Winter Shadows

by Margaret Buffie

  One day, a girl with large red carbuncles on her chin asked questions about my distant home with seemingly casual interest. I told her about my parish in Rupert’s Land and about my family. The girl, whose father is an archbishop in York, glanced slyly at her friends. “See? I told you so. Beatrice is country born, à la façon du pays, as my papa calls it. That’s French, not Indian.” She sniffed with such disdain, it was a wonder to me her nose didn’t turn inside out. I suppressed a smile, which only inflamed her. She snapped, “Your father’s mother is a savage, Beatrice. Which makes him one as well – and you!”

  “What does ‘country born’ mean?” asked an English girl, whose parents were recent immigrants to the Red River settlement some twenty miles from St. Cuthbert’s.

  “Don’t be such a simpleton, Penelope. It means Beatrice is a half-breed. Her grandparents weren’t married in a Christian church! They lived in sin – breeding like animals.” The carbuncle girl looked as if she were sucking on a mouthful of chokecherries.

  I didn’t say a word, though my heart was pounding, but I looked long and steadily at her. She blushed an ugly purple and turned away, calling to her friends.

  As a number of other daughters of Hudson’s Bay officials were at the school, we soon split into two groups. To be fair, a few of the English girls were kind, if not openly friendly. For this I was grateful, yet I found myself suspicious of their motives. Only Penelope kept trying to be friends, and, as time went on, our interests in music and literature bound us in quiet companionship. But there was still much reserve between us.

  When I think about it now, of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the archbishop’s daughter’s nasty comments. I had always felt quite distanced from local gossip, but the scandal concerning the Company’s chief officer’s country-born wife and a young English captain only a few years ago had torn the Red River settlement apart. The rumors of this so-called affair, having been started by vicious tittle-tattle from people like our bishop’s wife and her friends at the Upper Fort, soon grew in strength and ugliness. The rumors were so ferocious and widespread that even I, tucked away in Old Maples, heard them. Although a court case proved the young woman innocent, the gossips considered the results a travesty of justice. The young wife’s friends thought them fair and true. But societal pressure caused many of her friends to move quietly away from her and her now-depressed and devastated young husband. Either way, it changed the settlement for good. The new English residents became very cautious about befriending anyone with Indian blood.

  Papa told me recently that many mixed-blood people like himself, who were educated in good Scottish public schools and who held high positions in the Company or in the settlement’s new political establishment, were denying their Indian blood. I realize now that the archbishop’s daughter was simply giving me a taste of more ugly things to come.

  When I was called home by Papa, Penelope promised to write and has been true to her word. Since she was also summoned back to the settlement not long ago to look after her sick mother, we exchange letters regularly, usually about books or the weather. But never anything of a private nature. She has not invited me to her home and has refused all invitations I have sent to her. I must try not to read too much into this. But it is hard.

  Her father opened a provisions store for the droves of new English arriving in the Upper Fort area. Last week, Penelope sent me a jar of marmalade from a Scottish shipment. I felt, ungratefully, that she might be showing off a little. As oranges are almost unknown in our parish, the golden jelly, thick with orange peel, was a special treat for Papa, who had enjoyed it many times in Scotland. It is a rare event for him to smile with such pleasure. Afterward, I was weighed down by its brief sweetness.

  I stared across the white expanse of the Red River. Tupper whinnied, but I held fast. Did that horrible girl in the academy succeed in making me ashamed of my family? Of Aggathas, my beloved grandmother? Of my papa? No. It couldn’t be true.

  Are you telling the truth, Beatrice? the voice asked. Are you?

  To Tupper’s startled ears, I cried, “I won’t be ashamed of those I love! Or ashamed of myself for being their child. I won’t!” The shadows once again slid around me with the swish of ravens’ wings.

  Why does it feel at times as if my mind and body will suddenly shatter into thousands of pieces and never join into me again? Sometimes, when I look into the future, I see only a terrifying black nothingness. I have to keep these thoughts a secret from everyone – especially Ivy and her ox of a son. Papa is battling his own shadows; I can’t ask him to suffer mine as well. And I cannot burden my sick grandmother.

  I am alone.

  Everything inside me changed during my stay at that faraway school. Even my faith. Now, after only a few weeks of teaching, my once-steadfast beliefs in the missionary and its so-called good work throughout the parish are being tested. Perhaps Dickens’s books and those of the Brontës have awaked something in me, for I’ve become convinced that the church’s purpose here is not just to preach the word of God to us “half-breed savages.” It’s to break the tie between the English mixed bloods and their Indian families; to make the Company servants into English farmers and citizens; and to turn the young daughters of Company officers – who will run the homes of the men their fathers choose for them – into perfect little English ladies. A passage in Jane Eyre says:

  … they [women] suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.

  When I first read it, I felt it had been written just for me. I wouldn’t spend my life making puddings and embroidering bags – there had to be more for me than that! I fumed with indignation and a strange kind of hope that I might be able to make something wonderful happen.

  But not a single thing in my life has changed for the better since reading any of those books. Somehow, I feel even more stifled. How can I possibly make changes while I live in this closed community, with its religious patriarchal rules? And if I develop ideas of my own, how will I ever find the courage to act on them?

  I do feel better after I write my thoughts down, but I often wish I was writing to a friend who could advise me. One who understands. One who feels as I do.

  Sometimes the shadows come at me from nowhere, like an unexpected low branch slapping my face on a summer walk in the woods. Sometimes they spiral slowly, like thick dark clouds, for days on end. Do they come from somewhere outside of me? Or are they bits of my soul turning to dust?

  When I think of the God who lives in that church, I cannot feel Him near. I am still told every Sunday that, although He watches over me, I cannot expect to understand His ways. I am told that He promises everything good. But, to me, He seems obscure, disinterested, even cruel, especially to people like the MacDonalds and their lost babies.

  I try hard to remember spring afternoons as a child, when I sat under the budding trees along the shore and watched for silver flashings of fish; when I created wondrous images in the sweep of clouds over the far shore; when I listened to the distant rush of rapids. I try to remember, in winter, how I loved the scattered glitter of snow in the sun; how I breathed the scent of frozen balsam needles in my hand; how I felt the warmth of the sun on my woolen arm. How, then, I felt brief moments of His presence.

  But I can’t feel, see, or hear anything that gives me such peace anymore. I see nothing ahead except endless murky days and sinister nights stretching before me. Only one small glimmer now and then flashes in my peripheral vision – a little light blinking like a tiny star. But I am afraid to look at it. Is it offering me a safe harbor, if only I would look? Or will it vanish forever, if I dare to turn my head?

  This morning, sitting in the carriole, I knew I had to face the busy day ahead. I couldn’t stop to rail at Fate or the Furies or whatever was making my tho
ughts so bleak. At least for a few hours of every day, when I teach at Miss Cameron’s School for Girls, I am free of these dark thoughts. And, I remind myself, I also have Dilly as a quiet ally at home. Blessings, too, must be remembered.

  I should be wearing a sackcloth and ashes, I decided, for I am Gloom itself today.

  “Miss Alexander!” someone called. “Are you all right? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  My sleigh was blocking the narrow church road. Ten feet away, Reverend Dalhousie sat astride a horse with a dour expression, rather like his master.

  “Still miles away, Miss Alexander, in the cosmopolitan world of Upper Canada?” he asked.

  I laughed to hide my fluster. “I’m still recovering from my long days of travel, Reverend. I was practicing a lesson for my pupils. I must go. I am already late.”

  “Will you be attending our little gathering for the Gaskells?”

  “Indeed, I will,” I said, hoping it would be more cheerful than Mrs. Gaskell’s other dismal events over the years.

  “I am pleased with the new hymns you included for the Christmas Eve service, Miss Alexander, considering I gave you such short notice about taking over the church choir. I am looking forward to hearing them and, of course, your school choir as well. I won’t keep you. Mr. Campbell is failing and wishes to say his final farewells to God and his family.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Not again! Mr. Campbell has been dying for forty years.”

  He looked shocked. “Now, Miss Alexander, you mustn’t poke fun. Mr. Campbell is old and convinced of his looming demise. Perhaps this is indeed his final day.”

  I tried to look contrite. “If it is, please say good-bye for me. But do please remind him that our next choir practice is Friday at seven o’clock.”

  He was clearly disconcerted by my flippancy. I flushed, stammered out an apology, and sent my sincerest best wishes to Mr. Campbell.

  Sometimes words fly out of my mouth. It can be strangely satisfying to be slightly reckless, but it is not wise. Women are not allowed to be offhanded or opinionated in our bishop’s community. Perhaps that will change with the Dalhousies. Hope rises, but often its bubble is quickly pierced.

  Reverend Dalhousie lifted one hand, and his horse high-stepped away. I turned to watch him. He sat well, slim and tall, his fair hair covered with a woolen scarf topped by a narrow fur hat, his upper body in a heavy coat with a thick fur collar. But his feet in those knee-length riding boots would grow cold. A few episodes of painful frostbite and he would soon learn to wear the moccasins of our people.

  Robert Dalhousie is like no other man in the parish at present – a prize to be won at all costs by hopeful mamas in the other stone houses. He is English, pleasant-looking, in his late twenties, if somewhat stiff and formal. The mothers of marriageable daughters have issued a long list of dinner invitations well into February.

  Is he a little interested in me, I wondered, in his detached, cautious way? Perhaps I was reading too much into his pleasant manner. Perhaps not.

  Feeling suddenly better, I flicked Tupper’s reins, clicked my tongue, and we were off.

  6

  CASS

  A scratchy throat started on the way to school. By the time math came around, it was really sore, my eyes watery, and my nose full. As I finished a pop quiz and waited for the final bell to ring, I played with the star brooch pinned to my sweater and wondered how bad this cold was going to get. Suddenly a young woman in a long dark dress appeared right beside Mr. Weizer’s desk, looking bewildered. Weizer just sat there, sipping coffee and picking his nose, like he always did during a test.

  The girl had a narrow dusky face, with high cheekbones and dark eyes, her black hair pulled back from her forehead into a braided knot. She wore no jewelry except a small brooch in the middle of her collar, which glinted in the strange light around her. I sat up. The brooch was identical to the one pinned to my sweater!

  I knew, when Weizer kept sipping and picking, that he didn’t see her. A few of the other kids were waiting for him to notice that they were finished their tests, so clearly they didn’t see her either. I lifted one hand to wave at her, but just as she looked my way, she stepped back and … vanished. To keep myself from crying out, I put my head down on my arms. My head whirled. Was I hallucinating? Was I dreaming while awake?

  Someone touched my elbow. “You okay, Cass?” I peered over my arm at Martin Pelly. “You just went the color of Elmer’s glue.”

  “I – uh – I’m gedding a cold, I think,” I said.

  The bell rang. I threw my paper onto Weizer’s desk, lunged for my locker, then ran out into the cold fresh air. My throat was swollen by then. I pulled my woolen hat down over my aching ears. Could a fever make you see things that weren’t there? I wiped away beads of sweat from my upper lip. My stomach tightened. Please don’t let me throw up!

  I ran through huge floating snowflakes toward the school bus. For once, I was glad to be returning to Old Maples. I even waved at Daisy in one of the backseats. For some reason, seeing her made me feel better. She stared at me, mouth open, glasses still frosted from the cold.

  I sat beside a girl I didn’t know, so I wouldn’t have to talk. Kids crowded onto the bus. There’s not supposed to be anyone standing in it, but once the dust settled, Martin Pelly and two other boys were left over.

  Gus Thompson, the bus driver, looked in his mirror, his expression grim. Clearly some kids were taking friends home with them. “Hang on tight, you three,” he shouted. “I’m not takin’ the blame if you go ass over teakettle!” We knew he was a good driver, but he was taking a big chance. He put his foot on the gas, and the yellow box rumbled slowly forward.

  Before I knew it, Martin was staring down at me, one hand holding the rail above, the other gripping the tubing on the back of my seat. “Hey, partner, feeling better?” he asked.

  The girl beside me shifted her attention to listen.

  “Yeah,” I said, but it came out a squeak. My hands were clammy in my mitts.

  “You look like a sick puppy.”

  “Thanks for that,” I said. The girl glanced at me, but I frowned and she turned away.

  “So, Cass, you sure got worked up about group assignments in English class today,” Martin said. “I think partnered assignments are a good idea. I figure it’ll be –”

  “– less work for you?” I croaked. “I’ll be the one who ends up doing it all. I prefer completing assignments by myself – not with someone who serves up chips and dogs every night, ignoring the whole thing.”

  Martin’s parents owned a fast-food restaurant called Pelly’s, just behind the locks that span the river as a bridge. Pelly’s was known for its foot-long dogs and homemade fries. I’d heard Martin worked there on weekends. I glared at him, then sneezed into my sleeve – three times.

  “Triple blessings, my child,” he intoned, and the girl giggled. I ignored them, searching in my pocket for a tissue. “We could get together during winter break and get most of it done.”

  “Whatever,” I said, mopping my nose and wondering if my throat was actually on fire.

  “Don’t worry, Cass. I’ll do my share.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “Yeah, well, if we do end up working together, you’d better.”

  The bus stopped and a bunch of kids got off, freeing up seats. Martin stayed where he was.

  “Or else, huh?” he asked, grinning. “Ooh, scared.”

  The girl was darting interested glances at him now. I decided he was okay-looking – a bit taller than me, with straight black hair, dark eyes, and an angular face. His teeth had a space between the two front ones, and there was a small black mole on his upper lip. He always looked like he was ready to laugh. He was in my homeroom, but we’d never really talked before.

  My throat burned too much to talk anymore, so he chatted to the girl beside me. She told him her name – Tricia – and he told her his. She’d just moved into a new development, not far from where I lived. He
suggested she drop by Pelly’s, and he’d give her a free order of fries. Aah, young love. She left her seat, laughing at one of his lame jokes.

  Afterwards, I could feel him looking down at me as the bus trundled along the road, but I just looked steadily out at the snow. Finally Gus shouted at him to sit down, which he did, right in front of me. I noticed how thick and shiny his hair was.

  Soon the bus swung a hard right, into Pelly’s parking lot. The restaurant stood above the locks, and you could hear the sound of rushing water as the bus rolled up in front. A huge wooden cutout of a pelican, its beak full of giant fries, decorated the front entrance of the long low building, along with cutouts of mustard-smeared hot dogs, hamburgers, and plates of pale onion rings.

  Martin hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. “Okay, tough girl. See ya in class.” He and about ten other kids got off the bus and headed into the restaurant.

  The bus’s brakes let out a hiss and we were off again. There were fewer than a dozen kids left. Daisy scuttled to an empty seat behind me and began to kick the back of mine. “Cassandra’s got a boyfriend. Cassandra’s got a boyfriend,” she sang.

  A group of girls across the aisle giggled and whispered, eyes glinting knowingly at me.

  “Who’d wanna hook up with her?” one said. “She never talks to anyone, and I heard …”

  I tuned her out and gave Daisy my most evil I’ll-take-you- down look. She stopped singing, but kept up the boot work. My head was pounding along with it. I stared down the aisle and out the front window of the bus, anxious to get home and crash on my bed. Suddenly a horse and sleigh appeared on the road, just around the curve before the old stone church.

  As it approached, Gus Thompson kept up the same speed. He was a good driver, but what if he spooked the horse? I lunged sideways to look out my window. The sleigh’s single passenger looked up at me, and everything went into slow motion. It was the strange girl from math class, covered in furs. Snow blew everywhere. I held up a mittened hand. I saw her eyes widen, and then she was gone. I ran to the back of the bus, frantic to see if she was okay. But there was no sign of her or the horse and sleigh.