Me’tekw slid forward until he sat under the slow trickle of raindrops falling from leaves overhead. The water cooled his eyes when he lifted his face toward the forest ceiling, and he kept them open as long as he could, praying, begging for guidance, all the time knowing he was unworthy. He stayed that way, his lips soundlessly forming penitent words as rain mixed with his tears. Water slid down his cheeks, rolled onto his shoulders and chest, meandered down his body, and Me’tekw forced himself to feel nothing at all.
He still didn’t move when the quiet pattering of the rain was interrupted by a soft huffing noise. The damp, heavy odour of an animal reached him, and Me’tekw slowly lowered his chin. As he’d expected, the traveler was a black bear, its small eyes focused on the flourishing blueberry bushes all around him. From his infancy, Me’tekw had been taught the strengths and powers belonging to Kisu’lk’s animal world, and at the sight of the great beast standing only a few feet upwind, his heart soared with gratitude. The animal’s appearance was clearly a message from the Creator, and of all the spirit guides, Me’tekw couldn’t have hoped for better. Bear brought healing and renewal, two things Me’tekw needed the most.
“Kwe, muwin,” he greeted the bear, knowing that even though the words sounded only in his mind, the animal would hear.
The bear snuffled and threw up its massive head, alerted to a possible threat. When its curious stare landed on him, Me’tekw apologized for interrupting its foraging. He told the animal it was an honour to be visited by such a powerful spirit, and he wished it good hunting. He didn’t move when the bear took a step toward him, then another. After a few more grunting breaths, it seemed to tire of the man. It rose to its hind legs, reaching for loftier berries, and Me’tekw discovered the bear was a female. She was also pregnant, and tears of joy came to his eyes, making everything clear.
Kisu’lk had a purpose for every living being, though that purpose was rarely made clear. Me’tekw’s spirit was on a journey, but he had gotten lost in the maze of living. All this misfortune was Me’tekw’s doing, he knew. He was responsible, and he accepted the entire weight on his shoulders. But now the bear had shown him what to do, how to make it all right for Marguerite’s memory.
To create a future, he must fulfill a vow he had made over twenty years ago.
Amélie
TWENTY-EIGHT
We did not leave Camp de l’Espérance until near the end of August, and I was restless every day leading up to our departure. With every new journey we had less to carry. Giselle, Papa, and I gratefully accepted moccasins from the neighbouring Maliseet, but that was all. This time we left with little more than the clothes on our backs.
The late-summer air changed swiftly from hot to cold then back again, forcing us to either carry our heavy wool cloaks or wrap them tightly around our bodies. Papa seemed never to mind the extra weight when Giselle asked him to carry hers, and though I longed for her to pull her own weight, I understood. Once she had been a vivacious, spoiled little girl. Now she was a sad young woman, reduced in every way by the horror of the past year. She ate little and spoke less. If Papa or I managed lift her spirits even temporarily, it was a reason to celebrate.
Whenever possible we stuck to the shoreline, since the breeze there cleared away most of the stinging insects. Alexandre and Victor were skilled guides, but if it hadn’t been for the Maliseet, I doubted we would have found our way. Still, I felt safe with the two Acadians, and I learned valuable lessons. Victor collected a number of bones from the riverbank, then he put his hands over mine and showed me how to make strong knives out of them by sharpening the edges against rocks. He taught me how to use a knife to cut under the bark of a birch to scrape out a bit of sap, which we could eat. When we found rapids, the men hunted along the still edges until they spotted black sturgeon gliding sluggishly through the water. They caught the fish with forked spears, and any we didn’t eat right there were strung up by the fire to dry so we could take the meat with us.
“Shall I show you how to make tea?” Victor asked one night.
“How can you make tea? We have no pot.”
“Certainly we do.”
His idea of a pot was a large boulder by the riverbed. Time had worn a dip in its surface, and rainwater filled the hole. Using a couple of blades as a shovel, he plucked a stone out of the fire and dropped it into the water. Almost immediately, it came to a boil.
“That is amazing,” I said, staring at it. “I never thought of doing that.”
He puffed his chest out and grinned down at me. “Impressed?
I had to laugh. “Yes. I am impressed.”
A pine tree stood beside us, and he plucked a small handful of needles, which he cut into small pieces and dropped into the water.
“We’ll leave this for a few minutes,” he said, pulling two cups from his pack, “then you and I can enjoy a cup of tea.”
While we weren’t armed well enough to take in any large game, we followed the tracks of larger animals—such as moose—to the side of a calm lake. We tied hangman’s nooses from spruce roots and hung them across the paths of smaller animals, effectively snaring a few rabbits and squirrels. Fortunately, I never saw the snakes they had spoken about back at l’Espérance.
At night we built small fires, not wanting to be detected by any passing soldiers—though we neither saw nor heard any—and on clear, happier nights we sang quiet Acadian songs and told stories. We slept in lean-tos built of saplings, covered by overlapped birch bark to keep out the rain. Our beds were soft, fragrant cushions of balsam, the branches set out in such a way that we faced the fire for warmth. But on the nights when the wolves sang, I lay quietly under my cloak, unable to sleep.
“I will keep the fire high,” Victor assured me. He sat a few feet away, feeding the fire until the entire camp flickered with an orange glow. “You do not need to worry about them.”
“But you will need to sleep. What then?”
He tugged the top of my coat higher over my shoulders. “I will protect you, Amélie. Go to sleep now.”
Victor was attentive to me, and his advances became more obvious to everyone by the day. I was sorry I could not return his feelings. He was handsome and brave, and his stories were witty, but my heart still ached for Connor. Papa watched, gauging my reactions. When it became apparent I held no particular affection for Victor other than friendship, Papa began to step subtly between us.
We travelled on foot and in canoes we borrowed from friendly Maliseet. With every exhausting mile I prayed our destination would be worth it. Practically every step was difficult, and we began to wonder how many more we could take. Our moccasins served us well, but between the wetness and the cold, we suffered greatly from blisters. Giselle became miserable with them, and though I had hoped we could continue on despite the pain, we were forced to rest for a few days here and there so our wounds could heal.
Many days and many demanding portages later, we arrived in Quebec City. We were not the first Acadians to stumble in, half starved and hopeful; I was told over a thousand of our people already lived in the city. Sadly, they looked to be faring no better than we had back in Boishébert’s village. With no other options available, Papa, Giselle, and I were put in a cramped house we shared with another, much larger family, and we huddled close together to ward off cold nights. Everyone was starving, everyone was sick. At night I was constantly jarred awake by someone’s hacking cough or worse. One woman suffered terribly from pain in her ears, but I was unable to help. At home I would have applied the juice of salty onions to the source to give her some reprieve, but since we had none, her daughter was reduced to the old method of blowing smoke into her ear. It did little good from what I could see.
“Papa,” I said after the first night, “we were living better in the forest. Can we not return to the woods?”
He shook his head. “Let us give this a chance.”
Alexandre and Victor left for Shediac as soon as they could, saying they needed to find their families and jo
in the ongoing fight against the British. I was sorry to see them go; I had enjoyed their company. A part of me longed to follow them.
Quebec City had been blasted by the war, which had gained strength while we’d been gone. The British forces were close, and their ships blocked any French support attempting to come from the sea. As a result, the city was suffering and greatly underfed. We quietly ate small offerings of cod, but I could not force myself to eat the awful grey meat they set in front of us. I didn’t even know what animal it had come from, but the look and the smell were terrible. On those nights I heard more retching than coughing, and I was relieved that I’d chosen to go hungry.
Not everyone settled into despair without a fight. When meals were distributed, disagreements often broke out: people accused others of taking too much or stealing. One night I was cornered by two men who did exactly that. I protested, saying I had eaten my share and no more, but one seemed determined to search my person for bits of stale bread. I shrieked and pushed his hands away, and Papa was there in a moment, shoving them back. That was the night he agreed with me, saying we needed to find a place to live outside the city.
The next morning he set out, promising to return the same day. When he did, he brought a familiar face with him. I stood in welcome as he and Victor walked into the house.
“I thought you were gone!” I exclaimed, fighting the urge to throw my arms around Victor’s neck. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him.
“Soon,” Victor said, smiling warmly. “Very soon.”
“Victor has found us another place to live,” Papa said. “For now, anyway.”
“Yes, I think I can get you out of here, if you don’t mind living in the woods. It’s a small cabin, about a day’s hike from here.”
“I don’t mind at all!” I cried, but Papa put his finger to his lips, warning me to be quiet. Everyone in this awful place would want to live somewhere else, so for Victor to offer us this prize was a great thing. “When? When can we leave?” I whispered.
“Go and get your sister,” said Papa.
“It’s an abandoned trapper’s cabin,” Victor explained as we walked through the forest the next day. “It isn’t much, but it is four walls with fresh water nearby. I am sure you will be able to do something with it.”
As long as we were away from the ill, starving crowds, I was happy. When we finally arrived, we stepped out of the trees, our bodies shaking with hunger, and stopped short at the sight of a dilapidated building.
“How did you come by this?” Papa asked, staring at it.
“The Maliseet told me about it. The trapper died last winter.”
Giselle looked dubiously at the door, hanging off one remaining hinge. “Is he still in there?”
Victor laughed. “No. They took him away when they found him.”
It was difficult to envision living in this place. The roof drooped, weighted down by moss, and the timbers were half rotted. The forest had crept to the door and almost taken possession, though a section close by the cabin remained relatively clear of growth. Perhaps the trapper had attempted a garden. Beyond the yard I could hear the bubbling of a stream, and my mouth watered at the thought of a cool drink.
“The fellow left all his traps inside,” Victor said, “so you should be all right for eating.”
I was surprised by my disappointment. “You’re leaving after all?”
“With regret, Amélie.” He took a breath. “I know I speak boldly, but time is short. I must say what is on my mind.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling behind his beard. “You cannot be unaware of my affection at this stage in our journey.”
I tried to avoid his gaze.
He nodded. “You do not feel as I do.”
He was a patient man, good, strong, loyal, and brave. And he cared for me. Why could I not consider him as more than a friend? But my hand went to Connor’s ring, and my fingers tightened around the cool metal.
“I’m sorry, Victor.”
“I understand. I do. If you felt otherwise, if you could see yourself with me, I would be happier, but we cannot force affection on one another. Still, I want you to be safe, you and your family. This house will be of some help, I hope.”
Papa clasped both Victor’s hands in his. “Thank you, my friend. I am in your debt.”
“We must all do what we can for each other.”
He released Papa’s hand and stepped away. “Farewell, Charles. Farewell, ladies.” His eyes paused a moment longer on me, then he turned and strode into the woods.
Connor
TWENTY-NINE
As a British sergeant, Connor had no choice but to return to the fort at Grand Pré; however, since war had extended to the sea, he would have to make the journey on foot. Before he left, he decided to dispose of his bright red coat. He could masquerade as a Frenchman, if need be, along the way. The decision was a good one, for French travelers offered informative conversation. When he told them he was going to l’Acadie, they advised him against it. The British had taken control of the area and were holding fast, they said.
“Travel with us,” one militiaman suggested. “We are stronger if there are more of us, and you look like you can fight.”
“I thank you, but I cannot. My home is in Chignecto, and I must see what is left of her.”
He never mentioned Grand Pré, for stories travelled as rapidly as birds here. His best ploy was to travel in secrecy whenever possible, stay on his own. The journey would go more quickly that way as well. On occasion he was forced to share food and transport with other travelers, and at times he enjoyed the company.
Questions always came. “You were on the boats?”
“Yes.” It was easy to fill his voice with loathing, since even as a sailor he had seen what hell those boats were.
“What do you remember?”
“I do not wish to speak of it,” was his response, and no one asked any more after that.
One night a Mi’kmaq hunter appeared silently from the forest and stood by Connor’s fire, gesturing toward it. He was perhaps twenty years Connor’s senior, his face scarred heavily by smallpox. Connor invited the man to share its warmth, and the two ate well, exchanging the stranger’s dried venison and Connor’s dried fish. Strangely, the conversation was one-sided. Evidently the hunter could not speak. At first Connor wondered if his dining companion was deaf as well, but he appeared to be paying close attention to both Connor’s words and the surrounding forest, though his only responses were facial expressions. Eventually Connor stopped speaking as well.
The following morning the hunter gestured for Connor to follow, pointing to a fish Connor had set out to dry the day before and indicating an even larger one farther down the shore. As they trekked along the river’s edge, the way became rockier, the water faster as it built toward rapids. The farther they went, the more erratic the shoreline became, interrupted by rocks and increasing numbers of fallen trees, and the noise of the river became overwhelming. The men were obliged to climb over the debris, using it as bridges when possible. Eventually Connor would not have been able to hear the other man even if he’d been able to speak—but he did hear the snap of rotten timber as it gave way under the hunter’s moccasins.
For a moment the man was lost to him, sucked under the frothing white water. Connor scanned the surface, but it was a few seconds before the sleek black head appeared again, bobbing briefly above the water several feet ahead. His face rolled to the open air, his mouth open, every muscle slack.
Connor dropped the sack he’d been carrying and ran downstream, needing to get ahead of the racing current. There was no clear pathway, just scattered rocks and brush, but he had no time to worry about his footing. Once in a while the hunter’s face appeared, his limp body shoved closer to the river’s edge, toward Connor. Downriver Connor spotted an outcrop of boulders that formed a slick yet promising pathway into the water. He tore off his heavy cloak, left it on the shore, and splashed into the freezing river. His eyes stayed
on the body moving rapidly in his direction, bumping off rocks as it came; he hoped it would continue on its present path, but at the last moment the Mi’kmaq hunter jolted away, forcing Connor to go in deeper after him.
Bracing his hand on the last boulder as long as possible, he waded to the centre of the rapids, fighting the current’s constant jerking and tugging on his legs. At last he reached out, trapping the man’s arm as he was about to drift past, but he was almost dragged down by the dead weight.
“Don’t you dare,” he roared, not knowing if the order was directed at the current, the silent man, or himself.
He leaned as far over as he could and snaked his arms under the man’s frigid underarms, then he began the treacherous backward walk to the shore. The unconscious hunter had been beaten by the rocks, and one arm bled freely. He showed no sign of life as Connor dragged his body onto dry ground and squatted beside him. He cleared the tangled strands of hair from the man’s face, then rolled him to one side and pounded between his shoulder blades, the thud of Connor’s joined fists like a drumbeat on the cold, wet skin. Suddenly the body jerked and water gushed from his mouth, followed by such a hacking and gasping that Connor feared he might cough himself to death. After the convulsions eased, the soaked hunter lay still, but soon he began to vibrate with shock and cold.
Connor reached for the cloak he had dropped on the ground and laid it over the shaking man. “You’re all right,” he said quietly.
The dark eyes swam into focus then closed. Leaving him to rest, Connor gathered what he needed and lit a roaring fire to warm them both. The hunter awoke an hour or so later, weak and battered but able to struggle into a sitting position. He seemed whole: no broken bones, and the bleeding had stopped. Still, he was in no condition to continue on that day.
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