Distant Fires (29 page)

With spring came renewal of intent, and as soon as time permitted, the trip to Quebec and thence to Montreal was undertaken. Pleased as she was to arrive safely, it was with heavy heart that she first scanned the city as they drew into the harbour. The “Quebec” of her memory had changed little in the intervening years; as beautiful and lively as the girl she once was, but it was painful to revisit the scene of so much longing, hope, despair. Gilbert, by contrast, found much to be admired, and was eager to behold the seat of his brother’s brush with success. Her arrival was to be kept as clandestine as possible; having no wish to redress her former role, arrangements were made to stay at a modest Inn in Lower Town.
 

The morning after their arrival, she bade adieu to Gilbert, and made her way to the home of the Ursulines. She had heard nothing of Mother D’Agoust since that fateful day when she had made the decision to keep Shanata, and wondered if she were still alive.
 

She was quietly announced, and led into a small room where sat an elderly woman, stricken with rheumatism, though otherwise alert, who beheld her almost as an apparition.  
 

“My dear Louise! Come sit with me here. It must be…years, since…” She held her tongue, then asked, “what brings you to Quebec?
 

Louise sat next to her, clasping the wizened hands. “I’ve come to settle my son’s affairs.” She said solemnly. “Do you remember Nicholas, my son? He was a Lieutenant stationed in Montreal and was…killed, while on a mission late last year…”
 

The wrinkled face framed by the veil smiled kindly, “May God bless his soul.” With a pause, she looked solemnly. “Take comfort in the knowledge that he is in God’s hands,” she added, in remembrance, “with your dear husband.” She patted her with a shaky palm. “Many things happen, my dear, often without reason to anyone but God. I will invoke prayers on your behalf, my daughter. And where has life taken you since we last spoke?”  Before she could answer, the tone in her trembling voice changed to one of censure, “I recall the disagreement we
had regarding the little savage, the…Huron child…I believe. I heard you took her to France against my council. Has she accompanied you to her native land?”
 

“She was Iroquoian, Mother, and yes, she is very well indeed. In fact, she has married a young Comte who neighbours our estate. She has chosen to remain. I have recently remarried and it is with he, with whom I have arrived.”
 

The latter seemed genuinely astounded. “The mistake appears to have been mine…changes, many changes...” She shook her head and looked down, a tone of guilt marring her astonishment. “Do you know, I had very grave doubts when you chose to take that child, but God be praised that you managed to quell that demon of a race. As a matter of fact we have another girl, taken in only recently. Came to us as an Iroquois slave, from a group of Abenaki…wicked girl she was. Always telling tales.”  
 

Her lined features crinkled into a smile, “She told Sister Agathe that before she was taken, a white man had married the Headwoman in her village…very silly girl, caught her stealing as well…some of the girls we have are a constant source of prayer, but with God’s help, they generally find their way…”
 

The last of her words trailed off in Louise’s mind. She was deep in thought. When Mother had finished, she instinctively asked the question: “Can I speak with this girl, Mother?”
 

Mother D’Agoust was genuinely astonished.  “I’m afraid, my dear, you may take one of my flock for your bid to raise, but not another.”
 

“No, you misunderstand me, Mother. I merely wish to speak with her.”
 

The latter continued to look puzzled but acquiesced, “As you request. I am not certain where she is at present. But I shall send for her after midday prayers. Now,” she began, rising with her cane with a grimace, “if you could rejoin me later…”
 

Louise thanked her, and ventured down the hall. She didn’t know how to feel. It was just an instinct, a possibility, however faint, that lent itself to hope…
 

As she walked past the chapel she heard the sonorous chant of prayers being said aloud. Something stirred; beckoning to her soul like a church bell, calling her to move toward that which she had long denied.
 

Slipping into the back of the room, she knelt, and began to pray, peeling off layers of anger, guilt, and indifference, to arrive at a place of completeness at finally finding oneself accepted and at home. For once, it was not a shallow ritual for her; a reverberant string of words that brought no truth from the heart. Instead, it was a journal of penitence, needs, thankfulness, written by her conscience to her maker that erupted from her, bringing tears of acceptance to her eyes. She couldn’t change the loss of Felippe and Armand. Without them, she wouldn’t have
become the person that she was, nor would circumstances have led her to acknowledge of her capabilities. She couldn’t have had either of them without compromise or loss. They had given her Gilbert. God had not forsaken her but had brought her to this teaching.
 

But losing one’s son was a different matter. There was nothing to be learned. She would no longer chastise God for its circumstance, neither was she ready to accept and move on …
 

A girl knocked quietly and entered the room of Mother  D’Agoust. She was wearing the same coarse broadcloth shift of the other girls with covered hair. Something about her was familiar. While not altogether confident, she was no less meek, and proceeded to answer the questions in her native tongue. It had been many years since Louise had used the language, so Mother D'Agoust interpreted.
 

“Mother said you have lately come to them from the Abenaki,” asked Louise. “Where is your tribe?”
 

The girl didn’t know how to respond. She was obviously unaware of her precise whereabouts. “Far from the big river.”
 

“Does she mean the St. Lawrence?”  Louise whispered, to which Mother nodded. “Mother says, you have spoken of a white man who is married to the Headwoman of your village. Can you tell me about him?”
 

It was a subject the girl had been ridiculed about. She feared speaking.
 

“Please, Mother,” insisted Louise, “tell her she may do so”.
 

Mother D’Agoust, ever practical in such matters, wasn’t pleased to be encouraging such discussion, but was persuaded to further question.
 

“You may tell the Lady what you have told me.”
 

Hesitantly, the girl responded. “He is in the village of my auntie, the Headwoman. The man was hurt and the people brought him to the village and made him better. Now he is a brother.”
 

Louise was playing a hunch, vague as it would seem. Reaching into her pouch, she opened her hand under the wondering eye of the respondent.
 

“Did you take this from a slave?” The girl asked, touching it as lightly as a sacred relic.
 

“No, from a small girl…long ago. Do you know this?”
 

“It is the clan of my mother, who died in the great fire.” She scrutinized it closely. “It has a little bead in the eye. My auntie, the headwoman, has one like this..”
 

Louise nearly fainted at the news. So great was her excitement, she could scarcely breathe. “Can you take me to them?”
 

Mother D’Agoust intervened without translating the last sentence. “I forbid you to listen to such tales, Louise. The child will say anything if she thinks she might escape to her people.”
 

“I believe her, Mother. And what is more, I believe not only is the village that of Shanata’s home, but that the white man may be my son Nicholas.”
 

She then went into the details relating to what she had heard in Louisbourg, and the fact that a body had not been found, and now this evidence linking the village to Shanata. Mother was not as easily convinced. “Even so, Louise, how could one traverse into such dangerous territory? The child should not be expected to jeopardize herself. It is far too perilous.”
 

Louise was crying now. “If he has been brought into their household and given such respect, I am happy for him. But I must know the truth.”
 

Mother told the girl to leave the room. “I will think on it, and speak with you when I have come to a decision.” She started to wobble out of the room using her cane, but stopped suddenly. “How would you find the means to reach the area?”
 

“You of all people should know the answer to that question, Mother—with God’s help.”
 

..................
 

“Now then, another thing we will say: you are in mourning in the deep darkness. I will make the sky clear for you so you do not see a cloud…”
 

Nicholas hung on the last word and felt a searing pain in his heart. He had been so immersed in his new life that the image of a certain warm afternoon, caught between the throes of sorrow for the loss of one parent, and a child’s innocent response to another, stirred the deepest part of him in bittersweet remembrance. The Cloud Lady. How was his mother, he wondered? Was she even alive? The jarring resonance of Sophie’s allegation regarding an affair between the Intendant and his mother caused an uneasiness of mind that he was wont to overlook. His mother had always carried an air of such elegance and piety. Did a wanton woman lurk beneath the surface? In many ways, he could see his parents were mismatched, but that did not excuse the fact of betrayal, as he knew only too well. In a way, he had “betrayal” to thank for his present existence, and a love he had thought would elude him in his life. It had brought him a “true” marriage.. All that was missing was some word that all was well...
 

As far as he could gather, roughly a year had passed since he’d found his home amongst these people…his people. Now, as he sat before the council fire with his brothers, he reflected on his own instalment and marriage to his wife, Ehta. He’d always felt guided by some inner force to
contribute somehow, to this burgeoning land. He’d sought it through the military; seeing the importance of colonization and the taming of its original peoples to their will. But through loosening the yolk on his own freedoms, he had acknowledged the same in another. And it was through choice that he stayed. No longer shackled by duty or physical inability, he forged the tie by his own admission. He loved his wife, but it was the society’s values—the fostering of human rather than monetary value, and strong sense of community and loyalty—that challenged him to remain. He was a happy man.
 

The Satchem intoned, but a commotion in the courtyard, broke the proceedings. Nicholas peered through the slats with the other members, curious as to the possibilities of this visitation. The vision that presented itself caused him to lose his stomach. Bent, though taller than his captors, was an injured man, bound by hemp and deerskin lace, bearing evidence of a difficult journey rather than deleterious incarceration. Behind him stood another individual, much shorter, and apparently, more afflicted. Both were clad in buckskin, though neither was facially distinguishable.
 

His initial reaction followed that of his members as the proceedings were quickly adjourned, with people spilling out, more fascinated than militant, to see the arrivals. The captives
appeared in need of food and water, which were duly dispensed, and they were tied to a pole, with the caution that they be left alone.
 

Nicholas felt genuine empathy for the couple. The taking of “slaves”—generally that of Abenaki—had occurred since his admittance, and they had not fared as well. Still, he understood the need to comply with the chief’s wishes.
 

From his vantage point, the buckskin clothing appeared to confirm them as either native or Courier de Bois, but he stayed away, content to observe them from a distance, and remain unseen. Who knew? They were prisoners now, but they may not always be, and the chance of recognition was too disturbing a possibility to entertain.
 

.......................
 

“Can anyone hear? Water, we need water…”
 

Nicholas was lying on his pallet next to Ehta, when the words tumbled to his conscious, through the open door to the courtyard. Like the memory of a childhood tune, they stirred his senses, evoking both fear and curiosity. He understood them, though he didn’t know why. All at once, his senses and intellect, assimilated.
 

French…they were French…
 

At least that settled one mystery…but what were they doing here?
 

He made to stand, then held back. Were they part of a search party?  Traders? Trappers? Should he help them, or leave it to the women to respond? He appeared as a native now. And it was dark. He would not speak. At least the water would silence them…
 

Gently pulling the pelt over his sleeping wife and kissing her cheek, he slipped a skin cloak about his shoulders, and passed into the open air of a late spring night. They were half-seated, back-to-back against the pole, hands bound, heads flopped aside in obvious discomfort.
 

He knew what they must have been feeling; what he felt when he’d first arrived. Empathy overtook caution. Somehow, it didn’t matter where they were from. They deserved basic humanity. He knew the chief, Hadwe. He was a good man; fair in his dealings with outsiders unless given evidence of treachery, as in the case of the Abenaki, whom he was told, kidnapped a few of their young women before he joined the family. These people had the right to know they would not be killed. Changing his original intent he falteringly began, in French: