The Flying Canoe of Saint-Jean

There are winters in Quebec so deep that time itself seems to freeze, and men in the logging camps count their days by the creak of the pines. On New Year’s Eve, when the cook boiled beans and the fiddle scraped jigs by the stove, the men of Camp Saint-Jean stared at the door as if it were a church window. Beyond it lay the parish, their sweethearts, and warm kitchens that smelled of nutmeg and spruce.

“Another year without a dance,” sighed Baptiste, the youngest. His girl Élise had promised him the first reel at midnight. The camp boss laughed. “Boy, the river is iron and the miles are wolves. No one’s going anywhere.”

That was when Laframboise, an old raftsman whose eyes had seen too much winter, leaned close and whispered, “There’s a way. It ain’t holy, but it’s quick. You fly.”

The men snorted. “Fly, is it?” But Laframboise nodded toward the rafters where a birch canoe hung waiting for spring. “There’s a bargain—older than the first ax cut—that lets a man ride the night if he minds the rules.”

“What rules?” asked Baptiste, his pulse like a drum.

“No name of God on your lips. No church step under your boot. And back before the Angelus rings the dawn. Break a single one, and the Devil banks your canoe like kindling.”

The fiddle fell silent. Breath steamed. Snow hissed at the seams of the bunkhouse. Baptiste thought of Élise’s braid and the promise he had made. “We do it,” he said. “But we keep the rules clean.”

They carried the canoe into the yard, tipped it to the star-thick sky, and climbed in: Baptiste at the bow, Laframboise amidships, four others gripping the gunwales. Laframboise muttered words that tasted like smoke, spat in his palm, and slapped the stern. The birch bark shuddered—and leapt.

Up they went, over black spruce whose tops combed frost from their hull. The river writhed beneath them like a sleeping serpent of glass. Ahead, the night opened and the air cracked with cold. Baptiste whooped before catching himself—no holy names—and grinned so hard his teeth ached.

They rode the wind like a wild sleigh. Church steeples glinted, bells muffled under snow, and the lights of Saint-Jean-des-Bois trembled like a handful of coins tossed into the dark. Laframboise shifted his weight and the canoe banked, skimming the roofs. Baptiste smelled bread, woodsmoke, and a trace of lily soap—Élise.

They landed behind the Roy farmhouse, feet whispering on snow. “Remember,” warned Laframboise, “dance at the door, not across the threshold. No church steps. No blessings, no curses. And when I call, we go.”

The kitchen was bright as a lantern. Fiddles keened. Babies slept in shawls hung from ceiling hooks. When Baptiste stepped into the light, Élise’s face bloomed like July. “You came!”

“Only for the first reel,” he said, and they turned with the crowd, boots thumping, hands hot through wool. He dared not kiss her, dared not whisper the sweet names that rose like bubbles in his chest. Rules were rules.

Midnight struck. Bonnes années flew like sparks; cider foamed. A cousin teased, “Baptiste, you’ll bring luck if you put a foot on the threshold!”

He froze—and kept dancing at the sill, one toe on worn plank inside, one heel on snow. Élise’s eyes asked questions he couldn’t answer. Somewhere outside, a wolf howled, and the fiddle shivered.

“Time,” said Laframboise from the window, breath fogging the glass.

“Just one more tune,” begged Baptiste.

“One more is how men fall,” muttered the old raftsman.

But love is louder than caution. Baptiste spun Élise once more. In his joy he cried, “Die—” and bit his tongue until blood salted his mouth. No holy names. He laughed to hide the slip, pressed Élise’s fingers to his heart, and ran.

They should have risen like a shot. Instead, the canoe balked, heavy as a sled. Snow weighed it, or guilt, or both. “Pull!” shouted Laframboise. The men hauled at the gunwales until the birch creaked. The canoe lurched skyward, scraping the shingles, and Baptiste’s cap tumbled into the drift.

They cleared the parish steeple by a whisper. Baptiste looked down and saw church steps like teeth in the moonlight. The bell within was still. He dared not breathe.

Behind them, winter hunted. The Angelus at dawn would ring in an hour, maybe less. Frost stitched their lashes. The river’s ice groaned with the cold of saints’ bones.

“Faster!” Baptiste cried.

“Then toss weight,” said Laframboise, ripping the spare paddles overboard. The canoe shot forward, lighter but bare. The camp’s timber road appeared—a pale scar through dark. The bunkhouse chimney smoked like a blessing no one dared to say.

They slammed into the yard, snow exploding. The canoe skidded, teetered—and stopped with its stern hanging over the camp step.

The men sprang out like trout from a net, dragging the canoe clear before any boot could touch the threshold. Inside, the cook swore in a language that saints, devils, and lumberjacks all understood, and shoved mugs of coffee into shaking hands.

Laframboise counted them. “Six left the camp. Six returned?”

Silence.

Baptiste stared at the bow. Étienne’s place was empty. The old man followed his gaze and closed his eyes. “He crossed the Roy threshold to kiss his sister’s baby,” he said. “I saw him.”

They searched the yard, the road, the spruce beyond. Only at dawn, when the Angelus spilled its three notes across the white, did they find a shape in the snow—a charred paddle, warm as a heart. No other sign.

Spring came and the river learned to speak again. Baptiste kept his hands busy and his mouth shut, naming no holy thing in jest and stepping wide of church stairs as if they were traps. On New Year’s Eve, when the fiddle tuned and the beans boiled, he wrote a letter to Élise and sent it with the mail sleigh, promising next time to come like a decent man—with boots, a horse, and a clear conscience.

Sometimes, when the sky is iron and the camp is quiet, a shape moves above the black pines: a birch canoe riding the wind, one seat empty. The men touch their caps but say nothing. They know that bargains have more edges than an ax.

Moral of the Story

Shortcuts borrow joy and pay it back with interest. Keep your word, keep the rules, and love will wait for daylight.

Knowledge Check

What night did the loggers choose for their flight?
New Year’s Eve.
Name the three rules of the bargain.
No holy names; no church steps; return before the dawn Angelus.
Why did the canoe grow heavy leaving the Roy house?
Baptiste stretched the rules and almost spoke a holy name; another man crossed a threshold.
What sign was found at dawn?
A charred paddle—Étienne lost to the Devil’s claim.
How did Baptiste change afterward?
He avoided blasphemy and church steps, vowing to visit by honest means.
What does the empty seat symbolize?
The cost of bargains and the friends we lose to small disobediences.