We left the lake behind and the timber closed round us again, and after that I was conscious all that time of the sound of the axe close behind me as he blazed the trail for the return journey — but whether for his return or for mine I didn’t then know, and because of that the chip and bite of the axe on wood had a hollow, mocking sound in the silence of the falling snow.
And then suddenly the timber fell away before us and I stood looking out over the same flat country that we’d come through the previous day. But now it was all white with the vastness of the sky a dirty curtain of lazily drifting snow. My first thought was that I had been right after all in thinking he was running out on us. ‘You’re going back,’ I said. ‘You’re not going to try and reach the lake.’
But he shook his head. ‘Pas du tout.” He smiled at me almost cheerfully. ‘I’ve come back here to pick up my landmark.’
However, it was impossible to pick out anything, for it was snowing harder than ever, and we remained in the shelter of the trees and lit a fire to keep ourselves warm. Later, when the snow eased up, we went out along a ridge of sand as far as the first lake, and from there Laroche was able to identify his mark, a lone rock outcrop topped by three ragged-looking firs.
Then began a nightmare journey that lasted two whole days. No sooner had we started back into the rock country than it came on to snow again. And even when it finally ceased some time in the late afternoon, the going remained heavy and tiring, an unending struggle through deep, wet snow with every branch unloading its sodden burden on us. The temperature fell steadily, and with the disappearance of the clouds, it dropped below freezing, so that the snow formed a crust through which we broke at every step. And all the time our progress was further slowed by the need for Laroche to search back and forth for the trail he had blazed. In the conditions in which he had marked it, there would have been no difficulty in following it, but now with the trees all blotched and weighted down with snow, it was a wonder we were able to keep to it at all.
We went into camp at dusk in a little clearing full of snow-covered rocks, and I swear if we’d had a tent, we’d have been too tired to put it up. It was as much as we could do to cut wood for a fire, and when it was lit in an angle of the rocks that would reflect the heat, we lay down in the wet snow and fell into a stupor as we shared a little of the food Laroche had brought with him.
I shall not easily forget that night. The cold was intense. At first the fire kept it at bay. But it melted the snow, so that we lay in a pool of water with the sharp edges of rocks sticking into our flesh. And later, as the fire died down, the cold crept in, numbing our bodies and turning the water into solid ice.
In these conditions it was impossible to sleep; I simply lay in a dazed world of half-consciousness, chilled to the bone and tired beyond belief, with no vestige of hope in my heart. Denied the blessed balm of sleep, there was no escape from the fact that the only warmth I had was to lie close against the body of a man I knew to be a murderer. This, and the circumstances of our journey — not to mention the conditions — would, I truly believe, have driven me to a state bordering on madness if it hadn’t been for the fact that in that pitiless country I discovered, or perhaps I should say rediscovered, something deep-buried within me that was akin to belief in the Almighty. I do not intend to dwell on this. The conversion of the unbelieving and the unthinking into an acceptance of God is of great moment only to those who have experienced it, and that I should have done so is not much to my credit, being due more to my wretched circumstances than to any innate piety, for by then I was convinced I was going to die — if not by the hand of Laroche, then by the country. Only one of us could leave Lake of the Lion alive, and if it was to be me, then I did not know the way back to the others and I had no hope of getting out of the country on my own.
Accepting, therefore, the certainty of death, my mind dwelt again on what that step meant, and in the frozen quiet of that night I came to terms with it and made my peace with God, so that before the first dawn-light made grey ghosts of the trees, I had reached a strange state of calm that was somehow in tune with the country.
Our breakfast that morning was one biscuit apiece and a small square of chocolate. That Laroche had taken so little from the general store of our supplies was in itself somewhat surprising, but I don’t think I considered it at the time — nor the fact that he was willing to share it with me. In country as bleak and inhuman as Labrador you take it for granted that the essentials of life, things like food and warmth, are shared between you, regardless of the future; and because of that, even if I had been in a condition to think about it, I do not believe I should have reached any other conclusion than the one I had.
As it was, the pitiful inadequacy of our breakfast did little to comfort us after the wretchedness of the night, and though we built up the fire and got some warmth back into our bones, we were both of us in a wretched state as we started out that morning. Laroche, in particular; he seemed suddenly to have come to the end of his strength. His face was flushed and his eyes unnaturally bright, and there was a slackness in his muscles that made his movements clumsy, so that he was inclined to stumble. But when I asked him whether he was all right, he pulled his stooped body instantly erect and assured me he was. ‘I’m stiff, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s the cold.’ And after that I didn’t comment again on his condition, for I knew by his manner and the tone of his voice that he’d resented it, and I was afraid, as I had been from the time I had caught up with him, of precipitating a showdown.
The cold that morning was very severe. The sky, when we glimpsed it through the trees, was grey with it like a canopy of frozen lead, and the land itself was held immobile in an iron grip. Because of this, the snow was hard and the going easier.
We skirted two frost-rimmed lakes, following all the time the trail Laroche had blazed on the way out, and shortly after ten we came to a big expanse of water, curved like a bow, with the ends lost in the trees that stood thick along its banks. That was when I suggested turning back. It was going to take us a long time to skirt that lake and I felt that if we didn’t turn back now, neither of us would get out alive. ‘It’s the only sensible thing to do,’ I urged. ‘Turn back now, before it’s too late.’
‘Listen!’ He was staring northwards, his head cocked on one side. ‘Do you hear?’
But all I could hear was the whisper of a chill wind in the trees.
‘Sounds like the falls,’ he said. ‘The water here is a lake expansion of the river Mackenzie marked on his map.’ He sank down on to his hands and knees and bent his ear close to the water. ‘Yeah, it’s falls all right.’ And he got to his feet, and stood staring along the shore. ‘I guess there’s more water now than when I crossed here before.’ It seemed to worry him. ‘I didn’t hear the falls then.’
‘What’s it matter?’ I asked. ‘We certainly can’t cross a river where there are falls.’ And then, because I was too exhausted to care any more, I said, ‘I’m turning back now.’
I thought that would precipitate a showdown, but all he said was, ‘You do as you like. It’s only two miles from here, and I got to hurry in case …’ But I didn’t hear the rest, for he was already wading into the water.
I couldn’t believe it for a moment. He didn’t seem to care whether I stayed with him or not. The water was already over his knees. He called to me over his shoulder then. ‘If you’re coming with me, better hurry. I shan’t wait for you.’ And he waded straight on into the lake.