walking words montreal

I approached the village from the river, across which I walked, snow crunching in the deep freeze, the sun blinding me as its rays arced across the ice. From the monastery window, I must look like some archaic figure striding in from the past, in my long black coat and woollen ear-flapped cap. The grey church spire pierced into the darkening sky, a warning sign at one juncture, to the canoes full of Natives who would have landed here, hoping to secure flour from the mill, there by the river’s edge, bread for the body, bread for the soul–the former more true to their lives than the latter. But still, in a time of harsh living conditions and little protection, the Church probably held more mystery and power than it does today, particularly the vestiges of power signalled by the austerity of the building itself and its tall steeple. What is power signalled by now? The menacing hollowness of the words of man, winding through the streets on paper and in plastic machines … no peace pipe in sight, his dollars bills full of holes. Who to trust? Who can one trust?

A fire built upon ice, around its circumference people gathering, dancing to keep their spirits and their bodies warm. They sway gracefully within their bindings, their voices joyful, a girl shrieking gaily as a young man swoops her up, tossing her into the air, a shimmer of long auburn hair floating down. This was the way of the past, where everyone in a village knew one another, depended on one another for trade … built their lives upon a mutual exchange of goods and services, marital bonds securing the bonds of commerce. Depended on one another for entertainment and laughter and the bolstering of the spirit against the rigours of settlement life. We have come through time to a reality today where kings and queens are rare and do not represent anything sacred, merely a ritual of pomp and display–at least as it is commonly realized here in this country. Whether they are more even than venial symbols of greed, no person in this village in my era could probably say. What holds power now, in the mind? More likely Power Quebec … or Videotron … or Turner Oil & Heating … or Starbucks, here Marmelade Cafe. The Oscars. Ottawa. Frameworks. Networks of human interchange built up now over a mere four centuries of life. Life over the cup of java et Ie cabernet sauvignon supporting a surge of commerce … building friendships, liaisons, partnerships, time-honoured contracts. Wealth.

This village once burned to the ground–I see the women and children running from the flames through time … memories burning furiously in their wake. Cold cold cold night and the heat is intolerable. Who led the fight to build again? Who were the voices of reason in the chaos? Who drew the people back to build … overcame their despair, steeled their resolve? Perhaps the Mill, which, being built of stone, did not burn. Bread will still be baked … oh for the fresh baked bread from the brick ovens! Fresh churned butter … all meals made from their own harvest. The shared meals. Some overcome and rebuild, others move away. New life entered the village: new families, new buildings. New blood and new money and new skills. New foods. New babies.

I had sex with the blacksmith in his smithy because I had a bad aim and because he was persuasively insistent. Like Orlando Bloom in “Pirates of the Caribbean” he was not brawny or beefy but rather slender and sported a pretty ponytail and deep blue Irish eyes; he clearly was a genius at his trade. Tomas chased me around the smithy with his blade drawn, and I threw a horseshoe at him, for luck. Where is the justice in my aim? He caught the shoe on the end of his blade and forced the tip of the blade to my throat, smiling. Strip, he whispered. Who argues with steel? Fortunately, that was the worst of it. Genius at a few trades, good with his hands. These steely exchanges build networks too; I rode out of that smithy at a gallop on a bay mare called Lucky Strike.

These narrow streets were meant to be taken in from the back of a horse. Like a Gunsmoke town, probably Clyde’s once was attached to a stable where those who wanted to dine & down a few pints parked their steeds and buggies. Or maybe La Gourmand was once the stable for Clyde’s or vice versa, hard to tell. I need to find a guide … someone to tell me the history … someone to help me to wend my way through this town. It would be André of course, the only denizen of this village I personally know, André of Lebanese heritage, now a successful Canadian businessman. His shish taouks are to die for, his depanneur across from the post office a village cultural marker–to rival that of Wild Willy’s ice cream parlour, kitty corner off Cartier. Yes, from André I will learn of the people today. I whirl Lucky Strike about, and we canter east.