Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  Like so many other functions in the valley, cutting ice was a community affair. Even for Celine, who had been gone for so many years, the coolness of the room sparked vivid images of horse-drawn carioles parked haphazardly along the banks, yapping sled dogs with their tiny, tinkling bells, and snowballs spinning through the air from the hands of laughing children.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the cellar, she became aware of the heavy iron meat hooks fastened overhead, the wooden shelves along the walls grown soft with decay. There was a butter crock on the middle shelf against the rear wall. She set the bucket of milk beside it, then lifted the wooden lid from the crock to peer inside.

  Although Celine loved butter, the nuns at St. Albans had deemed it a luxury too valuable to waste on the orphans in their charge. The children had churned it by the barrel, then stood by silently while it was loaded onto barges to be sold elsewhere. But Celine had her memories, a childhood before the convent when her mother had smeared butter onto thick slices of bread fresh from the fire. She would watch it melt into the brown bread, turning it a perfect shade of gold.

  Impulsively she dipped a finger into the crock, then brought it to her lips, closing her eyes as the butter melted on her tongue. Such a simple act to resurrect the memories it did: her mother, small and slim like herself, but beautiful, untainted by sin. And Big John—she had called him Papa then—and Angus Gilray and Isabella. There was herself, too, and Gabriel, doe-eyed and somber even as a child, and fussy Alec, swaddled in moss-lined diapers. Summer days playing on the prairie and winter nights with Angus on the bagpipes—that great, puffing monster of cloth and horns that made such a terrifying racket as the plaid bag filled, then spilled music as sweet as Highland wine. Her mother had played the flute, she recalled, and the nights had been filled with music and laughter…

  The glacière door slammed shut with a bang that didn’t quite muffle a chorus of boyish giggles from overhead. But the laughter meant nothing to Celine, the crash of the icehouse door only dimly heard above a hundred other crashes echoing in her mind, a hundred other darknesses closing in on her.

  Her scream cleaved the gelid blackness, spewing butter over her chin and the backs of her hands. She spun to race blindly across the room, stumbling on the bottom step and falling hard, then crawling frantically upward on hands and knees, heedless of the mud and dirt or the suddenly frightened exclamations of the children outside. Terror clawed at her, squeezing her throat and tunneling her vision. Somewhere deep within, where the light that was the real world still flickered dimly, she knew that, if the door to the outside world was latched, she would die. Like a wild bird clutched in an over-eager hand, her heart would simply give out. She climbed with a distinct sense of her own mortality, wondering if she would even have the courage to try the door when she reached it.

  Big John had constructed his glacière well, with three overlapping layers of oak planks for doors to prevent even the narrowest prick of sunlight from entering. In such complete darkness, Celine couldn’t see anything. In her panic, it never occurred to her to put an arm out, to feel her way cautiously forward. Instead, she rapped her head solidly against the underside of the door and fell back, half stunned. The pain helped, though. It subdued the worst of her panic. Raising a hand, she let her fingers explore the rough, splintery wood until she found the centerline. Hitching herself closer, she put her shoulder to the door, got her feet under her, and slowly straightened. The door swung up and back without resistance, tottered in balance for a moment, then fell open with a sound like a clap of thunder.

  Celine collapsed across the frame, burying her face in the dry grass. She kept her eyes squeezed shut as if the light she had so desperately sought just seconds before was now too brilliant to behold. She could hear the sounds from the village, the lowing of cattle and oxen in the fields. She could hear the beating of her heart, too, slowing, returning to normal, and after a while she lifted her face, blinking against the tears.

  There was no one in sight. Not even the children who had slammed the door closed on her.

  She rose shakily and made a half-hearted attempt to brush herself off. From the village, the excited babble of the half-breeds changed suddenly, then grew abnormally silent, and she knew the priest had arrived. He would probably come to the cabin as soon as possible, and she panicked a little to think of him finding her this way. Beauty, Celine knew, was only a thin façade, but ugliness went all the way through. It was her ugliness she wanted to hide. Weeping softly, she hurried toward the river to wash herself.

  * * * * *

  Dismounting in front of the open-faced shed, Big John called for Alec, galloping past behind Gabriel. The youth slid his lathered pony to a stop, then spun it away from the Métis camp where he had been headed. The pained expression on his face clearly announced his displeasure. Big John ignored the look as he handed Alec the reins to his stallion.

  “Take care of my horse, lad, and put ye own pony up, too. The pinto’ll be needin’ all the strength he has when we get among the buffalo.”

  “He is a strong runner,” Alec declared proudly. “He will not be slow when there are buffalo to chase.”

  “I believe ye, but put him up anyway, then go on up to the cabin and find yeself a clean shirt. We’ll be eatin’ with the priest tonight, so scrub ye face and hands while ye’re at it.”

  “I will eat with Isidore Turcotte tonight,” Alec said. “That way there will be more for the priest.”

  Big John grinned. “No, lad, I fear not, although I wouldn’t mind doing so meself. But ’tis ye mother I’m thinkin’ of. She sets a store and then some by the Black Robes, and we’ll respect that.”

  Alec shrugged indifferently, then his expression brightened as he accepted the roan’s reins. Seeing the sudden gleam in the boy’s eyes, Big John’s voice hardened. “Ye’ll no be ridin’ him, lad. I’ll not have a heavy hand on my runner. Ye know that.”

  Alec’s smile was cocky, challenging. “I can handle him, Big John. Do you think I can’t? I will show you.” He made a half-hearted attempt to bring the stallion alongside the pinto. He knew Big John would never permit him to mount the runner, yet he was bound by stubbornness to try.

  “Put him up, Alec,” Big John said firmly. “Ye own pony, too. Then get on up to the house and get yeself ready.”

  Starting for the cabin, Big John spotted Celine making her way toward the river. He almost called her back, then closed his mouth. He’d bungled her return badly, he knew, although he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Was it that she reminded him so much of her mother? Or did he still somehow hold her responsible for Angelique’s death?

  “Aye, ye be a stiff-backed old fool,” he said to himself. “And ye’d best be straightenin’ things out between ye and the lass, afore ’tis too late.”

  “McTavish!”

  He turned back to the cabin. Isabella stood in the door, a rare look of impatience pinching her heavy brows. She was wearing her good dress, he noted, and had anointed her hair with just enough grease to make it shine, then painted the part on top with vermillion. The lobes of her ears were stretched from the weight of too many earrings, and her wrists were sheathed in bracelets of spun copper and brass, her fingers adorned with cheap, glass-studded rings. It made him smile to see her all decked out, and glad that he’d insisted Alec be there for the meal tonight.

  Isabella was pointing to the Métis village, where a large crowd was winding its way through the camp. The priest rode in front astride a big chestnut stallion, his long black cassock flowing into the mob around him, a broad-brimmed, low-crowned black hat shading his face.

  The Church had sent Father Mark Denning this year. Big John grunted his approval. His gaze returned to the river, but Celine had already disappeared into the thick brush along its banks. He debated going after her, but knew there wouldn’t be time. The Métis would detain the priest for a while with their greetings and questions and invitations, but Denning would be tired. He would head for the cabin
as soon as he could break away, and Big John needed to be there when he arrived. Protocol demanded that much, although he would have done it anyway for Isabella.

  He considered her a sensible woman in most respects, illogical only when it came to her religion. The priest was a holy man in her belief, and, as such, he deserved privileged treatment. Yet for all of Denning’s religious trappings, it was Isabella’s stubborn devotion to the Catholic faith that impressed Big John most. It reminded him humbly of how much she did without, the sacrifices the valley imposed upon her and all of its women. To his way of thinking, it was she who deserved special treatment, so he never balked when she made these requests for the Black Robes, no matter how much he might disagree in his heart.

  “McTavish!” Isabella called sharply.

  He glanced at the village. Denning must have been tired, for he was making swifter progress than usual. With a wry shake of his head, Big John headed for the cabin.

  “You must hurry,” Isabella said as he entered. “Soon he will be here.”

  “’Tis only Denning,” Big John answered casually, hiding his smile.

  “Father Denning is enough.” She hustled him toward a rear corner of the room, where she had curtained off his bed with Hudson’s Bay trade blankets. There was a basin of water on a small table next to the headboard, a chunk of yellow soap beside it, coarsely-woven towels under the soap. She had laid out his white linen shirt—the one with the ruffled bodice—and the black silk string tie, then placed his good plaid kilt and white socks beside it. On the floor next to the bed were a pair of stiff brogans, their nap freshly brushed. He groaned at the sight of them.

  “Not the shoes, woman. They’ll cripple me, sure, to wear the likes of them at my age.”

  “The moccasins then,” she snapped, quickly pulling a small cassette from beneath the bed and flipping open the lid. From the top tray she brought out a pair of moose-hide moccasins, smoked to a golden brown, decorated with quills and dyed hair. “These are good,” she announced, nodding with satisfaction as she studied her handiwork.

  “Aye, as fine a pair as any ye’ve ever made. They’ll do nicely.”

  “You dress now, McTavish. Hurry.” She stepped back and dropped the curtain. He heard her go to the fireplace to fuss with the stew. Then she went outside, leaving the door ajar, the breeze free to wander in.

  Big John breathed a curse as the cool draft slipped under the blankets to bump up against the bare flesh of his calves. He knew it was no accident that she’d left the door open.

  He washed quickly, then pulled on the ruffled shirt, knotted the tie awkwardly around his neck, and slipped on the knee-length kilt of heavy tartan, belting it snugly with the buckle at his back. From a rosewood and silver sheath looped to the belt he withdrew a slim, ivory-handled dirk. The blade was long and narrow and razor-sharp, with runnels along each side to vent blood. The handle was delicately carved with European hunting scenes—stags and hounds and faceless hunters carrying short-barreled Jaeger rifles.

  It was an old knife, the knife his grandfather’s father had carried at Culloden. Big John wore it only on special occasions. At one time, he’d envisioned passing it on to Gabriel, but it occurred to him now that such a gesture would be selfish and unfair. By rights the dirk and its heritage belonged to Celine, to be passed on to her eldest son when the time came.

  Isabella returned suddenly, her voice urgent. “McTavish, hurry! He comes now!”

  Big John sheathed the dirk and bent to pull on his knee-length socks, then the fancy moccasins. Isabella yanked the blankets down and shoved them, wadded, under the bed. She dumped the pan of soapy water out the back window, then leaned the pan against the wall to drain. Big John ran a comb through his long hair, then tucked the Glengarry cap through his belt. He could hear the crowd gathering out front, and Baptiste LaBarge shouting: “McTavish! Big John! Open your door to a man of God!”

  Big John looked at Isabella, then impulsively made a face, bugging his eyes and sticking out his tongue, twisting his head around and up as far as it would go while his hand, clawed like a bird’s yellow foot, reached slowly for the latch. Before it could land, Isabella shot forward, her eyes wide with fear. “No, McTavish,” she pleaded. “You must not!”

  Smiling kindly, he curled the side of his forefinger under her chin. “Now would I be doin’ the likes of that to one such as yeself, woman?” he queried softly. He winked at her, then, mustering a dignified expression, he lifted the latch and pulled the door open.

  A cheer greeted him. Then the crowd parted dutifully, creating an avenue between him and the priest, who sat his horse in the middle of the yard.

  “Greetings, Father!” Big John called, smiling graciously. “And welcome to me home.”

  “Thank you, John. I accept your invitation.” Dismounting, Denning held his reins out like a man who knew there would be someone there to take them. He came forward with his own large smile in place, cassock rustling. Denning’s apple-like cheeks glowed red from the wind, and his eyes twinkled with good humor as they shook hands. “It’s always a pleasure, John. I look forward to your hospitality every year.”

  “Come in out of the sun, Father. Isabella has tea and galettes waitin’, and there’s a stew of moose for later that’ll make ye mouth water.” Looking past the priest, he added deliberately: “And ye, René Turcotte. Would ye join us, man?”

  Denning cocked an eyebrow quizzically, but Big John, facing the crowd, kept his expression carefully neutral. Turcotte also looked startled, but his wife, standing behind him, put a hand on his arm with obvious pride. Then someone gave him a shove, and Turcotte nodded solemnly and followed the priest into the cabin.

  Big John went in last, closing the door firmly in the face of the watching crowd. He knew the half-bloods would drift back to their lodges soon enough, although a few might linger. The Catholics among them would expect a Mass, but that would come later, after Denning had eaten and rested and heard confessions. The blessing of the caravan would probably take place tomorrow. It had become something of a tradition for the priest to deliver the blessing on the day the caravan left, and they were all anxious to be on their way.

  Father Denning went immediately to a rear corner of the cabin to hear Isabella’s confession. It was one of the first things she insisted on any more, after having missed having it heard several years before because she’d been busy fixing the priest’s breakfast.

  After listening to the murmur of their conversation for some minutes, Big John turned irritably away. Turcotte stood just inside the door, his knitted red wool tuque pulled from his head to be twisted tightly in both hands. Feeling suddenly chagrined, Big John growled: “Come on, man. Ye’re actin’ like a stranger in me home.”

  “Non, Big John, it is not that.” He threw the priest a surreptitious glance, then leaned close. “Should we speak while the Father hears confession?”

  “Aye, and why not?” Big John grinned wickedly. “We’ll talk and drink till the good Father can join us, eh? Come, have a snort of rum with an old Scotsman. Jamaican, it is, and near smooth as silk on ye tongue.”

  Turcotte glanced hesitantly at the priest, but then nodded his assent. Big John knew he would. High wine was the common man’s drink along the Red River, and good rum was as rare as a white buffalo.

  “Perhaps a small cup,” Turcotte agreed. “If you have enough.”

  “A drop’s enough to share with a friend,” Big John assured him, then chuckled. “Fortunately, ’tis more than a drop I have left in me bottle.”

  Turcotte grinned. “Then bring it out, Big John.”

  Motioning toward a bench at the table, Big John said: “Seat yeself, René.”

  The bottle—dark green and slope-shouldered, wrapped tightly in osier—sat on a shelf amid paper-wrapped bricks of tea and sugar cones. Big John grabbed it and a couple of tin cups from pegs beneath the shelf, then, straddling the bench across from Turcotte, he splashed a hefty portion into each cup. Recorking the bottle and lifting his cup, he
said: “To the hunt.”

  “Yes, the hunt.” Turcotte raised his cup in a salute, then quickly drained it.

  “Ah,” Big John breathed, smacking his lips. “Ye can have ye French wines and Virginia bourbons, René. The best of ’em will never compare to a drink from the isle of Jamaica.” Then his expression saddened, and he gave the bottle a shake that produced only a gentle lapping halfway down. “Enjoy what’s left, old friend, for ’tis high wine and trade whiskey after today, and naught to do about it until the next Hudson’s Bay shipment comes to the valley.”

  Turcotte eyed the bottle worriedly. “There is more yet, though, is there not?”

  “Aye, a wee bit.”

  René heaved a sigh of relief. “You were always the best host in the valley, Big John. A man is lucky to be a guest in your home.”

  In the far corner, Denning made a quick sign of the cross, then got to his feet. Coming to the table, the mask of solemnity he had worn during Isabella’s confession fell away like flakes of paint. “Is that rum you’re serving, John?” he asked.

  “Aye, that it is. Isabella, be a lass and fetch the good Father a cup.” He refilled his own and Turcotte’s while Isabella brought out a shiny new one for the priest. “What’s the news from Pembina?” he asked, pouring a healthy shot into Denning’s cup. “Have they left for the buffalo ranges yet?”

  “This morning, with Paget as captain,” Denning replied. “I’m surprised you didn’t see their dust, although it wasn’t as pronounced as I’ve seen it other years.”

  “The snow,” Turcotte said stiffly. “It settles the dust.” He looked ill at ease again, in Denning’s presence.

  “Yes, of course,” the priest replied, as if he’d already forgotten the storm that had blown through a couple of weeks before. “And now we enjoy the Little Summer of Saint Luke, eh, René?”

  “Let’s be hopin’ ’tis a long one this year,” Big John said. “I don’t fancy sleepin’ on damp ground any more, nor campin’ without wood for a fire, and chips too sodden to catch.”