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Three Day Road (English Edition)
  

Three Day Road (English Edition) [Format Kindle]

Joseph Boyden
5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)

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Descriptions du produit

Amazon.com

Joseph Boyden's first novel is the story of two Cree friends, Xavier and Elijah, who leave their pristine northern country to end up in the horrific trenches of World War I. Loosely based on the real life of a famous Canadian sniper, the story is told from two first-person views: those of Xavier and his old aunt and only living relative, Niska. After the war, Niska is taking her wounded nephew back home north to the bush in a canoe. Their trip is the three-day road of the title, which also refers to the journey taken after death. The story of the war is told in flashbacks on this journey as Xavier recovers from morphine addiction. Niska also relates various stories to Xavier, believing there is "medicine in the tale."

Boyden is a natural storyteller. Both the Native tales of the north and the grim accounts of the war in France and Belgium have the ring of truth. His images can be subtly appropriate--raiders who go over the top are "eaten by the night"--and his characterizations are excellent, especially the three main players and Xavier's Canadian trenchmates. Eventually, Elijah seems to feed on the death all around him, becoming a "windigo," while Xavier begins to question the sanity of the war and his friend's growing madness, realizing "we all fight on two fronts, the one facing the enemy, the one facing what we do to the enemy." Not for the squeamish reader, this is a powerful novel that takes a new angle on a popular subject, "the war to end all wars." --Mark Frutkin, Amazon.ca

Extrait

Ekiiwaniwahk
Returning

For many days I've hidden in the bush by the town, coming out when I hear the call, watching carefully for him. This is an ugly town, far bigger than Moose Factory, even. This is a town I have not been to before, a place to which I will never return. More wemistikoshiw than I want to see walk the dusty streets in their funny clothes, dressed as if for colder weather, though the sun above us is high and full of summer heat.

I hide well during the day, but when the sound of it reaches my ears I have no choice but to come out and walk among them. They stare and point and talk about me as if they've not seen one of me before. I must look a thin and wild old woman to them, an Indian animal straight out of the bush. Soon I will have only enough food left to get us home, and so I've taken to setting snares around my camp. The rabbits, though, seem as afraid of this place as I am.

Where it comes to rest is just a wooden platform with a small shelter to hide in when the weather turns. The road that leads up to it is covered in dust. Automobiles, just like the one Old Man Ferguson back in Moose Factory drives, rush there at the same time every other day. I have watched them pour what smells like lantern oil onto the road, but still the dust floats up so that it coats the inside of my nose and bothers my eyes. At least I can hide a little in the dust, and not so many of them can see me.

The place where I go is covered in soot so that I feel the need to bathe each day that I return from there without him. I have stopped sleeping at night, worried that the words were wrong, that he will never come, that I will die here waiting.

Again today I hear the call. Again today I wait for the others to get there before me, before I step among them.

The old ones call it the iron toboggan. As I watch this thing approach, whistle blowing and smoke pouring from the chimney in the summer heat, I see nothing of the toboggan in it. More frightening than the crowd of people around me is the one bright eye shining in the sunlight and the iron nose that sniffs the track.

Too many people. I've never been around so many wemistikoshiw at one time. They walk and jostle and talk and shout to one another. I look out at the spruce across the tracks. Blackened by soot, they bend in defeat.

I stand back in the shadow of the shelter and watch as the people in front of me tense, then move closer to the track as it approaches, not further away as I would have expected. The women in the crowd look nothing like me, wear long dresses made of too much material and big hats. They hold bowed cloth shields above their heads. The men are dressed in black and brown and grey suits, and the shoes upon their feet are shiny, so shiny that I wonder what kind of animal the leather has come from. All of the men wear hats, too. All these people wearing hats in summer. I do not understand much of the wemistikoshiw.

It whistles like a giant eagle screaming, so close now that I must cover my ears.

I have paddled by myself against the big river's current for many days to get here. No mind. My one living relation died in a faraway place, and I am here to greet his friend Elijah. Elijah Whiskeyjack is as close to a relation as I still have, and I will paddle him home.

Joseph Netmaker brought the letter out to me. Winter had just started to settle itself into the country. Joseph walked on snowshoes from the town. "This is for you, Niska," he said. "It is from the Canadian boss, their hookimaw."

As soon as I saw the brown letter, the English words written upon it, I knew what it contained. I sat down beside the fire and stirred at it with a stick while Joseph read, first out loud and in his stumbling English, then for me in our language.

"'Serial No. 6711. Deeply regret to inform you, Private First Class Xavier Bird, infantry, officially reported died of wounds in the field, November 3, 1918. Director of Records.' "

I waited for more, but that was all. When Joseph left, I was alone.

Many moons later, when the winter ice was leaving and travel was difficult, Joseph came back with another letter. He explained that it was in reference to Elijah, and that Old Man Ferguson had given it to him to give to me since I was the closest thing to a relation that Elijah had.

The letter said that Elijah had been wounded, that he had only one leg now, that he had tried to rescue another soldier, was given a medal for bravery. It said that although weak, he had healed enough to travel and was expected to arrive in the same town from which he and Xavier had left so long ago.

I had Joseph explain to me how the wemistikoshiw calendar worked, what month I was to be there, and I made careful preparations to journey by canoe to that town where Elijah would arrive. I left early in the summer and paddled up the river. It was difficult. I am older now, but I travelled light. Joseph had asked to come along, but I told him no.

I went alone.

I watch the beast pull up and give one last great sigh, as if it is very tired from the long journey, smoke pouring from its sides. People wave from the windows and people on the ground wave back, just as I have watched them do for days. Then men and women and children who have arrived start stepping down into the arms of others. I see a few soldiers and search among them for Elijah's face with his sly grin. The crowd begins to thin, and once again I do not see an Indian soldier with one leg.

I am turning to leave when I see through one of the windows the silhouette of a man inside. He walks slowly along the aisle, on crutches, in a uniform, a small bag slung over his shoulder. I step away from the shadow of the wall.

He wears a hat, just like the wemistikoshiw do, but this one is of their army and I cannot see his face for his looking down as he slowly makes his way down the steps on his crutches. He is an old man, I think. So skinny. This cannot be the Elijah I know. One leg of his pants is pinned up and hangs down a little way, empty.

When he is off the steps I begin to back away, thinking it is not him. He looks up and I see his face, thin and pale, high cheekbones, and ears sticking out from beneath his hat. I stumble a little, the blood rushing away from my head. The ghost of my nephew Xavier looks at me.

He sees me at the same moment, and I watch as his eyes take a long time to register what they see, but when they do he begins to rock back and forth on his crutches. He falls to the ground. I rush up to him, kneel beside him, grab his warm hands. He is no ghost. I hold him to me. His heart beats weakly. I am struck suddenly that he is very ill.

"Nephew," I whisper. "You are home. You are home."

I hug him, and when he opens his eyes, I look into them. They are glassy. Even in the shadows of the station his pupils are pinpricks.

"I was told you were dead, Auntie," he whispers.

"And I was told you were, too," I say.

We sit on the ground for a while, both of us too weak for the moment to get up. We are crying, looking at one another. A small group of wemistikoshiw gathers and stares at us. I help Nephew up so that we can get away, get to the river where he can drink water and I can better protect him.

We do not stay in the town long. It makes me too nervous. Automobiles, they are everywhere. We must cross the dusty road that they travel upon before we can get to the river where I keep my canoe. Nephew walks slowly on his crutches, his eyes cast down. People stare at us, at him. There was a time before he left that he would have stared back, he and Elijah both, not intimidated by them.

What of Elijah? If they made a mistake about Nephew's death, maybe they made one about Elijah. I want to ask, but will wait until he is ready to speak.

We try to cross the road but an automobile honks like a goose and swerves around. I watch carefully and must wait a long time until I can judge that we can cross safely.

I lead Nephew down to the riverbank. I have left the canoe a good walk down the rocky shore. I tell him that it is best for him to wait while I go ahead and get it. He doesn't respond, just sits heavily on the bank. Quickly as I can, I make my way. I am silly to worry about leaving him alone for a few minutes. In the last years he has experienced more danger than anyone should experience in a hundred lives. But I worry anyway.

As I approach him in my canoe, I can see that he has his jacket off and is holding his thin arm in one hand. I get closer and see that he has stuck something into his arm, something he pulls out just as he looks up and sees me. His body has gone relaxed and his eyes look guilty for a moment, but as I get to where he is they are like the dark river in the sun.

I feel better once he is in the canoe and we are paddling away from the town. It smells the same as Moose Factory, the scent of burning wood not quite masking another decaying smell below it. He paddles for a while, but he is listless.

I tell Xavier to lie back on his pack and rest, that we are heading north and I have the current with me for once and it is easy going. He does not seem to hear me. I touch my paddle tip to his shoulder. He turns. I say it again and he watches my mouth intently. He lies back without speaking, and I paddle us back into the bush, looking every once in a while at his thin face in the sunlight, this face that has grown old too quickly. He sleeps, but his sleep is not restful. He twitches and his hands shake. He calls out and this wakes him up. He sits and dips his hand in the river, runs it across his face. His shirt is soaked through with sweat. He is very sick. Some fever is burning him up from the inside. I push down the river in silence.

I take my time, find it pleasant not to have to work constantly, not to fight the current. Only a couple of days ago I battled with every stroke until my arms were dead things and my lower back felt broken. Now paddling home I have the luxury of the current that runs north with me to the Great Salt Bay, to the place the ones who took my nephew call Hudson Bay. It cost me a week of hard work to make my way up the river, but with the wind and weather in my favour, the river is a three-day paddle home. I have many questions for Xavier, and I am like a child inside, waiting to ask them. But I am patient. I am good at waiting.

We do not get far before the sun lets me know that it is time to prepare a camp. I want to go easy with him anyway. No rush. It is summer.

The insects are heaviest just before and during dusk, and so I look for an island in the river that will afford us some relief from them. Ahead, a good one appears with a sandy beach and dead wood scattered about for a fire.

We beach the canoe and I busy myself collecting wood. Nephew tries to help but his crutches sink into the soft sand and he grows frustrated. I want to cry, watching him from the corner of my eye as he bends and tries to pick up wood and then finally sits and pulls rocks to him slowly, making a fire circle.

I cut long saplings with my axe and drag them to him, tie them together at one end and construct the frame for a small teepee. I pull a length of canvas from the canoe and tie it to the frame. The sky right now looks like it will give a starry night, but the wind tells me something different. We are not so far away from the bay that a storm can't rush up on us. Once I have dragged our few belongings into the teepee, I pull food from a pack and lay it out. Nephew has gotten a nice fire started.

On one rock I place salted fish, on another some moosemeat and on a third, blueberries picked fresh from the bush. I take a stick and sharpen its end. Nephew stares at the river. I lace a length of meat onto the stick and heat it by the flame. He turns his head in recognition when it begins to warm and its scent comes up.

"I have not smelled that in a long time," he says, smiling shyly. These are the first words he has said since the town.

I give him some food, but he doesn't eat. His skin is the colour of cedar ash in the setting sun.

That night I crawl into the teepee, tell him to sleep when he is ready. He stares at the fire.

Hours later, I awake to a light rain tapping on the canvas. I open my eyes and listen to it. The fire smoke in the rain is a pleasant scent. I realize I lie here alone. Even with the weather, Nephew has not come in. I peer outside. The fire sizzles and pops, and my fear returns when I see he doesn't sit beside it.

There is no sleep the remainder of the night. I toss in my blanket. My body hums with Nephew's pain and with the realization that he has come home only to die.


Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 890 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 352 pages
  • Editeur : Orion (9 septembre 2010)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B0043M67G2
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Non activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°50.133 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Magnifique 5 décembre 2011
Par Judith
Format:Broché
Ce livre est une véritable merveille. Le récit mélange l'histoire passée d'une - maintenant - vieille femme indienne dans les forêts du Nord du Canada et celle de l'enfer vécu par son neveu dans les tranchées en France pendant la guerre de 1914. Le livre se déroule sur trois jours pendant lesquels tante et neveu remonteront la rivière qui les ramène sur leurs terres. La première à la fin de sa vie mais encore incroyablement présente et forte, le second très jeune mais déjà presque totalement détruit par l'horreur qu'il vient de traverser et à laquelle il a survécu.

Trois journées - et trois nuits - pendant lesquels leurs souvenirs et leurs paroles se mêlent. Trois jours, c'est aussi selon la croyance de leur peuple, le temps que prend chaque homme ou chaque femme pour quitter totalement le monde des vivants et entrer dans le monde des morts.

Je crois n'avoir jamais lu un récit d'une telle force et d'une telle puissance, d'une telle délicatesse aussi. C'est un livre qui parle de l'humanité, de la folie, de l'amour aussi. C'est un livre qui parle de la mémoire, de la transmission, du déracinement, du lien à la terre et aux hommes. C'est un livre magnifique. Lisez-le, il vous habitera longtemps.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 De l'aurore boréale aux fusées éclairantes 26 décembre 2012
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Fin de la Première Guerre Mondiale. Dans les étendues sauvages du Canada, la fière Niska, vielle indienne Cree aux pouvoirs chamaniques hérités de son père, ramène chez elle son neveu Xavier, blessé et accro à la morphine, de retour des champs de bataille en France et en Belgique. Xavier et son ami d'enfance Elijah élevés par Niska dans la nature à traquer le gibier et à chasser comme autrefois, deviennent des snipers d'élite dans l'armée canadienne, à la fois admirés et craints.
On entend la voix de Niska, son enfance, sa passion physique pour un trappeur québecois, ses transes avec leurs visions, ses divinations, sa méfiance vis à vis des Blancs et la voix de Xavier, la vie dans les tranchées, les assauts, le "no man's land" ou il sévit avec Elijah. L'amitié. La peur. L'horreur. La mort, toujours la mort.
C'est un roman complexe, puissant, bouleversant, poétique, sensuel (Il y a même quelques scènes burlesques que certains appelleraient des sacrilèges !) qui parle de culpabilité et de rédemption, de blessures physiques et morales, et d'un monde, celui des indiens dans leur mode de vie traditionnelle qui disparait petit à petit au début du 20ème siècle.
Je suis impressionnée par le style de cet auteur. Il sait alterner les deux mondes avec énormément de souplesse et d'habilité. (Mais sont-ils si différents ?
Lire la suite ›
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 un roman qui ne laisse pas indemne 7 janvier 2012
Format:Broché|Achat vérifié
Une histoire magnifique et originale faite de retours en arrière relatant à la fois les horreurs de la Grande Guerre et la culture Cree.
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 4.6 étoiles sur 5  112 commentaires
26 internautes sur 27 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Close and personal 6 août 2006
Par Friederike Knabe - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
Linking Cree hunting stories with World War I frontline accounts would seem an odd undertaking, to say the least. The wild Canadian North with its harsh yet beautiful landscape and tough living conditions for those surviving off the land is a far cry - physically and spiritually - from the trenches and the killing fields of Ypres and the Somme. Yet, Boyden has successfully merged these seemingly disparate themes through his telling of the life stories of the three protagonists: Xavier, Elijah and Niska. The two young friends, looking for adventure, joined the war effort while Niska carries on her life as the last Oji-Cree medicine woman. The story is told from different perspectives, moving backwards and forwards in time. The outcome is an engrossing narrative that interweaves the disturbing description of WWI horrors in the trenches with the rich and multifaceted recollections of the protagonists' lives and their emotions and experiences of the past.

"Taking the Three Day Road", the traditional Cree reference to dying, takes on new meaning here, both literally and spiritually. The journey home in Niska's canoe through the lush forests and on the winding river provides the backdrop to her efforts to bring one of the friends home, physically and mentally deeply wounded. Her personal recollections and stories of their past lives are set against the nightmarish dreaming of the returning soldier. Will Niska be able to soothe the mind, will the medicine be strong enough to heal him from the agony of war?

The two young Cree started out with eagerness to fight in the war, having honed their tracking and shooting skills in the bush killing animals for food and ceremony. Their very different characters emerge clearly as they leave the familiar territory. As they began their journey, their friendship helped them to complement each others strength to get through numerous challenges, such as the language barrier, their inexperience in urban and barrack life, the discrimination facing them. As their talent as trackers and snipers are increasingly recognized by their superiors, despite their prejudice against Indians, the two are sent on increasingly daring missions. Their reputation grows as they take out more enemy snipers than anybody else. Xavier and Elijah respond very differently to the pressure and violence. One hates his role on the killing fields and is retreating into himself, the other is thriving on the experience and the attention he garners. Their friendship is seriously tested and the tension between them reaches breaking point. How can they salvage the friendship that they had? How can they survive in the hell of the trenches? How do they cope with loosing their comrades and being wounded themselves? Will they be able to reconcile the upbringing on the land, guided by Niska, with the brutality of their war experiences?

Boyden is an outstanding story teller and his skill of creating realistic and lively personalities is admirable. This not only applies to the three protagonists, but also to several of their comrades and their superiors. Boyden establishes a wide-ranging portrait of the people and the extreme conditions they were exposed to during this war. It is evident that that author undertook extensive research into the intricate details of WWI war fare. It can easily stand among the best of its kind. The author adds additional depth through Niska's story, connecting the reader intimately to Cree culture and mythology. Niska's voice stays with you for a long time. Despite the topic, this is a beautifully written, memorable book. [Friederike Knabe]
21 internautes sur 22 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Where is Home? 12 juin 2005
Par Scott N. Mcleod - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
I've heard it said that you shouldn't let the facts get in the way of a great story. One reviewer thought there were better WW1 stories and I'm sure that's true but this is the story of two native soldiers who weren't always soldiers. They had a home on the outskirts of someone else's - occupying strangers with equally strange ways.You weren't good enough unless you were white and no matter how hard you try you can't do it. People only see your skin colour and draw their own pictures. Xavier and Elijah stood out from the other soldiers - being Canadian helped and being true shots (snipers) made them legends, but like a drop of ink in clear water something invades the picture.We get a clear picture of trench life and the walking ghosts it created. The Aunt has her own ghosts to deal with and the power she got from her father. So are you curious yet? I wanted to take all three characters the aunt and Xavier and Elijah home and make them soup and listen to their stories. I miss them now that the book is done.The ending has hope that home was found where it usually starts in the heart. This book maybe hyped but so what? Read and believe the next Canada Reads Book selection. I've got to read it again.
11 internautes sur 11 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Fantastic story lives up to hype 7 juin 2005
Par A. Johnson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
Set in WW I this book tells the story of two Cree men who join the Canadian army. The two become a sniper team, and the story explains both how they adapt to the harsh conditions of Northern France and to live among a the foreign culture of the white men in their unit. The story also touches upon how their home in Northern Ontario has been affected by the British and the residential school system, and this part of the story is written as reflections by one of the men's aunts who still tries to live according to traditional ways. The writing is crisp and yet very personal, without being melodramatic or too depressing (for those who are worried about that!). I will warn you that the narrative is not always linear in time, but was very straightforward-- you could easily follow the story. I really enjoyed the use of nature in the metaphors and similes, which work surprisingly well given the context of WWI ("I slipped like an otter into the trench"). This book has received a lot of hype in the media, so I was a bit sceptical if it would measure up when I began, but it was so well written and movingly told that I ended up really enjoying the read. I would compare it favourably to Guy Vanderhaeghe's books "The Last Crossing" and "The Englishman's Boy", that set the standard for me for Canadian fiction set in the 19th and early 20th centuries. I think men would particularly enjoy the book (good Father's Day present or birthday gift), but women would enjoy it as well. A scene where one of the main characters translates into Cree the words of the unit's commander, who is attempting to court marshal the other protagonist, is worth reading the whole book. I predict this will become a Canadian classic.
15 internautes sur 17 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Amazing novel! 24 mai 2005
Par Jane Cosentino - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
This book blew my socks off - I think it is one of the better books I've ever read. It's about these two young boys from Canada (Native American) who go to Europe to fight for the English in World War I. The fate of these two boys absolutely riveted me, I couldn't put this down, and subsequently have told everyone I know that they must read this book. Boyden is so young, and yet he has managed to write with the wisdom of someone twice his age. The novel is heartbreaking and just fantastic. PLEASE, READ THIS!
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 A 'must read' literary work for medical students 12 juillet 2008
Par Dr. Gabriella Kadar - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
An aspect of this work which has not been emphasized by reviewers is the singularly excellent description of morphine addiction found in Joseph Boyden's novel. My understanding is that a close relative of Mr. Boyden's was an army doctor during WW1 thus the extraordindarily detailed knowledge which the author has brought so effectively into this work. In truth, medicine needs to be taught not only from textbooks but also from works of art. "Three Day Road" should be included in medical curricula in order that doctors get a much needed 'gut feel' about opiate addiction. Once read, never forgotten: that is the power of Boyden's work.
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