The girl put a hand to her hip and stared past Meg.
“You know I hate when you do that. Yesterday it was Ginette, today it’s Nève. Really, Marguerite, your head is in the clouds these days. Why can’t you just call me by my real name? Ge-ne-viève,” she stressed each syllable.
“Geneviève?” The name sounded odd on Meg’s lips. Geneviève. Meg sat up and blew a piece of straw from the corner of her mouth.
“I swear, Marguerite, you’ve been acting so peculiar these past couple of days,” Geneviève said.
“Oh, sorry, it’s just that…” What could she say? Meg tried to clear her head. For some reason, Geneviève knew her as Marguerite. If she had any hope of getting back to Picasse Bay, she was going to have to play the part.
“Marguerite! Geneviève! Joseph! Dans la maison!” a shrill voice called in the distance.
Geneviève’s back straightened.
“Your maman wants us in the house. Maybe she has news.” She turned to go. “Joseph! Get Mache-couine and come!”
The boy tucked the cat under his arm and took her hand. They disappeared out the door.
Meg assessed her situation. Still alive. Still breathing. Patting her arms and body, she made sure everything was still in place.
A hard lump from her apron met her hand. Meg pulled the oyster shell from her apron. A piece of paper came with it, crinkling between her fingers.
Tante Perle’s note!
Chapter 11
MEG’S HANDS FUMBLED TO UNFOLD THE PAPER. Could this contain the answers she was looking for? Would the note tell her what she needed to do to get back to Picasse Bay? She dropped the shell in her lap and read Tante Perle’s words.
Ma belle Marguerite,
The first Marguerite could not keep Geneviève from being
separated and put on a different ship during the Acadian
Deportation. This has left a curse on the Gallant family ever since.
Marguerites throughout the generations have been sent back in time to fix this mistake and failed. My failure cost me my dear Ginette. Yours may cost you Nève.
You are our last hope. The magic is in danger of being lost. If you fail, the Gallant legacy of broken friendships will remain with our family forever.
Tante Perle
P.S. Think on your feet and you will find the answer.
Meg stared at the paper. A rush of thoughts scrambled in her mind. The first Marguerite? She scanned the message again.
Marguerites throughout the generations have been sent back in time to fix this mistake and failed.
Could it be true? Her mom had said that most generations of Gallants had had a Marguerite.
Marguerite. Perle. Meg. Was each Marguerite reliving the same moment in history until one of them got it right?
The first Marguerite could not keep Geneviève from being separated and put on a different ship during the Acadian Deportation.
She had seen Geneviève—she guessed it was her—being sent to a different ship just moments earlier. Was that the quest? To keep Geneviève from being separated?
My failure cost me my dear Ginette.
Ginette. Geneviève had just mentioned that name. Had Tante Perle been sent back on the same task and failed? Had she lost her friend Ginette in the process? Was she the friend who had moved away all those years ago?
Yours may cost you Nève.
Geneviève. Ginette. Nève. Were they all linked just like the Marguerites seemed to be?
Meg’s mind raced between images of Nève and Geneviève. The resemblance was creepy. But Nève was back in Picasse Bay, stressed out about moving to Alberta. Would saving Geneviève change all that?
No way! It couldn’t be!
Besides, how dare Tante Perle dump this load on her? Meg never asked to be a hero. She was doing just fine living her normal life in Picasse Bay.
Meg strained to figure out how she was being tossed from one moment in time to another. It was like magic. It had to be something linked to Tante Perle. But what?
Magic.
Tante Perle had mentioned something about how a small fissure could turn into a permanent crack and then the magic would be lost.
Meg eyed the oyster shell on her lap. The small hairline crack she’d seen back in Tante Perle’s shack had worked its way up and was now halfway through the shell.
Meg concentrated, trying to organize her thoughts. Every time she’d shifted time periods, she had been holding the shell. Then weird, red, white, and blue lights appeared. Did the shell hold the magic for getting back to Picasse Bay?
The magic is in danger of being lost.
Did that mean if the shell broke, her family would be plagued by a curse forever? But without magic, how would Meg ever stand a chance to get back home?
She took the oyster shell in her hand and held it, careful not to crush it. She couldn’t risk it breaking. Not before she was safe, back in Picasse Bay!
Marguerite and Geneviève were from the past and Meg and Nève were from the present. There was no way one thing had to do with the other. She had to shake herself out of this weird dream somehow, she decided.
“Come on, come on!” Meg held the shell and closed her eyes, willing the lights to appear.
Nothing.
She waited for what seemed like eons, but each time she opened her eyes, it was to the same nightmare.
“Marguerite!”
Meg put the shell back in her pocket. She’d try again later. Maybe if she had a look around, she might find a clue to help her return back to her own time.
She rose to her feet and ran out of the barn. She stood in a broad field high on the top of a hill. A few sheep grazed beyond the barnyard fence. A humble house stood at the base of the hill. Beyond the hill lay the harbour.
Three tall ships were nestled in its basin.
Meg brought her hand to her mouth. She remembered the horror she felt when she was trapped on one of those ships just moments ago and shook her head fiercely. This couldn’t be real. Somehow she’d wake up from this nightmare.
“Marguerite, hurry!” a voice called.
Meg ran down the hill to join Geneviève in the house. She’d play the part for now and see where it led.
But the past was the past; nothing she did could change that, she decided. Curse or no curse, she had to figure out a way to get back to Picasse Bay.
Chapter 12
MEG STEPPED INSIDE THE HOUSE and scanned the one-room dwelling.
It looked just like one of those reconstructed houses she had seen during last year’s school field trip to the Fortress of Louisbourg. The rough logs of the rafters, the coarse woollen blankets on the large bed in the corner, the black pot perched over an open fire crackling in a low hearth—it was all so realistic. If this was a dream, it was the most vivid one Meg could ever remember.
Geneviève sat on a narrow bench by the fire, holding a swaddle of blankets. A woman stood before her, facing a tall man in a soldier’s uniform who was darkening a far corner of the room.
“But their mother has passed on; they have lived with our family ever since.” The woman’s chestnut hair was swept back under a bonnet. The sleeves of her chemise were rolled up to her elbows, revealing reddened hands dripping with soapy water. “Surely you could make an exception.” She dried her hands vigorously on her apron.
“And who is this?”
Meg swung around to the sound of the booming voice. The soldier nodded in her direction.
“This is Marguerite.” The woman approached Meg and drew her towards her. “My daughter.”
Meg’s heart raced at the sound of that name—Marguerite. Back in Picasse Bay, no one except Tante Perle had called her that. But earlier, Geneviève had, and now this woman was referring to her as Marguerite as if it was normal. This wasn’t some re-enactment at a national historic site. They really did think she was Marguerite from the time of the Acadian Deportation.
She wanted to scream and tell them it wasn’t true. She was Meg! Meg Gallant from Picasse Bay, C
ape Breton! But the rifle slung over the soldier’s shoulder stopped her. And who would believe that she was a completely different girl, a girl from over two hundred and fifty years in the future? Meg could hardly believe it herself.
The woman wrapped her arm around Meg’s shoulder and guided her to the bench next to Geneviève. Meg sat, wide-eyed, trying to figure out what to do next. The bundle in Geneviève’s arms let out a quiet whimper. Meg pulled the blanket away far enough to see an infant within the swaddled covers.
The woman stood in front of the seated group, shielding them from the soldier.
“Madame Haché dit Galland, is it?” The soldier pointed to a paper in his hands.
Meg peeked around Madame Galland’s skirt and saw the neat script with the old-fashioned spelling of her family name.
“Michel Haché dit Galland was one of the first Acadian settlers on this island. Our family has worked this land with our bare hands and now you Anglais mean to take that all away.” Madame Galland shook her head.
Haché dit Galland, Meg thought. She had heard stories of how the Hachés and Gallants came from the same common ancestor, Michel Haché dit Galland. In fact, wasn’t that what her mom had just been trying to tell her, back in the parish hall basement? But living it, right here and now, it all seemed so surreal.
“Be that as it may.” The soldier waved Madame Galland’s words away and scanned the papers in his hand. “This census clearly shows a Marguerite and a Joseph Haché dit Galland, but there is no record of Geneviève or Daniel at this residence.”
Baby Daniel’s whimpers turned to cries amidst the commotion.
“Monsieur, unless you can reunite these motherless children with their father, they are to stay with us.” Madame Galland turned to Geneviève and swept up the fussy baby. Meg glanced over to Geneviève. Her gaze remained focused forward, unwavering.
“Madame Galland, there are three ships moored in the basin. The men of the village are in the process of being boarded onto them right now. The children’s father and your husband are no doubt amongst them. How am I to know which ship they are on?” The soldier rolled up the paper and secured a ribbon around it.
Meg let out a stifled breath. She knew what awaited them on those ships and shuddered as she remembered the horror and sorrow below deck.
“But surely there are records. Accounts of the passengers? How are we to reunite with the men of our families?” Madame Galland brought a trembling hand to her mouth.
“My orders are simply to advise you that you will embark on the remaining ships tomorrow. However you are dispersed is not my concern. We will escort you to the shore at dawn. Be ready when we arrive.” The soldier snatched a biscuit from the table and stormed out the door.
Geneviève brought a hand to her mouth. Baby Daniel let out a wail as the door slammed.
“Maman!” The little boy Meg had seen at the barn ran out from behind a wooden trunk and buried his face in Madame Galland’s apron.
“C’est bien, Joseph.” Madame Galland handed baby Daniel back to Geneviève and swept the boy up into her arms.
Meg felt her whole body tremor with fright. It really was going to happen. She shook her head in disbelief. Soldiers would be back the next day to gather the family up and deport them from Acadia. From what Meg could remember from history class, some of those ships never made it to their destination, sinking en route.
Meg looked from Madame Galland with Joseph in her arms to Geneviève holding her brother. Telling them what she knew would only make things worse. Their destiny was inevitable. What could she, a twelve-year-old girl, possibly do to help?
Meg tried to catch Geneviève’s eye, but she stared ahead.
“Here, Marguerite, take your brother. There is much to prepare.” Her brother? Meg tried her best to hide her confusion.
Madame Galland lowered Joseph to her. The little boy reached for Meg and wrapped his arms around her neck. A mass of brown curls framed his face. Large doe eyes peeped out, fringed with long lashes.
“Where are we going, Margit? When is Papa coming back?”
Her new brother’s dark eyes shone. His cheeks were crimson and streaked with tears. Meg’s heart rose to her throat. She hugged the boy, not quite knowing how to hold him. Joseph snuggled into her embrace and his soft breath warmed the side of her neck.
Meanwhile, Geneviève was rocking her own brother back and forth in her arms. “What will become of us? Why are they doing this?” she asked.
Madame Galland drew a weary breath and paused before speaking.
“The Acadians have refused to pledge their loyalty to England, so we will be sent away.” Madame Galland crouched down in front of the four children seated on the narrow bench. She brought her arms around Meg and the other children. “I cannot tell you where the ships will take us or what fate awaits us. What I do know, Geneviève, is that you and Daniel will stay with us. You are our family now.”
Geneviève took the handkerchief Madame Galland offered and wiped her tears. Meg struggled to maintain her composure, but even though she had only known this little group for a short while, she choked back her own tears. Without thinking, she stroked Joseph’s soft curls and kissed him on the forehead.
“Blech, Margit.”
Meg let out a laugh at the little boy’s disdain for kisses. Joseph struggled down from her lap and scrambled onto the bed to retrieve his beloved tattered blanket. The scraggly barn cat hopped up beside him and cuddled against his leg.
“Now I must prepare for our journey. Marguerite, help Geneviève with Daniel. You’ll need to be her eyes.”
Be her eyes? What did Madame Galland mean?
Meg searched Geneviève’s face. Blue irises stared back. She waved her hand slightly. Nothing. Meg drew back in surprise.
Geneviève was blind.
“Marguerite, you’ll help me? Will you make sure to never leave my side?” Geneviève pleaded. Her lashes were damp with lingering tears.
The longing Meg had felt for her old life in Picasse Bay was pushed down in that moment. A new emotion replaced it—one that she couldn’t quite define. Meg wrapped her arms around Geneviève.
“Of course,” she murmured into Geneviève’s golden hair.
Suddenly, it seemed like everything had become ten times more confusing. Back in the barn, there had been no question what Meg would do, given the chance. Now, faced with the plight of this family—her ancestors—it became harder and harder to sort through what she was feeling.
But how could she help Geneviève, Meg wondered, when all she wanted to do was help herself?
Chapter 13
THE DAY GREW HEAVY WITH DREAD as Madame Galland packed the family’s belongings in the wooden trunk. She busied herself with cleaning their clothing and preparing the food they could transport.
Meg contemplated what to do next as she watched Madame Galland weigh each decision. The woman’s face furrowed in deep thought as she considered what should go and what should stay. Each article she chose to leave behind she held for a moment and then set aside. Each precious item she couldn’t bear to part with was wrapped thoughtfully in linens and placed in the wooden trunk.
Geneviève rocked Daniel’s cradle at the far side of the room. Meg kept Joseph busy making tiny dolls out of straw and string. Mache-couine, the cat, lay sprawled across the little boy’s lap. The calm before the storm, Meg thought. Tomorrow, this family’s life would change forever.
“This one is you, Margit.” Joseph held out one of the straw dolls for Meg to see. His eyelashes were impossibly long, his voice so heartbreakingly sweet.
“Which one is you?” Meg asked.
“This is me, and the big one is Papa,” he pronounced. “I’ll give it to him when I see him on the ship.”
Meg felt a ripple of sorrow course through her. She knew it was very possible that Joseph would never see his father again. But looking into those doe-like eyes, Meg couldn’t bear the thought.
Stop! she told herself.
She c
ouldn’t allow herself to keep getting sucked into this family’s plight. Even if it was true that she had been transported into the past, this was not her world. Joseph was not her brother. And most of all, no matter what Tante Perle said, Geneviève and this family were not her responsibility.
Meg stood and began to pace the room.
“Marguerite,” Madame Galland held up a china platter, “this belongs to Madame Douaron. She brought it here when we mourned Geneviève’s mother. Please take it back to her.”
Meg couldn’t contain her agitation as she took the platter in her hands. “What does it matter? Everyone is being shipped off tomorrow. She probably won’t be able to take it with her, anyway.”
Madame Galland shook out a piece of cloth with a sharp snap. “It does matter. Everything matters. And it is not for us to decide what Madame Douaron takes and what she leaves behind.” She folded the cloth with precise, thoughtful movements. Her voice softened. “Vas-y. Straight there and back, you understand? And take Geneviève with you.”
Fine, Meg thought. She took Geneviève by the arm and exited the house to the yard. This was exactly the opportunity she needed.
She couldn’t bear another minute in that time—that place. It was all just a facade, anyway. If she could just get time alone to think, to really concentrate, Meg was convinced that she could will herself out of this crazy dream. When she did, she was sure that all thoughts and images of the Acadian Deportation would fall away. Then she would be back in Picasse Bay, with her family, with Nève, where she belonged.
Mache-couine slipped through the door as Meg shut it and sat on the front step to lick his paw.
“Here, take this.” Meg pressed the platter to Geneviève’s chest and brought the girl’s arm up to hold it.
“Very well, but can we go somewhere else before we return this?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not taking you to Madame Douaron’s,” Meg said.
“Oh, good. I don’t want to go there either.” Geneviève shifted the platter and offered her other arm for Meg to guide her.
Acadian Star Page 5
