The Expeditions by Karl Iagnemma Page B

world might offer. Nothing at all.”
    Crawley scowled pleasantly. “I allow that some girls are nothing more than low liars, selling copper in the name of gold. But not my daughter, Reverend Stone. I assure you. She has a sincere gift.”
    A steam whistle sounded; then a chorus of shouts as the engine groaned to life. The
Lake Zephyr
’s smokestack sighed. A crowd had assembled along the waterfront, waving handkerchiefs in farewell as the engine built steam, and as the steamer slid away a barefoot boy ran sobbing to the pier’s edge. He waved his boater furiously, then flung it toward the departing ship. It spun out in a yellow streak then settled on a swell.
    Adele Crawley turned to the minister, her large green eyes staring straight through him. “It’s a gift, Reverend Stone. I converse with the dead.”

Five
    They set to loading the canoe at dawn, kegs of gunpowder and pork belly and dried peas, sacks of flour and coffee and rice and lyed corn, bags of salt and sugar and saleratus, rifles wrapped in oilcloth, Mackinaw blankets for trade, a parcel of soap and matches and tacks and cooking gear, tents and hatchets and files. A moment’s confusion; then the scientific instruments were located and stowed, Mr. Brush chuckling at his forgetfulness, his laughter echoed by Professor Tiffin and Elisha and Susette Morel. Giddiness spread like a vapor through the party. The sky lightened from indigo to a brilliant blue. The straits were a gleaming, empty turnpike stretching westward.
    At last Mr. Brush settled himself in the canoe’s stern. The craft was long and slender, a yellow moon painted on its hull, and as Professor Tiffin stepped into the bow the canoe lurched beneath him. He yelped, steadying himself, then took up a paddle and hefted it curiously as Susette and Elisha took their places. The craft jittered on the rippling straits. Mr. Brush called, “On my mark—
we are off!
” and as one the party’s paddles dipped into the water. Professor Tiffin hooted as they surged toward the horizon. I do not deserve this good fortune, Elisha thought. I do not deserve this life. He felt swollen with gratitude that was near to tears.
    Ring-billed gulls screamed toward the canoe then banked away. The beach was yellow sand dotted with dune thistle, edged by red cedar and maple and mountain ash. Elisha paddled with his gaze fixed on the passing shoreline. Within an hour the straits began to widen, and suddenly they entered the open lake, rollers tumbling out to the horizon’s black thread, the sky a vast blue sheet pricked by stars. Fat, fleecy clouds floated over the plain of water.
    The party stopped paddling and let the canoe bob on the swells. “It must be a curse to be born in a land so beautiful,” Mr. Brush said. “The rest of creation must seem dismal by comparison.”
    “Tahquamenon Bay!” Professor Tiffin shouted. “I have been told that voyageurs pause here to make tobacco offerings to their spirits, to ensure a safe journey. It is a Native myth, or perhaps a Catholic one. Is this true, Madame Morel?” The man swiveled to face her as the canoe rocked crosswise. “Est-ce vrai?”
    Susette was dressed in the previous day’s clothes, along with a blue scarf trimmed with rabbit fur—a lucky talisman, Elisha figured, or perhaps her sole piece of finery. Her hair was freshly washed and fell in a thick black braid down her back. The boy wanted to press it like a scrap of silk against his cheek.
    “It is not necessary,” she said. “Let us continue.”
    “Nonsense—we shall pause so you can make your offering.”
    “Come now,” Mr. Brush said gently. “The lady can make her own decisions. There is no need to ridicule her beliefs.”
    “Nothing could be farther from my aim!” Tiffin said. “I am simply curious to learn if the practice descends from the Native rather than the French tradition. It is a burnt offering, you see, a way to appease their great spirits and celebrate their departure. The