by Maia Caron
“The Queen? What will she do with it?”
Gabriel said nothing and they watched as men gathered around Riel, clapping him on the back with congratulations, but he too seemed despondent. “Schmidt says a man is up there from the Dominion Lands Office,” Gabriel said. “Registering any lot surveyed in the English square.”
“Ottawa is listening. He will come here—”
“The Dominion man does not speak French.”
“I could interpret for him—so could Riel.”
Gabriel’s eyebrow went up. “There is no way to translate our French river lots to an Anglais.” He looked past her and she turned to see Madeleine up near the fire, staring at them. When she noticed them looking, she abruptly turned away. “What is wrong with her?” he said, cursing under his breath.
“Is she ill?” It still seemed strange to her that Madeleine resented Gabriel having anything to do with her.
He shook his head. “She says Riel is mad, that we will all soon be in hell.”
“Perhaps she is right.”
“Is that what you believe?” He looked at her briefly, with a flash of concern or distrust, as if he were now uncertain of her role in Riel’s life.
She stepped closer so no one else would hear. “I have something to tell you—”
But she was cut off by sudden cheering; a group of older children waiting down the river bank had spotted the racers on their return leg. Dumas’ team rounded the bend, alone on the last drive to the finish line, his arm held high in triumph. Two other teams straggled in after him. Norbert’s was not in sight.
Riel had beckoned to Gabriel, and Josette watched, with escalating frustration, as he walked away. When Norbert’s team finally came in, his face was a rigid mask. She hurried to find her children as darkness sank like fog over the river. After everyone had eaten, the party moved to Xavier Letendre’s in the village. Outside his house, the young unmarried women had built a small fire and occupied themselves by dropping dough into a pot of hot oil. Young men loitered about, each waiting for a certain girl to grant him favour with a fresh beignet. The adults crowded into Letendre’s large living room where the fiddler and mouth harp player were joined by another man from Duck Lake who was a legend with the hand organ. The musicians tuned their instruments for a moment and then launched into “The Reel of Eight.”
Norbert came in, still holding his gloves, his coat wet with melted snow. She was thankful when a whoop went up as old Joseph Ouellette—who had ridden with the legendary buffalo hunter Cuthbert Grant at the Battle of Seven Oaks—began a song about the hunts, acting out the parts with tossing horns and pawing hoofs. He finished the last verse with arms raised and the crowd clapping him on.
“Now old men and wives come you out with the carts
There’s meat against hunger and fur against cold
Gather full store for the pemmican bags
Garner the booty of warriors bold!”
When the song was over, the revellers encouraged Charles Nolin to deliver something from his large repertoire. His face seemed redder than usual, and his swagger made it obvious that he’d been into the rum. He did not glance at Riel, but it was apparent that he had him in mind, for he yelled to the crowd, “Louis, you should recognize another song composed at that time in Red River.” He looked around, grinning. “Who can remember that February night in ’70, when les Anglais came up the river to free the prisoners Louis kept at Fort Garry?” He put a hand at his ear and the people shouted, “Sing it, sing it.”
Josette caught sight of Riel. He glanced up at Nolin as if he would like to kill him.
Nolin pretended to be bashful. “Non, non,” he said, waving his hand. “The Scots tongue is bitter in my mouth.” Yet when the fiddle player sawed out a few bars, he launched into the song. Many in the crowd encouraged him, although members of Riel’s inner circle, like the Nault brothers, Damase Carrière, Gabriel, and Michel Dumas, kept their arms crossed.
“O Hey, Ri-el, are ye waking yet,
Or are yer drums a-beating yet?
If ye’re nae waking we’ll nae wait.
For we’ll take the fort this morning.”
Only when the song ended, did Nolin dare look at Riel. “Louis, we were just having a wee bit o’ fun at your expense,” he said, still affecting a Scots accent. The crowd parted for a glimpse of a beaded purse he took from his coat pocket. “We of the South Branch have made a collection.” Riel reached for the pouch reluctantly, but Nolin would not release his grip. “Sixty dollars raised for our great hero. You should have some of your own money, non? So, you can buy you and your family what you need instead of waiting for one of us to give it.”
Marguerite had come out of the kitchen to stand beside her husband. Riel lowered his eyes. Josette could see that he was not so much touched by the generosity as he was by a deep sadness. Perhaps it was a bitter reminder of how poor they all were, and yet had sacrificed for the good of their hero. Or was it guilt for thinking those among him spies? The room went quiet as the people waited for one of his famous speeches, and in a moment, he told them that the petition had been received and was on its way to London. The rest of his words were drowned out by cheers.
Riel put up his hand. “Settlers want our lands again. Macdonald ignores us again. And what do we ask? Freedom. To own ourselves.” He stared through the crowd, as if he were miles away. She could hear the naked vulnerability in his voice. Finally he meant to tell them his secret.
He rooted in one of his coat pockets. “I would like you to hear something,” he said, and to Josette’s horror, unfolded the poem she’d written in grief over her daughter and began to read:
“She walks with beauty in the rain
Aspen trunks gleam their disdain
Everything she touched gone cold
If I should find my heart has told
She lives on in birdsong, light, and grass
The days bore on, my grief won’t pass
Her imp-eyed smile has left this earth
With it a mother’s sad, lone worth.”
There was an appalled silence, and Riel glanced up, tears in his eyes. “One of our women wrote this.” He began to search her out, but she stepped behind Maxime Lépine’s broad shoulder.
She stood still, her pulse racing. How had she ever trusted him? Those around her looked displeased to hear him praise a woman’s mind. One among them had neglected her chores to write poems. What would she do next? Josette let out the breath she had been holding only to find Norbert watching her from across the room, a look of frank loathing in his eyes.
The crowd broke up and Riel and Gabriel went off with the Batoche men. Josette pushed her way outside. Cutters and sleighs had been drawn up near the barn and Josette found Alexandre and Cleophile there with her three youngest, gathered around Madeleine, who was climbing into the Dumont’s cutter.
She prayed that Norbert would remain to drink, carouse, or fight with whatever man dared cross him, but he came up behind her. “Take the children,” he said to Madeleine, who turned in her seat to look at him. Norbert offered only a blank stare in return. One of his headaches had come on, he’d lost the dog race, and his wife had embarrassed him by writing verse, reminding him of their dead daughter. His face remained expressionless, his mouth set like a man determined to get a job done. Josette climbed into his racing sled and waved Madeleine and the children on. She pulled a blanket over her, noticing that the dogs’ tapis had been torn off their backs; only a few shreds of the offending material remained. Josette did not look at Madeleine as her cutter left, but she caught a glimpse of Cleophile’s face framed in her blanket. Panic and worry, to the point of terror. What could she do? Refuse to go with Norbert and she risked his anger on the children. He was silent as he drove the dogs out of the yard, twitching the lines with brutal efficiency.
“You liked the beading I did on the dogs’ tapis,” she said. “You said so yourself.” He flinched, as if she had reminded him of something he’d forgotten and he mean
t to add it to her faults. She drew off her glove and put her hand on his. “It’s a lovely evening—look at the stars.” She tilted her head back, could feel the tremor of muscle at his wrist. They passed the trail south along the river, and she thought she should work harder to placate him. “When we get home, I’ll make you some tea with snakeroot,” she said to his steel-jawed profile.
“You lost me the race with your sacrilege,” he said. “My relations whisper behind my back—I am made to wear the skirts in my own family.” He hauled on the dogs’ lines and at the same time, brought up his elbow to hit her in the face. Josette reeled back as if she’d been shot. For a moment, there was only blackness and the far-off sound of the team slowing. Norbert steered them left and the dogs began to jump through the crusted snow of a cow trail. She could taste blood and wanted to touch her mouth, but would not give him the satisfaction.
He pulled the team up short in a clearing, the sleigh tipped at an angle. Josette’s eyes swam, her head was spinning. In the silence, the dogs panted, their breath rising in vapour clouds. The only other sound was an echoing drip of snow melting off the trees. She waited for the next blow, but nothing came and she turned her head to look at Norbert. He sat with the reins in his hands, face like a statue. A full moon had risen in the sky—Midwinter Moon the Cree called it. The dogs still heaved with exertion, tired after the long race today. Moments passed and Josette had just begun to breathe again, when Norbert turned in his seat with lightning quickness, his hand out of the glove, the bare hard warmth of it at her neck.
“You think you can make a fool of me?” he said in her ear. “What have you been doing with him?” She could smell the rum, the food he had eaten. Madame Goulet’s boulettes, she thought, and then a sweet tang of powdered sugar: beignets. He began to pull with increasing purpose at her clothes, which was not easy, for she was trussed up in her blanket. The way he pawed at her seemed pathetically comical and she laughed, hoping that he would see it too, come to his senses, but his hand tightened on her throat until she gasped to draw breath. She stared up at the stars, felt the bite of air at her legs, naked to the cold. Norbert kept pressure on her neck with one hand and with the other undid his pants. When he yanked open her legs, Josette felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.
There was a strange noise at the edge of her awareness, and Norbert was abruptly hauled off the sleigh by an unseen force. Josette could not move, only heard the thud of punches landing on bone and flesh.
bathsheba
It was close to midnight when Marguerite Riel knelt in front of Father Moulin in the second-floor chapel of the rectory. After Charles Nolin had humiliated her husband in front of everyone at the dance, Louis had handed her the money purse and left with Gabriel and some other men. The pouch was still in her pocket. Sixty dollars. But at what cost? Shame and humiliation. When Louis had read the poem, Marguerite had been conscious of Father Moulin’s eyes on her. The priest had gone out in a huff afterwards. She had seen him on the snow-packed trail south of the village, and left her children with the Ouellette girls to follow him. It had been only a few days since her last confession, but she was desperate.
Now he sat facing her, a curious expression on his face. She crossed herself and lowered her head. “You saw that my husband is upset. I confess I may be to blame.”
Moulin cleared his throat. “Do you … perform your wifely duties?”
“Louis comes to bed and turns to the wall,” she said quietly. “He wakes at night with dreams that make him call out. Only then will he let me hold him. Nothing else.” She looked up at Moulin. “It almost killed him to receive the donation. He does not wish us to be the poorest of the poor.”
He sat back and crossed his hands over his belly. “Do not compare yourself to others who have more. You are living a humble life as Mary did, the divine mother.”
The mention of Mary gave her a shock. Louis had insisted that he had acted on God’s wishes by making Josette his Mary Magdalene, but she was still angry at him for shaming her at berry-picking camp.
“Do not liken me to Mary,” she said to Moulin, “I am not worthy.”
“You are always worthy in the eyes of God.”
“I do not think even He finds me worthy.”
Moulin gazed at her a long beat. “Yet you attracted the great Louis Riel. Do you think he suffers poor judgment?”
“It was only luck.”
“You should not torment yourself thus.” Moulin paused. “I hear that Josette Lavoie spends much time with you and Riel and William Jackson up at Ouellette’s. What does she do?”
Marguerite avoided his eyes. Had he guessed that Josette was the one she envied or was it a coincidence that he mentioned her? “She teaches William his catechism.” Or had. Louis had told her that he suspected she spied on him.
“And where is your husband during these sessions?”
“He is not often there. Now that the petition has been sent, he and Gabriel are …” She trailed off. Louis had warned her not to share details of his actions with the priests.
Moulin sat up straight and took the wooden cross out of his belt. “He and Gabriel are what?”
“My husband is no longer mine,” she said to divert him. “I have committed the sin of envy, jealous of the time he spends with others. I am sorry for these and all of my sins.”
He lifted his cross to her in benediction. “You may conquer this feeling with the help of God’s grace. When the thoughts come upon you, say the rosary and feel them leave.”
Hail Mary, full of grace. Marguerite sought solace from the words, but felt only a profound emptiness, as if air pumped through her heart instead of blood.
“It is Josette who should be kneeling here,” Moulin burst out. “It was her poem he read just now.”
The old voices were clamouring in her head. Louis will take another woman to marry. The Métis would not allow it. Or would they? This was the great Louis Riel, a prophet sent by God to save them. They would deny him nothing, even a second wife.
“What was this talk of trees and a mother’s worth?” The priest slapped his knee. “It is not proper for a woman to read and write.”
Marguerite lowered her eyes. She would not tell Moulin that she had lately learned to read, and Josette was not the only woman she envied. Louis had been gone for days at a time with William Jackson, meeting with Gabriel and the men, or up in Prince Albert. While he was away, La Rose Ouellette’s younger sister, Mary-Jane, who had boarded with the Grey Nuns, had taught her to read. Marguerite had surprised herself and learned quickly, and on those dark nights alone, when the children were asleep, she had gone through the box of papers that Louis had brought from the Montana Territory.
She found his poems and progressed slowly from letters to words. Although she went to Mary-Jane for the meaning of the more difficult ones, she had managed to parse them out. One night, she happened upon a small bundle of letters addressed to him in a feminine hand. She had studied them until she understood they were from a woman named Evelina Barnabé, whom Louis had known and loved in the east.
I often go to sit under the lilacs, Evelina had written, which are about to bloom. I enclose a few blossoms for you and am carried back to that time when we were so happy, both of us seated on the same bench.
The thought of this woman and Louis’ love for her had consumed her. She would fall asleep with the letters on the bed and wake the next morning to find them scattered around her. The one that interested her the most was Evelina’s last correspondence, which conveyed a different tone.
I have read in the papers that you have married Miss Marguerite Monet. I could not believe my eyes … incredible. How could you be so shameful?
And then her husband’s response, explaining that he could not afford to buy Evelina a fine house and the comforts that she had grown accustomed to.
But he had not sent the letter.
Here were two sins she would not confess to Father Moulin: guilt for snooping through her husband’s priva
te papers, and an unhealthy obsession over his reluctance to reply. Both of which revealed an ugly truth—the great Louis Riel had settled for a simple Métisse, who did not expect more than a sod roof over her head.
“I will assign you a psalm as penitence,” Moulin was saying, “so that you may grow in confidence of divine mercy.”
“If anyone is above sin it is Louis,” she said. “He prays constantly and is favoured by God.”
Moulin’s eyes rose to meet hers. “King David sinned most heinously with Bathsheba. He went about pretending penitence. Only after he was confronted by his sin did he admit to it.”
She did not like this priest. Was he saying that Louis was a liar? She lacked the courage to ask, for fear of the answer.
The door opened downstairs and the familiar voice of Gabriel Dumont called for Moulin. The priest leaped to his feet and Marguerite followed him, heart in her mouth. If something had happened to Louis while she confessed her sin of jealousy, she would not forgive herself.
Gabriel stood in the kitchen with Josette in his arms. Marguerite stopped on the stairs, breathless as Moulin examined Josette, her head against Gabriel’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and blood had congealed in a swollen gash on her lip. Even in an insensible state, she managed to look beautiful.
Moulin regarded Gabriel with suspicion. “Why don’t you take her to your wife? She would sew it better than me.”
Gabriel lowered Josette on a narrow bunk the priest kept in a small room off the kitchen. Father Moulin returned, muttering, with needle and thread fine enough to bind the cut, and Marguerite took Josette’s hand while the priest stitched her lip. Bruises had already begun to form on her lovely, bare neck. Gabriel stood by the stove, snow caked in his buffalo hide coat and dripping on the floor. He looked their way again, his eyes lingering on Josette.
At that instant Marguerite knew why he hadn’t taken her to his wife. He would rather answer Father Moulin’s probing questions: how he had worried that Norbert might be trouble after the race and had left Riel and the men. Why he’d come back to Letendre’s and—discovering that Norbert had taken Josette out alone—followed them on the trail to save her from a vicious beating.
