Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (4 page)

It was a dreadful thought. Little Tiny, somewhat lightheaded—from the punishment and the importance attached to his “uprising”—went to his desk with his fist closed around the bright marks of his daring, shivering at the possible consequences of his act and determined to be an upholder of justice all his livelong days.

No one since that moment had dared touch the Drop Octagonal or its key.

Just now, it was chiming out the two o’clock hour and the time of winding for the week. With one accord the children’s eyes lifted from book and scribbler, ready for the important break when the little ritual should be undertaken once again.

Perhaps it was on a whim, but Miss Wharton—so lately having expressed her impatience with protocol by the tossing of a paper wad halfway across the room—stood to her feet and announced, “This afternoon, before the winding of the clock, I’ll share with you a legend that has recently come to my attention, which you will all find of interest, I’m sure.”

Pencils were laid in the slot provided on the desktop, eyes blinked in surprise, and faces turned toward their teacher while minds scurried to absorb this amazing break from the usual. What in the world had gotten into their Miss Wharton?

Standing before them in her shapeless gown, her hair pinned back with stern discipline, only her eyes lovely in the intensity of the moment, Miss Wharton had the attention of everyone, from little Ernie Battlesea to Harold “Buck” Buckley, who, at fifteen, was too old, too wise, and too disinterested to be in school but would finish out the year.

“We know that King Francis was dreaming of a New World empire that would match that of France’s rival, Spain,” Miss Wharton began in a conspiratorial tone, much as if she were sharing a thrilling secret, capturing their attention and their imagination at the same time. “We know he sent out an expedition to survey the American coast, to discover treasure, to claim land, and to look for the true Northwest Passage. But do we know who was chosen as leader of this expedition?”

Numerous voices, having been in school longer than others, piped, “Jacques Cartier!”

“Right. Cartier was a hard-bitten Breton.”

Miss Wharton, when animated, was a master storyteller. Today, spurred by some inspiration—or aggravation—she was at her best.

“Cartier sailed into the broad Gulf of St. Lawrence and pushed on, beyond where only fishermen had gone before. He reached the Gaspé peninsula at the tip of the present province of Quebec on a July day, no doubt a hot July day. Imagine with me the wild roses blooming all around him in abundance; savor with me the delicious little strawberries.”

“Um-m-m-m.” Eighteen voices crooned, and eighteen mouths watered. Winter had been long and hard in Bliss, and summer had not yet revealed all her delights.

“There he erected a thirty-foot cross and claimed the land for France.” Miss Wharton, in pantomime,
thunked
a cross into the ground at her side.

“But he had accomplished more than that—he had shown that behind the rocks and the fog of the Atlantic coast lay a wonderful land of grassy meadows with flowers rampant and green trees in abundance.

“The next year,” she said after a pause, and with altered voice depicting a rising tide of excitement, “he went even farther, entering the mouth of the St. Lawrence. Traveling along its mighty length, he might well have thought he had found the passage to... where?”

“India!”

“He stopped to visit the Indian village of... what?”

Silence. A couple of coughs, a few scuffed feet, but silence.

“Stadacona. That much we know. But now—”

Flagging interest brightened. Now—what?

“Now comes the legend part. Do you understand what
legend
means?”

A few nodded heads. Uncertainty written on the faces of the smaller children. It wasn’t always easy to teach six-year-olds and fifteen-year-olds at the same time.

“A legend is a story from the past,” the teacher explained. “It’s usually regarded as historical but not verifiable. That is,” Miss Wharton searched for simpler words, “it could be history but hasn’t been proved as such. Understand?”

Nodded heads.

“Legend has it that Cartier, while with the Indians and trying to talk to them, pointed to the ground and asked them what the place was called. They replied, ‘Kanata.’”

“Kanata,” they breathed, savoring the new word.

Miss Wharton turned to the blackboard and in large letters spelled out the word:
K a n a t a
.

“
Kanata
was their word for
village
, but Cartier didn’t understand that. And so he called the new land Canada.”

Amazed looks, some pleased grins greeted the completion of the legend.

“I suggest that each of you go home and repeat this legend, perhaps at the supper table when the family is all together. That way you will be a teacher as well as a pupil. And repeating it will help you remember it; exams are coming, you know.” And with that warning to offset the unaccustomed storytelling, Miss Wharton completed her assignment, hoping guiltily at the same time that the paper-wad-throwing incident might be forgotten.

“And now, children, we’ll call it a day. And a week. See you next Monday.”

“But, Miss Wharton, the clock!” Mystified by the upheaval of their schedule, the children inquired concerning the overlooked winding of the Drop Octagonal.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But, Miss Wharton, the blackboard, the erasers!” This from the scandalized eraser monitor.

“Don’t worry about it. You can come early Monday and clean them.”

And with that the children gathered up their books, their lunch pails, whatever wraps they might have brought in this period between cool spring and warming summer, and slipped, one by one, out the door.

Alone, Birdie sat at her desk, her animation gone, her thin face an unreadable mask. But her head was accusing her heart, asking what this was all about. Why the impulsive toss of crumpled paper toward the kindling box? Why the change in schedule, the abrupt decision to delay the winding of the clock? Why the telling of a story, a legend after all and not history, when the children hadn’t yet learned the date of the selfsame expedition? Why the casual excusing of their chores?

One reason. One reason only: the letter, the unsigned letter in the drawer of her bedroom chiffonier.

E
llie was putting away the ironing board and returning the chairs to the side of the round table that dominated the kitchen end of the room when she heard the jingle of harness and the sound of an approaching rig.

“It’s Marfa,” she announced, glancing out and addressing herself to Wrinkles, the cat, who was draped in comfortable somnolence on a rug at the side of the range. Wrinkles, the best of listeners and accustomed to such confidences, blinked one eye and returned to his doze.

“I’ll just put the kettle on,” Ellie murmured, and Wrinkles flipped the end of his tail to indicate his attention.

Ellie pulled the kettle of water toward the front lids of the range, where it would soon boil. Without time to do more, she turned toward the door, her spirits lifted in spite of herself by the variation in her day and the interruption of her memories.

Marfa—Martha, nicknamed Marfa when she was small—and Ellie had been bosom pals for as long as they could remember, meeting first at Sunday school, church dinners, picnics, and sewing
circles attended by their mothers. Starting school together, the years had come and gone with Ellie and Marfa as close as, probably closer than, most sisters. Sharing the good times and the bad, laughing together, crying together on occasion, growing up together, sharing each phase of life, they were inseparable. Marfa’s older siblings were married and gone, and back then she, like Ellie, was alone; perhaps this accounted for the staunchness of their affection—they needed each other.

Totally unalike, as different in looks as in temperament, they seemed to complement each other. Ellie was dark-haired and hazel-eyed, with a certain glow of life and vitality, slender of build, quick of mind and movement; Marfa, gray-eyed and brown-haired, was short, given to chubbiness, deliberate of movement. Ellie’s sudden smile was as quick and brilliant as a passing shaft of sunshine; Marfa’s round face wore a perennial pleasant expression.

Where Ellie was fearless, Marfa was inclined to be cautious; when Ellie’s vivid imagination conjured up outrageous escapades, Marfa’s more level-headed approach aborted many possible problems. It was Ellie’s portion to do the thinking, the planning; Marfa’s to help carry out her ideas or, as often happened, to reshape them to reasonable proportions.

Along the way two more girls had attached themselves to Ellie and Marfa. Vonnie was slender, willowy, fair of hair and blue of eye, given to prinkings and poutings and inclined to be self-centered, capable of sudden bursts of sweetness and generosity. Flossy was part Indian, dark of face and eye, quiet, restrained, thoughtful. Together they made up the “gang of four.”

Though the hamlet and community of Bliss viewed the four of them with some suspicion, having been the target of their shenanigans from time to time, the girls were tolerated, even accepted with indulgence. They were, after all, part and parcel of the Bliss family and, as such, no better and no worse than many others. And life in the bush, apt to be laden with responsibilities, burdens, and deprivations, was lifted out of its weariness occasionally by a grin and a shake of the head at the mischievousness of Bliss’s unpredictable four.

The passing of the years had seen many changes as the girls matured, three of them eventually marrying. Flossy’s marriage took her to Prince Albert; Vonnie moved up north with her logger husband, only to have him killed in an accident; and Marfa—Marfa was soon to be a mother.

“Come in, come in!” Ellie stepped out onto the small porch, her face lit by a welcoming smile, her hands outstretched. Marfa, having clambered laboriously from the buggy and tying the horse to a hitching post, stepped up awkwardly and was at once embraced warmly and escorted inside.

“What’s up?” Ellie asked almost as soon as she had seated her friend. It was unusual for visits to be exchanged in the summer months when life was unendingly busy. And in the winter the weather precluded sociability; life in Bliss was apt to be a lonely affair any time of the year.

“I needed to get out and away from that hot kitchen, that’s what’s up,” Marfa answered with a rueful laugh. “And I couldn’t think of a better place to go. If I go to the folks’, Mum’ll think something’s wrong again and fuss over me.” Marfa, in the six years she had been married, had lost three babies, not carrying any one of them to term.

“And how are you? Are you all right?” Ellie asked, needing to know yet hesitating to raise the sensitive subject.

“I’m fine! You know, Ellie, I never carried any of the others this long. It’s only six weeks or so now. Just think, I’ll be up and on my feet before harvest. Right now I just need a little break.”

Ellie sighed. It had long been her desire to open a haven, a resting place of sorts, where the ill and weary or troubled could draw aside from life’s burdens for a while, taking time out to recuperate. The flame of concern for others had burned in her heart for a long time—since childhood. Though she had often dreamed and sometimes schemed in the old way, wishing desperately to find a way to carry out her heart’s desire, circumstances had dictated otherwise.

It had all been tied in, years ago, with the establishing of the new club...