Song of Batoche

by Maia Caron

  She looked toward Eulalie and Cleophile, who were searching for Seneca snakeroot in the nearby bush. Eulalie went to her knees, digging at a root. When she worked it free, she lifted it to her nose and inhaled, rubbed off the dirt and nibbled at it, as Nôhkom had taught her, to test its potency. Cleophile had already taken a pinch of tobacco from her medicine bag for the spirit of the plant before her sister filled the hole.

  Josette plucked at a branch laden with berries, so absorbed in her thoughts, she did not notice that Moulin had come up behind her.

  “What is your sickness?” he said, his breath on her neck.

  “I ate bad meat in my grandfather’s camp,” she said carefully, a cluster of berries in her hand. “Muskrat does not agree with me.”

  “What did you learn on the trail with Riel?”

  She turned to find him staring at her angrily. “Nothing.”

  “I’m told he met with your grandfather and has brought a white man back from Prince Albert. That the two of them are holed up there in St. Laurent, writing a petition.” Moulin moved closer. “You forget our agreement.”

  Josette dropped her eyes to avoid his accusing look. She imagined his outrage if she told him that Riel wished to create a separate state here in the North-West, with his own church at its head.

  Henriette Parenteau was nearby and had overheard Moulin’s remark. “Leave her be,” she scolded and nodded to Josette before moving away to pick another bush.

  He bit at his nails and Josette hid a smile, pleased that the leader of the Old Crows had defended her. But the priest took her arm, “Do not affront God,” he muttered and she waited, suffering the feel of those cracked and bloody fingers on her. Did he suspect her of mortal sin? “You would do well to confess again,” he went on, “for it is plain you are rejecting good and choosing evil by following Riel.”

  Moulin stalked away on his bandy legs, and Josette let her breath out in relief. She opened her hand to find the crushed berries, juice staining her fingers. She knelt to wipe her hand in the grass, looking up to call her daughters, but was met by the sight of a familiar form on the other side of the meadow. Louis Riel was getting out of a wagon, accompanied by the white man from Prince Albert. She watched as they walked directly toward her.

  “Eh,” she called out to them, “men are not allowed.”

  Riel laughed gamely, and took off his hat to the women, who stared, curious as to why he had invaded their berry-picking camp. He stood before Josette, his smile dissolving. “God sent me here today—he has told me that you are troubled.”

  She stood rooted to the earth. The white man had dropped back, suit jacket draped over his shoulder. His face, partly shaded by a felt hat, was kind, almost despondent, the heavy-lidded eyes dark and apologetic.

  Riel put his arm around her and turned her to face Madeleine and the few women nearby. “I see into Josette’s heart,” he said in a formal voice. “I hear her cries for freedom.” More women hurried across the open field, eager to hear what was happening. Riel paused when he saw Father Moulin, but in a moment, went on. “Josette has suffered much. Perhaps she is being punished by God.”

  The feel of his arm on her shoulder, and the Old Crows murmuring to each other in agreement. She bent her head, blinking furiously. For all of Riel’s talk around the campfire, he had not actually asked her if she would agree to be his Mary Magdalene. But Christ had not demanded Mary be his disciple, he had performed a ceremony to make her one. Josette felt the urge to run, and would if he spoke of Norbert hurting her, or the fallen angels. Faces were turned to him, the great Riel, whose only purpose here was to demonstrate his prophetic powers.

  He looked down at her, his eyes hopeful and anxious. “God has told me,” he said, “that Josette has suffered to become my disciple.”

  Father Moulin had taken the cross out of his belt, but remained silent, frowning. Several of the women’s jaws dropped.

  “Do you wish to truly know God?” Riel asked her. “To walk in the law of love, you must be delivered from darkness.”

  In the sudden, appalling quiet, only the sound of the creek, and a mutable wind that rose and whispered the grass. She reminded herself that this was a harmless ceremony, part of Riel’s bid to gain respect, but Father Dubois’ presence was there also with his admonition, “You do not yearn for reason, you yearn to love God.”

  There was a sudden, warm surge of blood, the cloth bunched between her legs soaked to overflowing. She had sought another name than “sin” for the battle she had waged since her earliest memory for the right to own her mind, her body, her life and feared herself strange to the world, perhaps no more than a deceiver, inhabiting the roles of wife and mother, a lone planet with moons and stars swinging in their arcs around her. You must be delivered from darkness. She could feel the women’s expectant eyes, and a scalding ache spread from the centre of her chest, her entombed heart pouring out its solitude.

  Riel waited, as though expecting her to kneel. He seemed to recognize her struggle and stepped nearer, placing his hand upon her head. “This woman now upholds the royal law,” he said. “She is released from her prison of darkness.”

  She looked up to see Henriette Parenteau’s face transformed by mystical wonder. And Marguerite Riel, who had just emerged from a tent where she had been tending her ill son, unaware of Louis’ arrival. She had unbuttoned the top of her dress to nurse her sick boy and she drew it closed, eyes flickering in disbelief at the sight of her husband’s hand on Josette’s head, the women staring in rapt astonishment. The expression on Marguerite’s face would stay with Josette, for she had seen it once in the eyes of a wounded buffalo that lay in the dust before the hunting knife was unsheathed.

  At that moment, a scream came from among the gathered women. The heavily pregnant Elise Gladu clutched her belly and went to her knees.

  Riel’s face was flushed, his eyes bright with elation. “It is a sign—God answers by bringing forth new life. Just as Christ was born humbly to Mary she will have her child in the wilderness.”

  hunted like

  an elk

  Madeleine emerged from the birthing tent and inhaled fresh air. It was now dark; a full moon partly obscured by cloud illuminated the meadow. She rolled down her sleeves, pausing when an agonized moan came from inside the tent. It was not going well for Elise Gladu, who had just given birth to her first child. The efforts of two midwives were frustrated by the refusal of the afterbirth to come. And the interference of Father Moulin. It was bad luck to hemorrhage in berry-picking camp with a man of God standing watch, forbidding Elise’s relations to brew medicine teas to stop the bleeding.

  Moulin lurked nearby, his eyes glittering when they caught the moon. Madeleine turned her back to him and cursed under her breath. She had liked this priest’s humble ways, but now she wanted to kick some sense into him for thwarting the midwives’ work.

  Despite the heat of the day, a breeze had lifted off the creek and she tucked the collar of her dress tight around her neck. If wind touched her throat, she would fall into a fit of coughing that would make the women forget horrible birth stories or the wonder of Riel’s new miracle. The smell of cooked meat and the familiar tang of black tea brewing drew her to the nearest fire. When she leaned to dip a cup into the billycan, she saw the silhouette of Riel, who stood on the creek bank with Josette and the white man from Prince Albert. A group of girls, including La Rose Ouellette and her sisters, surrounded them. There was no doubt they looked at Josette with a hero’s worship. Today, the women had gossiped at how La Rose had become infatuated with l’Anglais. La Rose was only seventeen and the daughter of Riel’s host, Moise Ouellette. It seemed like sin.

  A long, terrible cry came from the birthing tent, but Josette was lively as if she hadn’t heard, laughing at something that Riel had just said. Where were her children? Being minded by Cleophile, most likely, a p’tite mère at her young age. The travesty of Riel making Josette his Mary Magdalene. And with the wife, Marguerite, standing right there. Sh
e did not like to see Josette look so close to Riel when Gabriel was riding all over the South Saskatchewan with his brother Isidore, mustering support for Riel’s petition. He would not be pleased to hear that his hero had staged a blessing in a woman’s camp for what seemed like theatrical benefit. She would tell her husband of La Vieille, struggling within herself, receiving Riel’s forgiveness. And Father Moulin. He had always considered Josette beyond saving and ignored her. Yet today he had followed her around as if she owed him something, the two of them arguing.

  The young women had linked hands and began a hymn normally sung at the Feast of St. Mary Magdalene.

  “Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord to Thee.

  Take my moments and my days; let them flow in ceaseless praise.”

  Josette and l’Anglais had moved away from the others and had their heads together, as if their plans should not be known. Her eyes not leaving them, Madeleine threw what was left of her tea in the grass and walked purposefully toward the creek.

  She could hear Josette say to l’Anglais, “I will teach you some French, too.”

  “Good luck,” the white man said. “My accent is very bad.” They seemed unaware of her approach or that Marguerite Riel stood miserably to one side, her youngest child drowsing on her shoulder, the other one ailing with summer fever in her tent. Madeleine threw a warning glance at Josette, but she did not look her way.

  L’Anglais was a strange sight. Why was he here in a suit of clothes standing by a meadow stream in the dark, among Métis women? And now reciting verse in English to Josette, his head at an unnatural angle, moon sheen on his slicked hair. He offended her ear with his harsh language and yet Riel glanced to him with respect. Now, she thought, do not think of him this way when he helps Riel write the petition, helps the Métis. Unreasonable feelings had come to plague her more often. She was not one for emotion and idle thought, but at night her head was increasingly filled with fearful imaginings and she could not sleep.

  Riel stood near his wife, enraptured by the girls’ singing, but had finally noticed Madeleine. “William has taken to courting La Rose,” he said to her. “Old man Ouellette insists that he convert. Josette has volunteered to instruct him in the catechism.”

  Madeleine could see Marguerite bristle. Why did Josette flaunt her learning? It was a slap in the face to any woman who could not read and write. And she was the last person who should teach the catechism. No wonder Moulin was in a state.

  Riel looked to the birthing tent, where the priest still hovered. “Why was he in with the women?”

  “The afterbirth remains in the womb,” Madeleine said. “It is God’s decision whether she will live or die.”

  Riel’s eyes darted back to Moulin. “He is here to spy on me. I am watched all the time now. Hunted like an elk in my own country.”

  She squinted at Riel in the shadows, not sure she had heard him right. “Père Moulin is always with the women at berry-picking camp.” The moon had come out from behind a drift of cloud and she could see Riel’s face more clearly now. There was that look again, of uneasiness, that she’d glimpsed the day he’d arrived. Gabriel would have nothing to do with a man who said he was hunted like an elk, or feared he was spied on by an old priest. There was another long cry from Elise Gladu and then only the low keening of the girls:

  “Take my will, and make it Thine; it shall be no longer mine.

  Take my heart, it is Thine own; it shall be Thy royal throne.”

  Madeleine stared hard into the creek, for it seemed to her the shadow of grasses cast across the moonlit surface shuddered, and by some trick of reflection, she saw Gabriel’s face, his hair loose around him, as if floating on snow, and it red with his blood.

  supplication

  A storm had rolled in at dawn, drowning everything that the sun had not yet withered. Sheet lightning still flashed in the distance, followed by the low rumble of thunder. The sky was thick with every manner of cloud, black as night and each value of grey, brimming with moisture and the continued threat of storm.

  Josette rode her horse up the trail through the Caron and Gareau farms. Their back fields emanated the heady fragrance of drought-stricken earth saturated by sudden rain. The oat stalks were still dry, almost devoid of life. Even if the Métis farmers managed to harvest the crops, these empty hulls would provide little value to their livestock.

  Yesterday, Father Moulin had sent a message to her with Philippe Garnot, a Canadien who farmed land south of Gabriel and often passed by the house. The note was simple and abrupt: Je veux te voir. I want to see you.

  She had resisted becoming Riel’s Mary Magdalene. But a profound moment had occurred in the ceremony at berry picking camp that she still could not explain to herself, only that she had marked her sorrow, emerging somehow, with a lighter heart. And a kind of freedom she had not dreamed possible, going up to St. Laurent a few times a week to teach William Jackson his catechism, becoming involved in his and Riel’s discussions as they drew up the petition. She brought her children, although Cleophile had complained that there was too much shouting, after the two men argued over a few specific clauses. Jackson became frustrated when Riel insisted on including Macdonald’s various missteps in Red River and had yelled, “He needs reminding that he almost lost it to the Americans!”

  William was appalled. “The Americans are a dangerous ally, Louis. Please tell me you aren’t entertaining the thought of sending to them.”

  “Macdonald’s worst fear is annexation,” Riel said. “The North-West is not yet part of Confederation. If we remind him the Americans are waiting in the wings, he might listen to our demands.” Thoroughly offended, William had closed his notebook and pushed back his chair, prompting Riel to add that he had never been serious about American involvement in Red River. Jackson agreed to stay only when Riel swore that he would never treat with them again.

  Josette had considered ignoring Moulin’s request to come up. She did not wish to face his scrutiny, but surely he would not continue to insist that Mary Magdalene spy on her Christ. Perhaps he wanted to question her absence at Mass, or he objected to her—the least competent woman in the South Branch to do so—helping William study the beliefs of the Catholic faithful. He could not speak French, and Moulin’s English was not good. It had been left to her, a disbeliever, who’d had the catechism all but beaten into her at school in Red River.

  On the trail to the church, she reined in her horse to see if anyone was about. Riel suspected the priests themselves of spying, and would not like to hear that she had visited Moulin. She tied up La Noire outside the rectory and shouldered a saddlebag that contained bannock and a bundle of recently harvested salsepareille roots. She opened the rectory door to find Moulin seated at the kitchen table, his hands in a tight grip before him, murmuring thanks to God for finally bringing rain.

  He eagerly took the bannock, but as usual, he pretended not to see the salsepareille roots, and made a poor job of hiding them beneath a cloth on the table. He broke off a piece of the bread and bit into it. Chewing thoughtfully, he looked at her with an unreadable expression.

  “William Jackson will be tested,” Moulin said, “You must ensure he is properly catechized.” He paused, as if reminding himself to stay calm. “Riel has been too much with him. Those two with their heads together. What is in the petition?”

  Josette was careful to keep her voice neutral. “They haven’t told me.”

  “That is not what I hear. There’s talk the three of you speak only English together—is it true?”

  He knew too much. Had Charles Nolin betrayed them? Riel said he was skulking around, asking too many questions. She would not admit to Moulin that being Louis Riel’s disciple had brought its advantages. The women now treated her with greater respect, and William Jackson had been a surprise—both charming and impressively educated at a university in the east. He had brought books with him from Prince Albert and was lending them to her. With Norbert still away, working in Battleford, she often st
ayed up late reading by candlelight after the children went to bed. She had just finished the first novel she had ever read, The Deerslayer, which had been Jackson’s favourite book as a boy.

  Moulin heaved himself out of the chair. “You forget we had an arrangement. I offered you an indulgence in exchange for help with Riel.”

  “I did not think God made deals,” she said, smiling to herself.

  The priest placed his piece of bannock on the table. “The Law of Love. You do not even know what it means.” He bent his head briefly, as if praying and raised it in a moment, with an ill-disguised expression of anger. “I confide in you because you are our only hope. When Riel went up to Prince Albert last week, he told Father André that the priests in Red River supported him when he formed a provisional government. He wanted the Church’s blessing if he had to do the same here.”

  Josette eye’s slid past Moulin’s shoulder, her thoughts in confusion. She’d heard Riel and Jackson debate the points in the petition. Besides reminding Macdonald of his crimes in Red River, the demands were reasonable—the North-West should be brought into Confederation and title granted on their lands. If Riel already planned a provisional government in Batoche, why did he waste time with a petition? Because he feared it would be ignored by Ottawa and was preparing to advance his private agenda of a separate Métis and Indian nation. Riel had promised not to use the Americans as a threat, but she questioned his motives. Would they be interested in hearing from him again?

  A louse crawled from a seam of Moulin’s soutane and she knocked it off, stepping on it before it could scurry between the floorboards. The old priest had the gall to accuse both her and Riel when she could as easily accuse him. “You were not there when we brought Elise back from berry-picking camp,” she said. “You did not see the trail of blood that dripped through the wagon slats.”