The Littlest Voyageur

by Margi Preus

  “How will we get home before the lakes freeze?” said Jean Henri.

  “How will we get home?” Jean Luc wailed.

  The Jeans found the clothes the animals had dropped and put them on. That made them feel better.

  Jean Gentille had an idea. “Maybe we can borrow a canoe?” he suggested.

  But the voyageurs in other brigades needed their canoes. Nobody had a spare.

  “Maybe we can have a canoe made for us by the expert builders among the Anishinaabeg,” said Jean Paul.

  They went to the canoe builders and asked.

  “Yes, we will build a canoe for you,” said the head builder, “as soon as we finish the twenty orders ahead of yours.”

  The Jeans were despondent. They sat with heads in hands.

  “We will never get home before the lakes freeze.”

  “We will have to stay here all winter.”

  “Our brigade will think we got lost.”

  “Our families will think, alas, we are no more….”

  “I am almost out of reading material,” Jean Gentille said.

  It was too much to bear. I wept.

  Dragging my tail behind me, I returned to my animal friends who were waiting in the forest glen to hear what had happened.

  “The fire is out,” I told them.

  They breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  “But our beloved canoe has perished in the flames,” I said. “Although I can no longer consider myself a voyageur, I will never stop loving that canoe. She glided through the water without a sound. She wove around rocks as if she knew the way. She kept us dry on rainy nights. And now there is no way for my crew to get home before freeze-up.”

  The animals looked downcast. None of us had wanted it to turn out this way.

  “That is too bad,” said Bear.

  “We didn’t mean for that to happen,” Mink added.

  “Dommage!” said Skunk. “Too bad!”

  “Maybe there is something we can do,” Chipmunk squeaked.

  “I have watched the First People make their sleek canoes of birch bark,” Raven said. “I know how it is done. We need the bark of birch trees, the wood of cedar, the root of spruce, the pitch of pines.”

  “If someone knows where there’s a birch grove,” Bear said, “I can gather a lot of bark.”

  Raven offered to show him the way.

  Beaver said, “I could fell a cedar tree. We can use its boughs to make the thwarts and gunwales. It’s not my favorite flavored wood, but if it would help to get them on their way…”

  Skunk said he knew where there was a lot of watap—spruce root—“for the stitching.”

  “We’re rather handy with our paws,” the Raccoon twins put in. “If we can find Woodpecker and ask her to make the holes, we can do the lacing.”

  “I’ll find Woodpecker,” I volunteered.

  “I can gather pitch from pine trees,” Monique said.

  “Let’s get to work!” Raven cawed.

  All the animals dispersed into the woods to tend to their chosen tasks.

  THE CANOE, SHE IS FINISHED

  We worked for the rest of the day and all night, and just before dawn we brought it to the campsite.

  The voyageurs were sleeping.

  Jean Gentille snored.

  Jean Louis smacked his lips.

  Jean Paul snorted.

  Jean Jacques hummed.

  Jean Henri groaned.

  Jean Claude blew out little poofs of air.

  Jean Luc clutched his blanket.

  Jean Méchant was curled up like a baby, his thumb in his mouth.

  We all carried the canoe into the campsite and left it there, a beautiful gift. There was a new paddle for each of them, too, personally gnawed by Beaver.

  Then we tucked ourselves behind rocks and trees and watched. When the voyageurs awoke, what a surprise awaited them! A beautiful new canoe made of the bark of birch trees, stitched carefully with the roots of spruce trees, all the seams neatly caulked with the pitch of pines.

  “But where did it come from?” Jean Gentille asked, looking all around.

  “Who cares?” said Jean Jacques.

  “Don’t ask any questions!” said Jean Claude.

  “Let’s go!” the rest of them cried. “Not a moment to lose.”

  They quickly threw the cargo into the canoe, grabbed their paddles, jumped in, and shoved off.

  The animals applauded and laughed.

  I stood by, smiling.

  Until, with a start, I realized something: “But wait! They cannot leave yet! Our mission has yet to be accomplished. We animals still haven’t had our little tête-à-tête.”

  “They don’t want to discuss anything with us,” Bear grumbled, popping a few ants into his mouth.

  “But all of this—what was it worth,” I cried, “if we cannot bring our concerns to them? No, I shall catch up with them and try to explain.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea….” Monique said. “Anyway, look! They are already far away.”

  Paddles flashed in the distance. Wisps of a song trailed behind the canoe like mist.

  I chirred, rolling my r’s as if my life depended on it.

  They paid no attention.

  I leapt.

  I spun.

  I did cartwheels, back flips, and a double backwards somersault.

  They didn’t look back.

  Then I saw Monique running through the tops of the trees next to the shore. “Nutty squirrel,” she called, “stop that foolishness and come with me!”

  She dashed up into a large cedar tree that hung out over the lake. To the very tip-most twig of the farthest-reaching branch she went. Then she flung herself out, out, out, over the water. She soared and floated. Then, with a plop, she landed in the canoe.

  My heart stopped beating. “Mademoiselle!” I squeaked.

  The canoe was in an uproar. The pleasant singing had turned to angry curses, then shouts. Paddles swung and clashed as the voyageurs tried to scoop Monique out of the canoe. All the while, the boat rocked from side to side as Monique scampered along the gunwales, staying just out of the reach of angry hands.

  By the time I rushed up the cedar tree to the very tip-most twig of the farthest-reaching branch, it was too late. The canoe was far out in the lake. I could not fly, like Monique. I could not swim. At least I would prefer not to. What could I do?

  “Sacre-bleu, mademoiselle!” I cried. “What have I done? Those voyageurs—they are strong. They are brave. But they hate squirrels.”

  Then I had a happy thought. Eventually they would have to stop. When they did, Monique could leap out of the canoe and run away.

  Then I had a sad thought. Monique might not survive until then.

  But she was clever, no? She was fast. She would stay out of their reach, would she not? Perhaps Jean Gentille would take pity on her and protect her the way he protected me.

  I would run along the lakeshore until I reached their campsite and be there when they disembarked. There I would find Monique and…and…well, we would cross that portage when we got to it.

  LA VIEILLE SAVES THE DAY

  As luck would have it, the old woman of the wind kicked up and forced the canoe ashore. Otherwise I am not sure I could have run long enough.

  I hid in a tree and watched as the voyageurs climbed out, secured the canoe, and came to shore, one by one:

  Jean Gentille

  Jean Louis

  Jean Claude

  Jean Luc

  Jean Jacques

  Jean Henri

  Jean Paul

  Jean Méchant.

  But what was this? Jean Méchant carried a bag that wiggled and moved.

  I crept out on a branch over his head.

 
“This funny creature I have in this sack, I will take to Montreal,” he said. “I will sell this animal to a circus. Imagine that—a squirrel trapeze artist!” Then, just as I was about to pounce on Jean Méchant, he said, “But if I ever get my hands on that other squirrel, that little red one—with him, I’ll have Jean Louis make ragoût.”

  “Why wouldn’t you sell him to the circus?” Jean Luc asked.

  “The creature I have in this bag, well…she’s got talent! But that other one, he is just an ordinary rodent. What could he do?”

  “He had a loud voice,” Jean Jacques said. Everyone laughed at that, as if it were a joke.

  “He could eat a lot of pea soup,” Jean Louis said.

  Everyone laughed again. I didn’t see what was so funny. A squirrel that works as hard as I do needs plenty of soup to keep him going.

  “Remember how he wouldn’t carry anything at the portages?” Jean Henri said. “In fact, it seems to me that he himself was carried!”

  “And remember how he never paddled,” Jean Claude said, “but he still liked to ride right in the front of the canoe?”

  “Think of the mess he made at the trade store,” Jean Paul said.

  Listening to them, I began to feel very bad about myself.

  Finally Jean Gentille spoke up. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I think he was rather a fine fellow. He was certainly the warmest hat I ever had.”

  “And you need a warm hat!” Jean Méchant joked, rubbing his hand on Jean Gentille’s bald head.

  “I liked his cheerful chirr,” Jean Gentille said. “I liked his…enthusiasm. I rather miss the little fellow, and if he were to come back I would let him ride on my head again.”

  I melted with gratitude to hear Jean Gentille’s kind words. I was so happy that I couldn’t help it, I sang. I sang so robustly, I lost my balance. Out of the tree I tumbled, directly onto Jean Méchant.

  WE ARE IN A PICKLE

  We were in a pickle, Monique and I. She was tied up in a bag and I was, once again, held upside down by the tail over a stewpot by Jean Louis.

  When Jean Gentille tried to intervene on my behalf, Jean Louis said, “You’ve saved the neck of this pest one too many times. It shall give me the greatest pleasure to see succulent portions of him swimming in my soup pot.”

  “Well, my dear,” Monique said to me from the bag, “I’m glad you’re here, but it is now or never. If there’s something you want to say to these men, you should do it now or forever hold your peace.”

  Indeed, she was correct.

  “Brave voyageurs,” I began. In case you are unaware, it is not an easy thing to extemporize eloquently while being held upside down over a steaming stewpot. Still, I valiantly continued. “Please allow me to explain the extreme actions that were taken at the trade store. We didn’t mean to frighten you. We just wanted to…discuss. To have a conversation. A tête-à-tête.”

  “Listen to him beg for his life, the rascal!” Jean Méchant said.

  Beg for my life? I was doing no such thing. I was using my dying breath to try to save my fur-bearing brothers. “We fur-bearers wanted to talk with you about your involvement with the fur trade,” I went on, perhaps a little too fast for their comprehension, but circumstances being what they were…“We understand that people need to eat and stay warm. We are predators ourselves, many of us. Ironically, though, not the beaver, whose fur you carry away in great quantities. He is a friendly fellow, welcoming to all, who eats nothing but leaves and twigs and bark—”

  Jean Méchant interrupted me. “Is this squirrel going to be allowed to continue squeaking all day long?” he asked.

  I squeaked more rapidly. “Yet he is being trapped into extinction.” Knowing they had a hard time understanding me, I demonstrated. I pulled my own fur out by the pawful. “See? There is a limit. You can’t keep taking and taking and expecting there to always be more.”

  “The little red one, he is making me think,” Jean Gentille said.

  “He is making me think, too,” Jean Méchant said. “He is making me think about dinner.”

  “There is a lot of fur in the stewpot now,” Jean Paul observed.

  “No, but listen,” Jean Gentille said. “We seem to take more and more beaver pelts back to Montreal every year. How many beavers do you think there are, anyway? Do you suppose it is possible to kill all of them, so there are none left?”

  “No more beavers?” Jean Méchant said. “Oh, there are plenty of them, don’t you worry about that! There will always be the beavers, the way there will always be the wolves, the caribou, the eagles, these big trees, this sparkling water. These things will always be here.”

  I have never claimed these men I traveled with were wise.

  Strong? Yes.

  Brave? Oh, my, very brave!

  Tough? As tough as they come.

  But wise? Sadly, no.

  “If this is what you’re getting from that chattering idiot,” said Jean Claude, “tell the little squirrel that he doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ve had enough. After this summer, I’m putting in for a desk job.”

  “I am going to France to become a chef,” Jean Louis said.

  “I am going to work on the railroad,” said Jean Henri, flexing his muscles. “Just as soon as they start building one.”

  “I’m going to join a choir,” said Jean Jacques, “and sing to my heart’s content.”

  “I don’t like the hours of this job,” said Jean Luc. “I’m going to quit.”

  I was starting to feel very good about this, but then Jean Gentille said, “As for me, I am a voyageur and will be until I die.”

  My heart sank.

  “Now let’s make stew,” said Jean Louis. “I shall drop the squirrel into the pot.”

  “But you must first remove the fur from the pot, non?” said Jean Paul.

  “Non, that is where all the vitamins are,” said Jean Louis.

  There was a bit of a culinary disagreement, during which I found my wits. That is to say, I remembered that I have teeth. Sharp teeth. I twisted around and bit the hand that wanted to eat me.

  Jean Louis jumped. His hand flew open and I flew out, landing on the ground.

  I bolted straight up a tree. While Jean Louis leapt about, screaming, the other voyageurs stared up into the treetop, trying to spot me. They couldn’t see me because I was dashing down the opposite side of the tree trunk. From there, I took a detour to the bag that imprisoned Monique, a bag tied shut with a leather lace. I took it in my teeth and bit down.

  WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

  Never had I chewed so hard or so fast in all my life.

  A moment later, Monique was free—thank goodness for my needle-sharp teeth. We had only enough time to give each other a tender embrace, when—

  “Arrêtez—Stop!” cried Jean Méchant. “Look there, the prisoner has escaped!”

  All of the crew except Jean Gentille got up and scrambled after us. Their caps and sashes made streaks of red through the woods. They chased us around trees, over rocks, and through bramble bushes.

  At last Monique and I scampered up a tree, where they couldn’t catch us. From there we could keep an eye on the crew, now a tangle of arms and legs.

  “The wind, she has died!” Jean Gentille cried. “We must launch the canoes and try to catch up with our brigade!”

  The others worked at untangling themselves while Monique and I caught our breath.

  “That was a close call,” Monique said. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “You are the brave one—throwing yourself into their canoe like that!”

  “Perhaps that was not so smart,” she said. “But, monsieur, what will you do now? You will have to go back with me. You can spend the winter. I have an extra room in my tree trunk.”

  I turned to Monique. “Mademoiselle,” I sai
d, “in spite of everything, I must go. Jean Gentille misses me. He is worried for me. And I worry for him. Without me to keep his head warm he might catch a bad cold. Also, I need to find some small treats for him—nuts and berries and so forth. That is important because he never gets enough to eat.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he gives his food to me.”

  “But maybe if you—” Monique began.

  I had no time for arguments. “Mademoiselle,” said I, “never say that I am a quitter.”

  “I would never say that,” she said. “But your crew have launched their canoe, and once again they are far away.”

  I looked. Indeed, she was right. I shook her paw, then turned and ran for all I was worth: scampering along fallen logs, leaping over boulders, crashing through brush. Soon I heard panting behind me. I turned to see…

  “Mademoiselle!” I gasped. “Has something been forgotten?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Me. You forgot me.”

  MANY DAYS LATER

  We began to be disheartened. Monique and I had been following my crew for days and days. And rather than getting closer, we were falling behind. While they paddled in a straight line, we had many more twisty, turny miles of shoreline to negotiate.

  After another day of leaping, jumping, skittering, scampering, climbing, clambering, and flinging ourselves through space, Monique and I sat with our sad heads in our sad paws.

  Gray clouds had swallowed up the sun. A breeze kicked the water into restless whitecaps. The waves lapped sadly against the rocky shoreline. The smell of cool water, cold nights, crisp leaves, and fallen pine needles was heavy on the air.

  “Fall is coming,” Monique said.

  “Indeed,” I agreed, shivering.

  “Dear Le Rouge,” Monique said, “we are falling behind. We shall never apprehend them at this rate.”

  “We must think of something.”

  “Monsieur, you are a little bit nutty, but I love you anyway.”

  My heart stopped. What did she say? Love?

  “But, mademoiselle,” I said, “here I am, far from home, a miserable failure. I failed at being a voyageur. I failed at convincing the voyageurs the error of their ways. I would have been willing to go home, tail between my legs, a failure. But I failed even at that! I had intended, when I left home, to explore the unexplored, discover the undiscovered, taste the untasted.”