“Did she?” Hetty wished all over again there were someone who could advise her about Josie. Hetty had always gotten the impression that Dax’s mother would have been such a person, were she still living. “Did she ever speak of a cure?”
“No,” said Dax, “but she was forever bathing me in hot salt water. And bay leaves, when she had them. Father used to say she was making soup of me.”
“Weren’t you healthy?” Hetty had never heard of Dax being ill as a child.
“Strong as a little ox,” he said.
“Well, it can’t hurt to try it,” said Hetty, already calculating how much salt they had in the pantry and where she could buy bay leaves.
Dax wrapped an arm around her middle. “I have faith,” he said.
“In salt baths?”
“In you.”
* * *
Once Margaret asked Hetty, “Where is the most beautiful place you’ve ever been?”
Hetty thought back to the beaches of her childhood. How she and her mother sometimes went at dawn to watch the last of the stars fade and the sun fill the world with fire. She thought of the orchards in the springtime, where she and Dax rode out just to look at the blossoms. The trees, bedecked like magnificent brides, full of bees buzzing like tiny grooms. These were among her most beautiful memories, to be sure, but perhaps not the most beautiful of all. Hetty told Margaret about the wagon road she remembered walking with Tata. The tall grass, green and gold, waving in the wind, the many colors of the flowers, and the way the clouds sailed above in the bright blue sky like great white boats.
“What about you?” she asked. “What is your most beautiful place?”
“There was one my Ma used to take us to,” Margaret said, rubbing her hand over the apron that strained over her great belly. She described an ancient footpath that led into the hills, the craggy rocks that reared up from sloping meadows, and a small, unlikely pool carved into the stone by a spring. There were markings here and there worked into the stone surrounding the pool. Her mother said it was writing made by their people from ages ago. She called the spot a thin place. A type of place where the distance between people and the spirits was so thin that the two could touch.
Margaret never forgot the green of that grass. The sunshine on her mother’s hair. Holding the hands of her two brothers and her sister while her Ma told them fairy stories and taught them her special songs. Margaret used to close her eyes to feel just how near to the spirits she might get.
* * *
When Margaret’s time came she was tended to first by the midwife and then by Hetty and her daughters. Hetty directed them all in her quiet way, sending her older daughters in rotating shifts to help in the home and in the Minkins’ restaurant. Phoebe, Olivie and Abigail all had young ones and they imparted their care and advice to Margaret like sisters. Mr. Minkins joked that he was going to have to buy a ticket to see his own wife and son, so often was he shooed away during that first week. Dax consoled him, putting an arm around his shoulder and inviting him to come see the fine saddle he was making for the minister of their church. Peace in the home was made, Dax told him, if the men knew when to keep out of the way.
On the second day after the birth, after Hetty brought a bowl of warm oatmeal porridge in to Margaret, who was resting with the baby, Margaret broke down.
“You are the finest people I’ve ever known,” she sobbed. “I can’t tell you what all this means to me.” Hetty put down the bundle of washing she had gathered and sat on the edge of the bed.
“We help each other,” Hetty said. “We’re intended to.”
“You have been so kind to me, Hetty, I do thank you.” Margaret swabbed at her nose with the corner of the baby’s blanket.
“It’s not needed,” said Hetty. She wondered for the sixth or seventh time at how different a sort of white woman was Margaret Minkins. Margaret hadn’t been taught from birth, as had Thérèse and Nicola Belcourt, that people of darker color existed solely for her service. There were no darker people where Margaret was from. A person’s worth was determined by what he owned, and since Margaret had owned nothing when she fled the famine in Ireland, she’d had to decide for herself that her life was worth saving.
As it was, Hetty and Margaret occupied the same station, and if any difference existed it was Hetty who ranked higher, as she was older and respected, and much more established in their community. How things sometimes turned upside down, Hetty thought, as if one could turn over a chair or table and find it just as useful.
* * *
The Minkinses’ scrawny little newborn fattened and grew into a fine baby boy with dark curls and long lashes. Josie was very fond of him and carried him around on her small hip, delighting in every new thing he learned. On one of the Tuesday nights at the Minkins’ restaurant, Margaret watched as Joah struggled to crawl over Josie’s outstretched legs.
“Do you think he’s simple?” Margaret said to no one in particular.
Hetty laughed. Wasn’t it their lot to fret over their children? Thankfully, things usually turned out alright.
On one of these nights Margaret asked Hetty, in a low voice, how Josephine was doing lately. She had seen herself how Josie sometimes worried her hands together and grew sad for no apparent reason. Joah was asleep in his wicker bassinet and Josie was just then absorbed in a book.
Of all the considerable knowledge Hetty had accumulated, from experience and reading, and from a lifetime of listening to others, none of it was applicable here. The moods and such that sometimes overcame Josie might be called spells, might even be called possessions, but what to do about them? She certainly had no wish to seek out doctors with their bitter powders and violent bloodlettings, nor priests who claimed to perform exorcisms with beatings and holy water.
“She reminds me of a fairy,” Margaret said, “or like someone caught between the worlds, like the stories my Ma used to tell.”
“How was that?” asked Hetty.
“There are all manner of those old tales,” Margaret said. “A girl falls in love with a fairy boy, or the other way round, babies snatched away. Someone’s always getting stuck in a world they don’t belong to.”
“What then?” said Hetty, “What happens in the end?”
“Sometimes magic sets them free, sometimes it’s a sad end,” Margaret said.“ More often than not, though it falls upon them to make a choice. Hetty looked over at Josie, still quietly reading, chewing on the end of one of her plaits, just as usual as could be. Phoebe, Hetty’s oldest, often tried to reassure her that all the children had outgrown troublesome phases. Didn’t she remember when Abigail insisted on eating pieces of chalk? The year that Olivie scratched her legs so much she sometimes drew blood, even though there was never any sign of a rash or an insect bite?
“Perhaps I shouldn’t worry so,” Hetty would say, and Phoebe would smile and kiss her cheek, saying that now Maman was being more sensible.
* * *
On a Saturday in midsummer Mr. Minkins asked Dax to come with him to see about a horse he was thinking of buying, and Dax wanted to bring along Guillaume. Few people could appraise a horse better than Dax and he was determined to teach his son what he knew. Every man should know about horses, Dax always said, but that went double for saddlers. So while the men went off in the buggy, Hetty and Margaret took Josie and baby Joah to pick blackberries by the river.
A fresh breeze swept in from over the St. Lawrence, where boats made their lazy way over the water. Neither Hetty nor Margaret said much as they made their way through the greenery to find a good place to begin picking.
The women filled their baskets and Joah rode along tied to his mother’s back, while Josie fed him the ripest berries with her fingers.
“Not too many now,” said Hetty, “you know what can happen.”
“What?” asked Josie, greatly enjoying feeding the baby.
“Far too much laundry,” said Margaret, letting loose with her famous laugh and grasping Josie’s shoulder to steady herse
lf.
Joah began to grow fussy.
“You two go along,” Margaret said. “I’ll just feed him and catch up with you.”
Hetty and Josie rounded a bend in search of another patch, and Hetty took Josie’s small hand in hers. Josie hugged her arm, bringing her face to rest against Hetty’s shoulder as they walked. Josie was eleven now and the top of her head grazed Hetty’s ear. Josie would likely be almost as tall as she was by this time next year, Hetty thought, and probably all through playing with dolls. She planted a kiss on Josie’s soft hair.
“I’m counting the different kinds of plants, Maman,” said the girl.
“That so?” said Hetty.
“I think seventeen or eighteen, now.”
“What a lot!”
“Six kinds of grass, at least.”
Hetty and Josephine found their way closer to the river’s edge, and into another tangle of berry vines, just beyond a little eddy of water where a few leaves floated in a slow circle. Hetty glanced anxiously at Josephine, worried the swirl in the water might bring on one of the child’s frights. But she was as calm as could be, pulling at the stems of some low weeds to see what could be added to her list. Hetty let out her breath and resumed filling her basket.
But then the wind kicked up off the river, rushing past her ears, and when the sound subsided she heard Josie’s voice.
“Maman,” she said, her face wrinkling with worry, “will we see any snakes? I don’t want to see a snake. Will we see one?”
“Surely we won’t,” said Hetty. “If there were any our voices would scare them away.”
“Then there are snakes?” Josie’s shoulders hunched up and her hands fluttered at her throat.
“No, no chérie, I only meant….”
“I don’t like snakes,” Josie sobbed.
Hetty crouched before her and stroked her arms, promising again and again there would be no snakes, until Josie finally calmed down and could be persuaded to continue her game of counting plants. Hetty resumed her berry picking, imagining what Dax would say about false promises, and praying that no snake would show itself that morning.
Soon Margaret appeared with the baby in her arms, sound asleep, and the muslin carrying cloth draped around her neck. Hetty suggested they take a rest, and they climbed up the embankment to find a dry spot in the grass to sit down. The sun was shining and the air was warm, but it had rained the day before and the earth was still damp in places.
Margaret spread out the muslin in the shade of a white birch tree and laid Joah down on it. Then she took off her shoes and stockings and let her toes wiggle in the air, which made Josie laugh and ask Hetty if she could take her shoes off too. There was no one else around and so no harm in it, except that suddenly a little garter snake emerged from behind the tree and caught Josie’s eye. She shot up with a scream, and ran.
Hetty made to follow her, but Margaret was quicker.
“Stay with Joah!” Margaret called back, running after Josie.
Hetty looked on helplessly as Josie and Margaret raced further away. Joah had flinched in his sleep, but hadn’t woken.
Some minutes later, just as Hetty had resolved to pick up the baby and follow them, she saw them returning, Margaret with her arm wrapped around Josie’s shoulders. Her hair had come loose.
“I’ve promised her a special song,” Margaret said, when they arrived back at the birch tree. “Haven’t I, Josie?”
“I’m sorry I ran off,” Josie said, looking at Hetty with tired, sorrowful eyes.
Margaret sat down on the grass. “Will you sit with me, Josie?”
Josie looked up at Hetty, who smiled. “Go on,” Hetty said. “I’ll lie down next to Joah.”
Margaret’s lilting voice painted pictures in the air.
Long long ago in this ancient land
A battle took place where two hills now stand
And on the plain there lay the slain
For neither the battle was won
So the bard did sing of these fairy hills
Where bloom the white flowers and daffodils
One big one small Si Bheag Si Mhor
And never the battle is won
Josie relaxed against Margaret’s shoulder, and soon closed her eyes. A few minutes later she was asleep, and Margaret left off singing. Hetty felt quite drowsy herself.
“Hetty,” Margaret whispered, “do you remember the place I used to go with my Ma, the spring pool back in Ireland? The thin place?”
Hetty nodded, waiting for Margaret to say more.
“When I am near to Josie, I feel as though I’m there. Hetty, I believe Josie herself is like a thin place.” Margaret looked up at the sky for a while, then turned her eyes back to her friend. “My Ma used to sing a certain song, one she sang only at the spring pool.”
“Would you sing it for us?” Hetty whispered back.
Margaret cleared her throat and began to sing in Irish, not English. The strange sound of the words blended with the melody, and seemed to carve the air, like water rushing over the hard edges of stones.
In her mind’s eye, Hetty saw a pool rippling in a wide stone basin. The words Margaret sang pointed to markings scattered here and there on large rocks, alighting on one and then on another like dragonflies, and then flying away down a path between two green hills.
As Hetty followed the path the earth grew drier until a red dust covered her bare feet. She felt a warm weight on her back, and the tight muslin carrying cloth tied across her chest. It did not seem strange to her that Josie was a baby, or that the path beneath her feet widened into a road made for wagons, with tall grass growing on both sides.
The road rolled up and down with the hills. The sky above was blue, with white clouds sailing like boats, and the fields around were rich with flowers. Hetty thought it must be well past midday, as the sun was not high. She must think about what to make for supper. The others would be waiting, and hungry.
She couldn’t see too far ahead, as the sun was in her eyes, but she could make out a single tree on a rise, and thought perhaps she saw a figure standing beneath it.
“Who could that be, Josie?” she said. “Whoever it is, I know they won’t mind if we stop there for a rest.”
Hetty walked further and then knelt to untie the carrying cloth, so Josie could step to the ground. Not a baby now, but her tall, long-legged self again. Josie ran lightly down the road and into the grass.
“So many flowers, Maman! Look how pretty! I want to make a bouquet for Papa.” Every time Josie bent to pick a stem Hetty lost sight of her. Gradually they approached the rise, Josie skipping ahead of Hetty, with bunches of flowers in each hand.
The tree was full of shadows.
There was a figure, a woman, Hetty could see her now, holding out her arms. The voice was deep, raspy with age, but unmistakeable.
“Ayo, my dear.”
Hetty had not heard that name, her other name, in what seemed like centuries. She faltered and stumbled forward.
“Come, child.”
Strong arms kept Hetty from falling. She clung to the long blue skirts. Leathery hands lifted her face. Hetty saw the eyes like black fire, the high round cheekbones, the face of her aunt, her Tata Abeje.
Flowers fell at their feet. Josie stood by with empty hands and Tata turned her gaze on her, reaching out to lay her long fingers over the back of Josie’s head.
The setting sun burned red, bathing the fields in amber light and putting a glow through the branches of the tree. Tata was singing, a low, rhythmic song, and she drew lines in the air over Josie.
Hetty could feel her own heart beating in time with the song. She felt the rush of blood through her body like a river.
The sky darkened, turning the fields blue, then black, as night fell and the first stars appeared.
* * *
A baby was crying.
Hetty opened her eyes.
Margaret bounced Joah in her arms. He flailed his little fists, protesting the injustice of wakin
g up after sleep, and then rubbed at his eyes.
Josie was a little ways off, crouching in the grass, and seeing Hetty ran to her, smiling.
“Maman, look, three kinds.” She held a clump of tiny flowers in her cupped hands, red clovers, daisies and miniature violets.
“Will you bring them home to show Papa?” Hetty asked, not quite fully awake yet.
Josie picked out a daisy and tickled Joah’s leg with it, making him laugh despite his tears.
“There now, that’s better,” Margaret said. The baby squirmed and she set him down. He sat on his fat knees, reaching for Josie’s flowers. “Josie,” Margaret said, “can you put a braid in my hair? I can’t go back to town looking so wild. Shad will scold me.” She smiled at Hetty and then looked out toward the river. “Isn’t this a beautiful place?”
“Very,” said Hetty, picking up one of Josie’s daisies.
Josie stood behind Margaret, her clever fingers at work weaving Margaret’s hair into a thick plait, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Hetty looked down at her own hands, twirling Josie’s flower in her fingers. They were Josephine’s hands. They were Tata Abeje’s. They were the earth, baked by the sun. As if the earth had risen up and shaped itself into a living, breathing woman. As if such a thing could be.
6
Guillaume
Montreal, 1883 - 1889
Guillaume Rougeaux was just past his forty years the first time he saw himself in a photograph, a daguerreotype of him and his wife Elizabeth, called Bess, and their six children. It was the year 1883. Their oldest son, Albert, stood to Guillaume’s left, tall and stern, a serious young man of nineteen, working for the railroad and engaged to be married. Dax, the baby, set on Elizabeth’s knee, and the others, beside their mother on a velvet-draped bench.
The taking of the photograph was a happy, if curious, occasion. They had two pictures made, one to hang in their own house, and one for Maman, even though she lived just next door and saw them each and every day, and even though she was not alone, since Papa had passed. Guillaume’s youngest sister, Josephine, was still at home. Bess put the daguerreotype in a varnished wooden frame and hung it in the bedroom beside the large oval mirror on the dresser. In this way Guillaume studied it every Sunday when he fixed up his tie for church. What he saw when he looked at himself in the photograph were his broad shoulders and wide-set stance that gave the surprising impression of a sawhorse. Which is what he said to Bess. “I look just like a sawhorse!” And to which she replied, her attention mostly on the linen she was folding, “I did always think that same thing myself.”
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