The Deserter (18 page)

“Then...” Tongue mumbled. Thomas waited.

Tongue waited.

“Then?” Thomas found himself demanding again. Tongue, the devil, was making this so hard. “She put stone down.”

“She put it down?” Thomas could scarcely believe his ears.

Tongue nodded. “She not accept stone.” “She not... But I don’t understand.”

Tongue looked at him. “
Aqalasiéw
, white people, pretty stupid.”

Thomas grinned. Yes, dumb, no doubt. Well, well! He was elated, thrilled, he didn’t know how to behave. But poor Burn... “So how did Burn feel?”

“Burn leave. Go up coast, to other band. Listuguj. Next day.”

Burn gone. What a shame. He must have been devastated. Oh well, thought Thomas, better get on the trail. Who knows what she’ll do when and if I try?

After dusk, Thomas and Tongue arrived back at the band’s encampment. The Chief welcomed him without much ceremony; perhaps after his killing of the moose, he’d been almost fully accepted into the band. Thomas also sensed a heightened interest around the camp. He didn’t see Little Birch anywhere; to ask after her just now would not be the thing to do.

The Chief and his wife offered him a covering, and Thomas went off to sleep not far from the flowing Port Daniel river. He made himself comfortable on a bed of leaves, and lay down to sleep. But sleep he could not.

Toward dawn he got up and, as silently as he could, made his way along the shore. He sat down on a log, and waited until dawn glimmered with faint light in the cold spring air, and then finally lifted the darkness off that fateful day when he would, or would not, toss the stone into Little Birch’s lap.

What should he do? Suppose she said yes? What had he to offer? Nothing. Some land, but he had no legal title yet. Could it be taken away from him? Of course. And more, should he snatch this child — this woman — even if she agreed, away to a life of loneli ness? What indeed was the right decision? Would it really be better for her to come live with him, a long day’s walk away from her family and her band? Well, she could easily walk back whenever she wanted. No, he wouldn’t let her go all that way alone. Why not — she knew the wilderness better than he did. But suppose they were to have a child? If she were pregnant, she couldn’t walk all that way. He would have to find a way of bringing her. So perhaps he should stay with the band and live with her there? But that was precisely why he wanted to toss the stone into her lap — so she wouldn’t have the rigours of another winter in which, let’s face it, some died and others might starve to death. But who’s to say the two of them wouldn’t starve to death in his cabin, if they stayed?

Round and round these dizzying thoughts went. Of course, exactly these misgivings, cast in other moulds, he guessed, would preoccupy every wouldbe groom on the night before he asked for his loved one’s hand. However hard life was going to be, together or apart, the decision would never be easy. So he asked in his heart for God’s guidance, as a shaft of early sunlight caught the tops of the giant Balm of Gilead overhead, heralding the need to make a decision.

He stooped, took off his moccasins, and began to walk along the riverbank, half in and out of the icy water, looking for a suitable stone. He had one in his mind: it had to be, of course, very smooth, and just the right shade of grey, verging on green if he could.

Being a salmon river, it had a stony bottom and pebbles lay in profusion under the clear running water. But how cold! His feet and ankles could only bear it for short bursts; his hands and forearms ached when he reached to pluck out one jewel of a stone after another, examine it, and toss it back. The pain was good, somehow, a kind of expiation for any past sins, purifying him before he’d make his final gesture.

There, in deeper water, lay the one he thought might be perfect. Pulling off his leggings, he strode out and, leaning in, iced himself in the very snows that once covered the interior and now flowed down to join the Chaleur Bay beyond and later, the great Atlantic on which he had ridden his man o’war for long and painful years. He picked it out of its jewel-box bed in the trout-filled waters, and splashed his way back to the bank, shivering powerfully. Yes, perfect. Small and smooth and the right colour. He waved his arms around to restore circulation and dried himself and put on his trousers again. Once upon a time in Britain, this hunt might have been a trip down a tawdry alley to a money-lender, where he’d pick out a pawned golden band from many lying on much-fingered velvet. But now he saw this as the perfect ritual — such an appropriate way to approach and entrap the one creature he loved beyond all others!

A kind of electricity enlivened the campsite as he returned. The women moved sprightly to and fro, tossing glances his way. Children stopped in their games, Thomas noticed, and two little girls put aside their little dolls of fir that danced on stiff birchbark as they tapped it. They too seemed waiting for something to happen. Perhaps a feast? He walked over to their hollowed stumps and saw them filled with river water in which the carcasses of tasty muskrats, two squirrels, and some of his moose meat simmered. Fresh fires had been laid and started nearby. Another thing we never worry about here, he reflected, is wood — always as much as we need, while in the Old Country he had to make forays with other footmen to find fallen branches, for the Lord of the Castle was against cutting any of the stately trees. Every morning, too, he used to carry stacks of peat from behind the stables to stoke the kitchen fires, but they hardly compared to a roaring birch or maple log.

Still no sight of Little Birch. He wondered what she was doing. He noticed that on the conference logs, the seated Elders were throwing glances in his direction as they smoked. Children were trying to follow his every move, without appearing conspicuous. A fisherman came from up the river with an alder branch on which gleamed many trout. Thomas saw him pause and take it all in, presumably forming a scene in his mind’s eye. Yes, something was definitely up.

At long last, Tongue approached him.

“Good morning, Tongue. What’s happening?”

“You are welcome to the wigwam of One Arm.” Thomas rose with all solemnity, trying to still his hammering heart.

Knowing he was the centre of attention made it a lot worse, and to be frank, he didn’t like it. He would have preferred anonymity at this crucial juncture. All at once, he had an impulse to run away, grab his sack, and tear back to his cabin. But no, the invitation had been made, and the invitation had now to be accepted.

Solemnly he walked across the clearing to the wigwam of One Arm, dropped to all fours, and entered.

He was almost afraid to look up. When he did, he saw straight ahead of him, One Arm, and to his left Full Moon, while next to her, what a transformation! Little Birch wore the very same blouse he had seen Full Moon decorating in the winter, with a skirt made of the finest calfskin, painted with intricate patterns, and her feet in new moccasins. Her sleek black hair was held back with a carved comb, and her hands lay folded in her skirt which, with her crossed legs, so unusual for a Micmac woman, lay open like a basket. Full Moon also wore clothes he had not seen before, her finest he presumed, sewn with intricate designs, her hair freshly washed and gleaming black. One Arm wore one of those Euro pean jackets that someone in the band had loaned him. Brightstar had been shooed outside, but hovered around the entranceway with other friends, pushing, prying, giggling.

Oh my gosh, he thought, where did I put my stone: in my pouch, which I left outside, or in my pocket? He felt such a fool. He surreptitiously reached in his pocket, and grasped it. He hung on to it to give himself strength.

One Arm lifted the embroidered pipe, and handed it to Thomas. He remembered that Little Birch had told him smoking tobacco means the smoke will rise, and your thoughts will go up to your ancestors, giving your uncles, your grandfather, especially Big Birch, news of what you are doing.

Thomas took it. He noticed that Little Birch had not looked up. Solemnly he unwrapped what little tobacco he had left, and inexpertly put some into the stone bowl of the pipe. Then he tried picking up the tongs, fumbled the lit coal, dropped it onto the blanket, then hastily brushed it aside. He tried again, as Full Moon smothered a smile. Don’t mess up too often, he told himself.

One Arm reached for the pipe, and handing it to Full Moon, deftly with iron pincers made from old barrel-hoops found on the beach, took another brand from the fire, placed it on the pipeful. Then she handed it back to him, and with his good arm he lifted it to his lips, and pulled heavily. Then he blew out a vast great cloud of smoke in the direction of Thomas.

Thomas spluttered and coughed. Full Moon lifted her hand to her face to hide the broad grin that broke over her. Thomas dared not look at Little Birch.

One Arm now handed the pipe to Thomas, who took it, careful not to inhale too much. He drew into his mouth a pipeful and blew it right out again.

“You are welcome,” One Arm said, with a strange formality.

“Pjilási!”
repeated Full Moon. They had been together all winter long and gone through all manner of experiences, but now she seemed as nervous as Thomas. Only Little Birch did not stir, still looking into her lap.

They stayed like that for what seemed an age. By now, Thomas had grown accustomed to the peaceful stillness of a Micmac ceremony.

Finally, he reached in his pocket and took out the stone. Full Moon and One Arm stiffened.

He held it in his fingers, looking down. He turned it over and over, then massaged it gently between finger and thumb. They waited.

This better work, he thought. With a sigh, he breathed on it.

One Arm and Full Moon traded looks.

Unaccountably, he lifted it and looking up, pressed it to his lips. Probably all against conventional proposals, he thought, but why not invoke his own Lord. He needed all the help he could get. For the first time, Little Birch stole a glance at him. He saw in her eyes a flash of wonder.

She quickly looked back down again.

Well, he thought, the moment has come. Leaning forward, he threw the pebble into the basket-shaped lap made by the wide deerskin skirt of Little Birch. At first, she did not move.

For what seemed an age, she stared down at his smooth river pebble. Her eyes then lifted and seemed to search his face intensely. “I love you,” he repeated in his mind, “I love you, Little Birch,” over and over. “Little Birch, I love you, I always will, I’ll care for you always.” “But,” he said in his thoughts, “only accept this stone if you are sure.”

She picked up the stone and stared at it. His heart rose and then sank. What was she going to do? Put it aside or keep it?

Full Moon could not repress a gasp — the suspense was obviously killing her, too. One Arm put his hand on her shoulder.

Then Little Birch lifted the stone to her mouth, just as he had done, and also pressed her lips against it.

An upsurge of blood suffused his every artery. She was accepting him. Her two hands clasped the stone, she turned her gaze on him, and he knew in one breathtaking moment, the one dream of his life had come true.

***

The next day they set off for his cabin. He had spent the night out of doors as before, under a canopy of interlaced branches, dreaming of their future together. What had he done? What had she done, indeed? Would they be happy? Had this been the right thing? Oh go to sleep, he kept telling himself, leave yourself in the hands of the good Lord and He will protect the marriage.

She had stayed in her own wigwam for the last time. It was a ritual he appreciated, for he wanted his own cabin to be the site of their first night as man and wife. Now that he knew from practice the best route to his brook, he led Little Birch northward into the woods first, then along a highland route about a mile back from the shore, so that no English trader would come across their trail. He needed no interference from Port Daniel settlers, even though it was now almost a year since he had deserted.

As they walked along, Little Birch kept pointing out different plants that she said they would use for food or for medicine: “
Gamùjamin,
I think you call raspberry: survival food, you eat shoots in spring. Yarrow and camomile, good for tea. This kind of cedar bark, you boil in water, twenty minutes, we drink in fall and spring. Makes skin smooth. Also for no fleas. Bears use it for nests.” On and on she went.

“Little Birch, you know so much!”

“We all do.”

“No, you more than others.”

“My mother says I have a gift of healing. My grandmother was a
Buowin
,a healer. They say her spirit lives on in me. I like these things.”

It was as if, in the company of the wiser and more experienced woman, she had spent her time observing, learning by watching. Now she was a properly married woman, out on her own, she could, and did, take charge. He felt that she was doing all this to reinforce her own growing sense of herself, becoming thereby more assured and self-reliant.

***

At the end of the day, Thomas and Little Birch reached the lip of his “Hollow.” He stood beside her as she peered down through the bare trees, absorbing the scene. Then he led her down the side hill, and when they came to the brook, he stopped.

Thomas watched her reactions as Little Birch saw for the first time, through leafless trees, his modest cabin. Her new home, he could see her thinking.

“Come,” he said in English. She hitched up her pack and headed for the brook, but he steered her aside.

“This way.” He led her upstream through a screen of alders, pushed aside a young cedar, and showed her the bridge he had made by felling a tree. He had lashed another to it to make a bridge, high enough to avoid the spring tides, and had flattened them with his axe to make it safe. He would never forget his plunge into the icy waters this spring.

He crossed, and she followed. They stopped at the edge of the clearing, and she let her pack drop to the ground, looking around at the homestead. “Do you like it?” he asked, almost fearfully.

She said nothing, just took it all in. He put down his pack, and gently took her hand. She moved to lean against him, and the two of them stood looking across the clearing at what would now be their new home A thousand joys mingled in his mind and in his heart. How on earth did God ever bring him to such a happy day? A home, and now a wife.