the Sugar Moon. Then back home to Montreal.” explained the lumberjack.
We shot past farms and villages before landing in a forest clearing. In the snow fresh sleigh tracks led into the shadowy woods. A river’s flow sounded nearby, and the air was calmed by the surrounding trees.
Before us was an old wooden shelter with a sloped roof and three walls. It was grey with patches of tree moss on old rough-cut planks tied to a wooden post. Inside was a barrel with a bucket on top, a miner’s shovel, a small bench, four mugs and a ladle that hung from a trough made from half of a tree trunk that had been hollowed out. The trough itself was about four-feet long and stood about three-feet high on wooden legs. Outside the shelter a small campfire burned. Above the flame hung an iron caldron, suspended from a triad of sturdy tree branches leaning against one another, like a teepee. In the caldron, a liquid robustly boiled. No one was around but us.
The lumberjack took his place behind the trough inside the shelter. The Coureur des Bois and I comfortably stood between the fire and the trough. We faced the lumberjack as he spoke. “When the third moon arrives, the Sugar Moon as it is called by the Anishinaabe peoples, we give thanks to the nutrients and sweetness of the maple tree. We will now fill our mugs with maple water and drink. Then we will eat le tire de neige . Maple Toffee I think you’d call it.” He was looking at me.
The lumberjack walked to the barrel, dipped the bucket inside and filled it with maple water. He returned and filled the four mugs the Coureur des Bois and I were holding. Then he put the bucket down and took two of the mugs, one for himself and the other he delivered to the Devil, who remained melded to the canoe. Then he said, “We drink.” Together the four of us drank. I had never tasted such a thing. It was lightly sweet, but with a strong hint of the maple flavour. I looked to the Devil, who also appreciated our drink, and we shared a smile (kids, I know this sounds crazy, but you never know when you may need to have a Devil on your side. Such is life.)
Once we were done, the Coureur des Bois retrieved the shovel and proceeded to fill the trough with fresh clean snow. Once it was filled, he put down the shovel and picked up the ladle. In a fluid motion he dipped the ladle into the caldron and raised it high, then poured the amber liquid back into the Caldron. He looked to the lumberjack, who nodded his head approvingly.
The ladle was filled again and passed to the lumberjack. Who placed the ladle’s bowl at one end of the snow-filled trough. He then said, “The syrup has to cool a little before we can use it.”
We waited patiently. The fire crackled, an owl hooted, and the Devil hooted in turn. Then as if a magical clock had signaled, the lumberjack lifted the ladle and poured the amber syrup from left to right along the snow filled trough. As he poured, he periodically broke the stream flow by jolting the ladle’s bowl upward. Creating a golden pattern in the snow that resembled Morse code. He returned the ladle to the Coureur des Bois, who exchanged it for four twigs the length of a popsicle stick.
“You take the baton and roll it in the cooling syrup, first lightly pressing it down on one of the lines of tire, then roll it along, creating something of a lollipop of maple syrup. Like this. Then you eat it. That is tire d’ érable or tire sur la neige”
The rolled toffee tasted perfectly sweet and had a soft consistency. I was surprised and delighted by the cold snow crystals that crunched in my teeth as I ate the warm treat. Then, the toffee slightly hardened between bites in the cold air.
The lumberjack rolled another toffee stick and walked to the Devil. They spoke a few words and laughed a little. The lumberjack then turned to us and said others would be coming to pay their own respects to the Sugar Moon, and we must take our leave.
Once we were back in our canoe and up in the air, I took one last look at the shelter. The shovel, the bucket, and the ladle had all been returned to their proper places. Even the trough was again empty of snow. And out from the woods, came a one-horse sleigh. An old man held the horse’ reins, he had a child on sitting either side of him. A heavy fur blanket was draped over their laps to keep them warm. It was a charming sight; I can still hear the sleighbells’ jingle to the trot of their horse.
We first followed a river south, then the path of an old train track. The Coureur des Bois turned his head back towards me and said, “The path is for Le Petit Train du Nord. It hasn’t run for a long time. Tracks removed years ago. We should be coming up on it shortly. It’s crazy thing to see, a ghost train that only runs during the Sugar Moon.” Soon enough I could see a small steam locomotive pulling three passenger cars. The railway tracks would appear just ahead of the train and disappear immediately after. The train’s light brightened the woods and river as it traveled. Then I heard a sound climbing from down below. It was a song:
Oh! Dans l’train pour Sainte- Adèle
Y’avait rien qu’un passager
C’était encore le conducteur
Imaginez pour voyager
Si c’est pas la vraie p’tite douleur!
“Hey, you see. It’s Felix Leclerc!” Said the Coureur des Bois. To my joy, below the light bulb, I could see a man with long grey flowing hair strumming his guitar as he sat on the train’s cow catcher. The lumberjack, the Coureur des Bois, and Devil all began to sing along:
Oh! Le train du nord
Tchou Tchou Tchou, tchou, tchou, tchou…
Le train du nord au bord des lacs, des p’tites maisons,
Ça vire en rond
Le train du nord c’est comme la mort quand y a personne
à bord
As we passed the man, I waved to him. He waved back as he continued to sing his words into the land.
Just then, the Coureur des Bois sounded the alarm “Hey, mon ami, I can see the sun rising in the east!”. Without hesitation, the lumberjack belted out “Mon, Beau Baâtard de Diable. Allezier, Allezier, Vas-y, vas-y , vite.” The Devil leaned his torso forward and we began to accelerate. His arms turned into deer legs, and he tucked them close to his chest, as if he was leaping. We accelerated. His antlers grew; faster we went. Finaly, the hat he had proudly worn all night long, transformed into muscle, bulking his neck and shoulders. He was now a fully-grown stag, the kind you would avoid in the forest. We bolted even faster, and he grinned with joy. The Coureur des Bois held his paddle high and whooped “Yee-hah!” I looked back at the lumberjack. He was leaning back as he firmly held his paddle to the right gunnel, it was now our rudder and that guided us through the air. He was focused.
I was scared, and I had to stop my self from breaking the second rule of the night; mentioning the son of the Big Guy. But I was happy, like a child on a rollercoaster.
Forest, farms, rivers, and railway lines quickly gave way to highways and bridges. Ahead I could see the bright lights of the cross on top of Mont-Royal. Further, on the horizon, slivers of dawn’s oranges and reds tempted our fate. We climbed the mountain and broke to our left just after we passed the cross. We raced down the east side of the mountain and followed avenue Duluth. Below the world seemed as if nothing had changed while we were gone. The familiar smell of a wood oven baking bagels filled the air. I looked in our canoe and took note of all the dishes and ingredients we had on our fantastic voyage. I thought of all the years I had lived in Montreal without understanding Quebec’s food. How the stories behind the dishes were as an important as any other ingredient in the recipe. The stories help bind the flavours, the tastes, to the land and all its peoples. Extracting a story from a recipe, would be the same as forgetting to add thyme or sugar. Powerful flavours that are not easily missed.
Just as this thought entered my mind, the canoe landed in front of the restaurant. Upon touching down we found ourselves transported back to the campfire where the journey began. The three of us stepped out of the canoe and the Devil’s for-legs returned to being arms, his neck and antlers shrank, and his hat re-appeared. Finaly, he released his legs from the canoe’s body. The lumberjack and I briefly spoke and agreed on the day I would begin to work. I said goodbye to the Coureur des Bois, who said he would see me again soon enough. Then as I followed my footstep from whence I came, the lumberjack said, “It will be a beautiful thing.”
I pushed away tree branches and felt my foot land on a solid stair. Within two steps I was holding to solid banister and climbing stairs. Soon enough, I was back in the kitchen and the man sitting in the chair made with antlers, looked at me and grinned a knowing grin.