The Survivor

by Paul Almond

  “Well, I’ll allow as how ye did work hard, and you did save Ben’s life. And you’re an honourable man. And you served His Majesty well in the Royal Navy. Mr. Garrett’s been telling me, and not only me but the whole village of New Carlisle, how his new son-in-law fought through the great naval battles on behalf of His Majesty. So maybe... maybe I’ll give you all that we agreed on. Providing you honour your word to me that you’ll not work at another mill. And that I can count on ye, if times get a bit hard up my way.”

  “I’ll certainly do that, Mr. Hall,” James said. “I certainly will.” And he reached out his hand and the old fellow shook it.

  ***

  Husband and wife should not keep anything from each other, James felt, and regretted keeping his former life a secret. But how should he bring it up? They had only been back on his land a short time. Already he had taught her where wild asparagus grew, and where to find fiddleheads and other edible wild plants. In spring, he would show her how to make maple syrup. Catherine had been impressed with his knowledge gained from the Micmac, and had not questioned him on that aspect. But was it bothering her? Something was definitely on her mind, he could see that. And he wondered how soon he should try and clear it all up.

  With the leaves long fallen from the trees, James worked hard at clearing his land by the cliffs. He had just finished felling another tree when he saw Catherine’s supple figure climbing up the trail from the Hollow. He straightened. “Welcome sight!”

  Catherine handed him a container of water. “I’ve already caught trout for our lunch, and found some roots for dinner. I also managed a new batch of loaves. So I thought I would come up to help you out.”

  “Gratefully received!” He drank thirstily from the container, which he had devised a while back, double-stitching the canvas seams of a piece of old sail, to make it waterproof.

  Catherine set to work. “Welcome change from the cabin, being up here in the sun.”

  The blue sky above them, flecked only by whorls of cirrus, gave a warm autumn sun full access. No hint of a storm. They worked hard and silently, James felling another tree, and Catherine hauling the brush to a pile at one side.

  “I brought up more beach stones for the foundations. See?”

  “Hard work,” Catherine commented.

  “Gotta be done.”

  “Well, you know what we’ve discussed.”

  “An ox, I know, but how will we get one? No barn to keep it, no money to buy it, and anyway, who’s got a spare calf to sell these days?” It did look impossible. And without an ox, all hope of making a farm was lost. He added brightly, “Well, it may all happen in good time.”

  “I’m sure. But you know,” she stooped, picked up some branches, “chickens don’t need much feed. And ducks. We could have fresh eggs. Then kill the chickens during the winter.”

  “Yes yes, good thought. Next trip to New Carlisle.” That night, at supper, James still avoided what was really on his mind, his child and his past. And before they had burned too much of their candle, they got into bed, worn out. But still entranced with the novelty of each other’s bodies, they mostly made love. Afterwards, a deep sleep. Such a good life, he reflected. But unless he faced up to his secret past, this would not, could not, last.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “That brush pile we’ve been making, we’ll burn it after there’s snow on the ground,” said James a few evenings later. “Maybe Christmas time. Make a nice bonfire in celebration.”

  Catherine paused as she was laying out their supper in the semi-dark of the cabin, the trees masking the dying light of the sun.

  He caught her look. “Something on your mind, Catherine?”

  “I have been giving this winter some serious thought, my dear.” She reached out and touched his arm. “You seem to know so much about how to survive, I see that. Getting it all from those Micmac. But —”

  So that was it, he thought. The Micmac. Had the time finally come? “Can you see all right?”

  “Not really. But we don’t have a lot of whale oil... Are you changing the subject?”

  “Not at all.” James went to the shelf, took down the lamp and placed it by them. Had he better start in? “Well, I do have some things I could go over...”

  “Good.” Although she had tried to make that sound casual, James knew a lot would hang on his reply.

  He plucked a brand from the fire with tongs. “Well, I did live in the woods all one winter with a Micmac family.” He held the brand to the wick, and watched until, after a few moments, it caught fire. “That’s how I learned to snare small animals, how to trap, even how to shoot with a bow and arrow —”

  “You told me all that, James. But you didn’t tell me you lived with a family.” He saw her studying his face. “How about those trout?” he sat back, prevaricating. Made motionless by his story, she recovered and began to dish up their meal. “Of course, sorry.”

  “It was the only way to survive. They were a wonderful family, in fact: the mother I called Full Moon, and her brother, One Arm.”

  “No husband?” Beside his four fried trout, she added a slab of cornmeal bread.

  “Big Birch? Oh, he had died in a fishing accident. That’s the reason I was there, because the brother, you see, had a withered arm, and couldn’t really shoot with a bow and arrow. So the Chief asked me to go with them.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Well, enjoy isn’t really the word.” James put the lamp on the rough table between them and sat to eat. “I learned a tremendous amount —”

  “And so you and Full Moon... Her with no husband and you single...”

  “No no, Catherine she had grown-up children. Don’t jump to conclusions. Look, I did learn a lot from them all.”

  “All?”

  “Oh yes, well there were Full Moon’s two children.” He paused, then eating slowly, went on. “They saved my life, in fact.” James noticed her quickening interest but went on, “In fact, I was coming back from a trapline in early spring, and I went to cross a stream on an icy log, and slipped and fell in. It was hellish cold, I can tell you. I got soaked. Anyway, I just got out and kept walking. But soon I became so tired, probably chilled and frozen and not having eaten much, out on that trapline...” He paused again.

  Catherine’s eyes softened as she became caught up in the story.

  “I wanted so much to lie down and just take a nap.” He paused with a mouthful of trout. “Catherine if you ever get tired, you’re freezing and it’s midwinter, never, never give in to that fatigue. It really takes hold! You have to keep going.” Getting involved in his story, and his food, he did not notice Catherine hanging on to every word.

  “I would not be here if they hadn’t found me — in fact, they got me back to their winter wigwam, covered me in blankets, and then Full Moon got in next to me on one side, and Little Birch on the other — naked, both of them, I found out later.”

  He glanced up to see Catherine trying to suppress her shock.

  “Nothing untoward, of course,” he went on hastily, “but their bodies warmed me. You have to understand, Catherine, that the only way to warm someone as cold as I was is exactly like that. It’s well known by Eskimos, and the Micmac had gotten hold of it. Saved my life, really. Definitely. Saved my life. I shall be forever grateful to them.”

  “And who is Little Birch, my love?”

  “Little Birch?” James looked up. It had come out so naturally. But now, the awful moment was at hand. He chewed on another mouthful of trout.

  “Yes, who is she? It is a simple enough question.” James stared into space. Well, he decided, speak up! “An Indian. She died.” He stared into the glowing embers of the fire, overcome.

  Had he looked sideways, he would have seen realization growing on the face of Catherine. “Go on, James, tell me.”

  He struggled with his emotions. “Well, Catherine, after the Chief had asked me to winter with them — you remember, I managed to get him to our ship’s surgeon when he needed
that operation. So they claim I saved his life.” You’re digressing, he told himself. “But that was afterwards.”

  “After what, James?” Catherine asked gently.

  “After... after the winter.”

  “The winter? And presumably the spring? And presumably the summer...”

  “Yes,” James replied in a kind of trance, “after the summer.” Then he cleared his throat and sat up straight, and turned to look at her.

  She dropped her eyes, put her hands to her face. “All right, tell me everything, James. I’m ready.”

  He paused. “I was going to tell you sooner or later. It has nothing to do with us, Catherine. It all happened well before we got together. I suppose, after spending the winter with her, with Little Birch, with her family, in close proximity — there’s nothing closer and more confining than a winter wigwam — I came to know her really well. She was such a fine person. I taught her to speak English, and she taught me to speak Micmac.”

  “I wondered how you spoke so well, James. I knew you would tell me.” She dropped her hands, her shoulders slumped, her eyes bored into the embers of the fire. “Please go on.”

  “Well, what happened was...” He paused. Catherine stiffened, he saw. The longer he took, the worse it would be. Blurt it out! “Well, we got married in a kind of Micmac ceremony in the spring, and then we spent some time together.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? Oh... Well, actually, there in the community, and... Well, here at this cabin and... But as I said, she died. I was devastated, dear Catherine, I do confess to that.”

  “I would hope so...”

  Reassured, James allowed himself to go on. “I think I have never felt so badly, Catherine. I was in complete despair, I didn’t eat and saw no one. And then their medicine man — they call him a Buowin— he came to my wigwam. He helped me come alive again. So then I came back here this spring, alone. All by myself. I worked hard. I planted corn. I tried sowing wheat. For over a month. But I just could not bear the loneliness, the unhappiness, even though I worked very hard to put this whole past out of my mind. It was only then I allowed myself to come to New Carlisle and find you. And that, I suppose, is why I did not come the previous summer.”

  “Because you were with her.” James nodded.

  “You were with her. All that summer. While I was waiting for you...”

  James nodded again, in despair.

  All at once, Catherine allowed herself to give vent to suppressed emotions. “You devil! You devil!” She turned on James and began beating him with her fists.

  He put his hands up to protect himself but she went on beating him, over and over again, until he let himself fall backwards on the ground. She jumped to her feet and started kicking him. Then she threw the chair at him as he lay there, huddled. “I hate you, I hate you!” she cried. “You’re terrible! You’re awful. You’re disgusting! You’re a traitor. You’re a worm. You’re just —” She fell onto him and started to beat him again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” she cried over and over again.

  At last James grabbed her arms and held them. “Go on, Catherine, everything you say I deserve. But just —” She struggled to elude his grasp.

  Tears welled into his eyes. “Just... try to find somewhere in your heart to forgive me.”

  Catherine, held in his tight grip, finally relaxed and let her body fall onto his. Her moans came loud, heart-rending, surrounding James with such feelings of despair. But he did not for a moment release his grip. As she quietened, he kept his arm around her. With her free arm she made a half-hearted attempt to strike him again, but gave up.

  “I’m so glad it’s out,” he said. “It’s all over now...”

  “Not quite.”

  Oh-oh. So that was it. Would she be taking off for New Carlisle? Leaving him? Couldn’t he have kept quiet a while longer? At least, until they knew each other better. Until she trusted him more. No, he had been forced into it, really. “Why not?”

  “I have something I’ve been meaning to say.”

  His blood curdled. Yes, this confession must have been the last straw. She was going to say she had to end it all. He knew it. His dreams folded into blackness. No more being a married settler, no more hope. “I know, I know Catherine, it’s too hard here.”

  “No, not too hard. But —”

  “And I know I should never have asked you. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve anything.” Odd, after all they had been through, to have it all end so quickly. “You’re going home.”

  “No, but...”

  “But what?”

  “James,” she rolled over and looked at him. “You’ve seen I’ve not been well the past few days. I didn’t want to tell you. I thought it would pass.” James was silent. What was coming?

  “I think now, it was the sickness of a baby in the making.”

  His heart leapt and blood flooded his cheeks. What news!

  “I did so want to tell you properly,” Catherine said. “I’m sorry it had to be like this.”

  “Don’t for one second be sorry, Catherine, I am absolutely thrilled. Just thrilled.” He sat up and took up her hand and kissed it over and over. “It is so very, very exciting.”

  “Is it, James? Are you really happy?”

  “How can you ask that?”

  She dropped her eyes. “Should we not have waited, perhaps? Waited until at least one winter went by.”

  “Of course not, Catherine. The sooner, the better.” He leaned back. “We must not procrastinate any longer. New Carlisle is the only place to have the baby — midwives, your mother, neighbours. Yes, we must go there...”

  A beatific smile graced her features. “Thank you, James, thank you. I knew you would understand. New Carlisle for the winter.” She paused, smiling again. “I’m feeling better already.”

  Chapter Eighteen: 1813–14

  Heavy cloud cover muffled the scene as James paddled his canoe over the opaque, solid-seeming water toward New Carlisle. The two figures in the canoe appeared in silhouette — Catherine, motionless, in the bow shrouded in her dark cloak, and James behind, in his heavy Micmac coat, thrusting the canoe forward with steady strokes.

  “You all right, Catherine?” he asked.

  “Very all right, thank you, James.” Catherine glanced back at her husband, and then returned to her stillness, lost in thought, as was James.

  Between them, the loaded canoe hung deeply in the water. They had decided on leaving this day because the harsh winter was approaching. Snow had begun to fall on and off during the past week, and Catherine had lent James a hand preparing to leave. Several trips to the canoe had James stowing their belongings under part of a canvas sail bartered in New Carlisle. His tools had been carefully stashed in his hidden compartment by the brook.

  “I’ve been thinking all about what you told me,” Catherine said. James caused hardly a ripple in the iceflat surface, so expert had he become in manoeuvring the finely fashioned craft. “I can see how you were close to this woman for the long winter. You only did what was natural. And you weren’t aware of how much I longed to see you again. Who could blame you?” She turned to look back at him. “James, you are my husband, and we shall put all this Micmac past behind us. We shall work to make it disappear. I accept being your second wife — but no one else shall know.”

  James took this in with welling happiness. “It will remain unspoken, my love. Does this mean you might see my Micmac friends in a new light?”

  “That may take a deal of time, James...” At peace once more, James found his mind wandering. His thoughts became entwined with the Flight into Egypt: his wife in her shawl, a baby on the way, motionless, fleeing a future of deprivation, and he, a modern Joseph, propelling them toward a safe haven, two lonely silhouettes in the dusk. Did it not resemble that biblical scene told in the stone chapel of Raby Castle? Flight into safety, purposeful, silent, gliding smoothly into a new unknown. Were they not, here in the New World, poised on that very same edge betwe
en life and death? Yes, he must continue his practice of regular prayer and thanksgiving even more rigorously?

  Night was falling and he welcomed the early darkness. He lifted his face to the sky to let the lazy flakes fall upon his cheeks and his outstretched tongue, tasting the winter’s nectar. Manna from above, from Him who bestowed all good things. James breathed his thanks. And with his mind drifting, he was given another vision as he stroked surely forward.

  Monstrous shapes began to materialize in the falling dark, could they be ships? No sails, steel-crafted, odd chugging like the pulleys and belts that shook the mill, as though some yet-to-be invented motor were propelling them. As these ghostly emanations passed, he fancied he saw sailors high on the decks, waving down at their canoe.

  And more yet, as another twilit image began to form: his own house, fully built, solid, with a wide veranda along the front, and who is that emerging — an old man, with a walrus moustache. And there, a white-haired lady, rocking and knitting. Catherine? Yes, perhaps, in her later years. He was coming to sit beside her on a straightbacked chair, looking out over his garden. Would that might come to pass, he thought! How nourishing.

  Catherine broke into his reverie. “James do you know where we’re going?”

  “Of course, my love. Can’t you hear waves lapping on the shore?” He held his paddle up, poised in mid-stroke as she cocked her head to one side, and shook her head. Perhaps his months with the Micmac gave him heightened hearing. And even seeing into the future, as he had just glimpsed. The Buowinhad told him, he remembered now, that everyone had this gift. One only needed to prepare, and then, more important, to listen and watch.

  “Your family will be shocked at our arrival,” he murmured.

  “They may well have been expecting us.” She gave a light laugh that forbade rejoinder.

  Before too long, James made out the lantern on a pole marking the New Carlisle floating jetty. He brought the canoe in and, leaving their supplies for the moment, they made their way up the slope through the lightly falling snow toward the village. When they reached the shelter of Garretts’ darkened veranda, Catherine tried the door. “Locked,” she whispered. “But I have a way.” She pulled at a tab of string high up and the bar lifted. “I’d rather not wake them at this late hour. Then we’ll never get to sleep.”