October 1970 Read Online Free PDF Page A

pounds on a five-foot-ten frame, brown eyes and hair. They were the same age: twenty-three. Jean-Paul was four years older, built like a brick shithouse, weighing more than two hundred pounds and six feet tall in his stocking feet. The official photograph published in the newspapers and on television made him look like a serial killer. The first time he sat on the rocking chair after his brother repaired it, it collapsed under his weight, and he sat there, his arms and legs in the air, laughing as hard as the others.
    One night they were awakened by what sounded like a police siren. Once they’d rubbed the sleep from their eyes, the only logical explanation they could come up with was that one of the ring-billed gulls they’d seen flying behind the manure spreader had been wounded and had somehow got into the cabin to hide.
    René was the one to risk pushing back the panel and sticking his head up through the hole. A cry.
    â€œThere’s two of them!”
    In the feeble yellow beam of his flashlight, he saw what looked like an enormous ball of spikes electrified by a high-voltage current, vibrating and clicking, shooting out silvery flashes and emitting a series of continuous, piglike grunts.
    â€œWell, guys, it looks like Drapeau has found himself a girlfriend.”
    Drapeau was the name they’d given the porcupine.
    â€œHey, René!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow do they do it without skewering themselves?”
    Gode was making his way through the bush, the 12-gauge in the crook of his arm. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a four- or five-year-old, walking behind his father through the immense forest that stretched all the way north to the huge bays of the frozen sea. The sudden detonation came like a holy revelation. Grouse lined up like bowling pins on the branches of the spruce trees.
    Now he was following a barely discernable path, tense, his senses alert as his eyes swept the network of bare, grey branches around him. The relentless sky was the colour of steel. The snow was almost completely melted, a few patches here and there under the low conifer branches. Which meant he left few traces of his passing, so to hell with Jean-Paul and his security measures.
    The only problem was the carpet of half-frozen dead leaves under his feet, which made as much noise as a mountain torrent if he wasn’t careful. A squirrel running through it sounded like a herd of buffalo. He stopped, pointed his shotgun into the underbrush, safety off, heart pounding. Another good reason to keep his eyes peeled.
    He came to the edge of the woods. A field opened up ahead of him. Caution told him he should stick to cover, but he preferred the little voice in his head that told him to keep going. There was a low stone wall dividing two fields further on, punctuated by patches of thorn bushes. As he got closer, he could see fruit on the branches — Saskatoon berries, some crabapples, even a few wild apple trees forming a narrow row along the fence.
    He’d already strayed too far, but he knew that nothing would stop him from going to take a closer look.
    He walked, reached a clump of Saskatoons first, passed them, and stopped by the apple tree. The flat brilliance of the fruit against the dull sky. The moment he reached out to pick an apple, there was an explosion. The next instant he was on the ground, not knowing what had happened or why.
    The only visible result of his shotgun going off was a brief rain of broken twigs and an exploded apple, the core still swinging in his field of vision. At the same time, the air around him filled with grouse beating the air with their short wings, their darkly barred tails spread into fans, easily a dozen of them. They flew off in single file over the field, leaving him with his nerves shattered, his heart gripped by nostalgia, almost in tears.
    He said nothing about it to the others.
    The beam from an electric spotlight cut through the darkness and stopped on the