The Voyager pulled hard on the reins, riding the night wind down, cutting clouds to shreds as he manoeuvred the modified bark canoe. He checked his weapons, edging the insides of the canoe, stuck to the Kevlar lining with basic Velcro.

Tested weaponry combined with new protection often worked best when dealing with old demons. He pulled the reins to the left, the canoe obeying.

The wind cut by his ears, and he heard his prey, booming, cracking against the air and slapping the sides of his canoe, which trembled in anticipation of the fight.

He rode the currents, following the small fissures in the ancient sky fabric, keeping a close eye out for demons that might break through. The veil was thin and each attack made it thinner.

Trees blurred by as he forced the canoe to move faster, until a village sprang up in front of him, surrounded by pines, houses blending into the dirt.

Another hit, and red waves rode the skies toward him. He grabbed his axe and stood tall, screaming as he brought it down against the first wave, the red shattering and crashing to the ground. The second wave erupted, and he struck again. His shoulders popped under the strain, and he screamed his fear.

He had failed to break the second wave.

The canoe shook and moaned as red flickers exploded around it. The Voyager threw himself to the bottom of the canoe, covering his head with his arms. The third wave hit before he could stand.

It struck hard, but the canoe slid sideways to absorb some of the impact. The Voyager smelled burning and hoped the old canoe would hold together. There were so few of them left.

He stood and looked to his target, now visible against the shockwave of its own attack. The small northern Québec town was dominated by the steeple, still standing after centuries. From his vantage point, clutching the reins of the canoe, he could see the fissures in the stone, where the toll of the great bell had begun to rupture space.

The Voyager grinned. He loved this part. The steeple saw him approach, and the great bell sighed once before moving sideways. The Voyager grabbed his Taser and forced the canoe to go faster, but the bell struck before he could reach it.

The sky glowed with a hue he had never seen in this world. A type of green, maybe?

“That’s not good,” he mumbled.

The wave of colour highlighted hundreds of tiny rips, moans erupting from each of them as the encroaching demon dimensions smelled a new world to conquer.

“Faster,” he implored, and the canoe slid on the currents, avoiding several fissures large enough to gobble them up. The canoe lined him up, passing left of the steeple.

He fired the Taser at the bell, but a nun jumped from the steeple and absorbed the blow. The Voyager swore and pulled back, letting her fall as gently as her garbs allowed. She floated silently to the ground. He ignored her—his battle was with the bell, not its servants.

He reloaded the Taser, the stench of burning flesh clinging to it. The bell struck as the canoe made a turn. Blue light, so electric it made The Voyager’s eyes water, lashed out in bursts of lightning. He tried to counter the attack with his axe, but it came too strong. The canoe reacted and pulled up, protecting its rider from the direct hit, taking it fully itself. It shrieked over the sound of the bell and fell out of the sky, thundering against the ground.

The Voyager held on, the canoe loyally absorbing the shock, bouncing and skidding on the uneven terrain.

Before he could recover and get his bearings the bell struck again and snow streaked from the sky, pointed stars meaning to impale. The canoe flipped over, protecting The Voyager with its wounded flank. What the old bark could not stop the layers of Kevlar did, the sound of impaling wood hammering The Voyager. He whispered as he placed a hand on the side of the canoe, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Hang on, old friend. I promise, if we make it through this, we’ll get you some new toys. A new Kevlar lining. And a cannon. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Hang on, old friend.”

The canoe did not respond. The attack ceased, and The Voyager didn’t hesitate, cutting through his own thick breath and grabbing his favourite double-edged axe. He pushed the canoe aside and jumped up, screaming as he leapt to the bell, three stories cleared in one leap, and pierced it with his axe. The bell shifted sideways, but he was ready. This wasn’t his first battle, and he didn’t intend it to be his last.

Shifting sideways, he let the bell move into its upward swing, positioning himself under the metal behemoth. As soon as he was underneath it he jumped into its mouth, holding on to its clapper. He reached up to release it, but it was secured by a chain. He swore as the bell started its downward swing. He took a deep breath and wrapped his legs around the clapper to stop it from ringing and causing another rift.

The bell bit him, trapping him between the clapper and its great metal shell. Bones snapped. The Voyager grunted and spit out blood. His grip on his axe loosened.

The canoes were getting older and slower, but the bells only became more powerful with time.

The Voyager fought a gag, the stench of worn metal slamming his throat.

The bell shifted and cracked, ringing without its clapper. The Voyager’s eardrums bled, but the bell was distracted now, just enough for him to shake free. Another ring—something was attacking the bell from outside.

The canoe!

He ignored the tearing in his gut and pulled himself up, grabbing his hunting knife and plunging it into the chain that held the clapper. The bell screamed as he plunged the knife deeper, a terrified shriek that turned to a guttural moan as the clapper fell. The Voyager slipped with it, and would have fallen had he not been caught by what remained of the canoe, shards of wood held together by glue and Kevlar.

The bell moaned for several minutes, and the silence that followed was accompanied by a gentle snowfall, illuminating the land. The canoe fell on the ground, letting The Voyager step out before shuddering once and lying still.

The Voyager dropped to his knees and clung to the canoe. He pulled off his gloves and placed his hands directly on its old wood, but he felt nothing. Not a whisper, not a sigh, not even a goodbye.

“Please wake up. . . .” Hot tears flowed down his cold cheeks. If only he had veered right, first. Or maybe used something stronger, like a bow. Maybe he should have called for help, but there were so few of them left. For years the canoe had been his only companion, they had only each other, and now. . . .

“Are you okay, monsieur?” A small voice perked up from nearby. The Voyager looked up, his vision blurred by grief. A child, wrapped in blankets and hope, stood near.

The Voyager took a step away from the canoe, toward the child. The canoe shuddered once, just a bit, and then a branch sprouted from its flank, and another, and another. They grew quickly, turned green, bore bright, red fruit. The canoe seemed to dance as it crumpled into branches, one after another, until there was nothing left of it but a large bush ripe with fruit and pieces of melted Kevlar. The Voyager leaned over and plucked a piece of the fabric, brought it to his nose, and smelled wood, which prevailed over the stench of melted chemicals. A final gift from the canoe.

He closed his eyes, said a silent prayer, and then turned to the child, who stared wide-eyed at the bush.

“If you eat those fruits,” The Voyager said, recognizing the curiosity in the child, knowing what path now beckoned him, “your life will never be the same.”

The child didn’t look up to him, simply staring at that new bush, the grave of the old canoe, a gift from the land to the land. The Voyager watched the child take his first step toward the bush, called by the red berries to take on a mantle he did not yet understand but would soon enough.

The Voyager grabbed his axe and turned to the forest. This last bell had been strong and had probably summoned demons through the rifts. He could use the diversion until he found a new travelling companion. Maybe there was a canoe that needed a rider out there, still. Maybe something else would be sent to accompany him.

Movement caught his attention, swift and clunky. And fuzzy.

A Sasquatch had slipped through into this world. The Voyager gently pocketed the piece of fabric. He limped off into the forest, clutching his axe, tracking the invader.

He never once looked back, letting the whispers of the land guide him to his next battle.

__________

Marie Bilodeau (www.mariebilodeau.com) is an Ottawa-based SF writer and professional storyteller. Her short and novel-length fiction has been nominated for Canada’s Aurora Awards. The native Montrealer enjoys running around Québec cemeteries in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to separate family legends from history.