by Janette Oke
I smiled and softly greeted them in the Indian tongue. I was thankful that at least I knew their language.
No one answered my words or smiled in return. They continued to stare, moving back slightly from the path that led me to the small cabin.
Relieved, at last I reached my husband and hoped to be able to divert some of the staring eyes. I wished for a door to duck through, but there was only one in the very small cabin, where men were busy moving in and out, carrying crates and boxes.
“Well,” said Wynn in a tired-sounding voice, “we are here.” Then his tone turned teasing. “I thought for a minute that you got lost.”
“I was in no hurry,” I explained, and Wynn smiled, remembering the “hurry” I had been in throughout the morning.
“It isn’t much, is it?” he said then, nodding his head at the cabin.
I tried to sound cheerful. “It’ll do for now,” I responded.
“What do you mean, for now? This is it, Elizabeth. This is our new home.”
“It is?” I know that shock registered in my voice.
“It is. I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I had expected something better than this—even for here.”
I had expected something better than this, too. Never had I thought that anyone lived in such crowded, miserable quarters. I’m sure my face turned pale, in spite of my healthy tan and my sunburned nose.
I recovered as quickly as I could, gulped away the tears in the back of my throat, and tried to speak. My voice sounded strange, forced. “We’ll manage,” was all I could say.
“Why don’t you find a spot in the shade somewhere until the men are done unloading?” Wynn suggested, and I nodded dumbly and moved Kip around the cabin.
Indian cabins were all around us. There was no place to go where I wouldn’t be subject to staring eyes. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I wished I could go into the house to get away from it all, but I would only be in the way. Goodness knows, there was little room in there as it was.
With new determination I lifted my chin, took Kip’s leash well in hand and started down the trail that led in a winding, circuitous route out of the village.
It took several minutes to walk far enough to be clear of the shabby little cabins. Kip whimpered and complained as I hurried him along. He wished to stop and investigate his new surroundings and make the acquaintance of the many thin, rough-coated dogs that strained against their tethers.
I hurried Kip right on by.
When we finally reached the woods beyond the village, I slowed my pace. I took a deep breath of the fresh summer air. It was tangy with the smell of pine trees and scented flowers. A small stream trickled nearby, and I followed the path that led along the bank.
We had not gone far when we came to a small lake. I looked out across it, enjoying its beauty, its tranquillity. I cannot explain what that little lake did for my spirits at that moment.
Here was a hallowed spot in the middle of all the squalor, the disappointment, of the little village. Here was someplace where I could go to refresh my soul. I eased myself down on the grass beside the waters and let my frustration and loneliness drain from me.
Surely, God is in this place. The words formed in my mind without any conscious effort. As I repeated them again, a quiet peacefulness settled upon me.
“Surely, God is in this place.” I spoke the words aloud. It was true. It was a promise. It was enough.
THREE
A New Home
The sun was dipping behind the western horizon and the evening was beginning to cool when I retraced my steps down the path and into the village. The familiar scent of woodsmoke greeted me, and I breathed it in deeply. Maybe life in this new village wouldn’t be so different after all.
For one panic-stricken moment I feared I might not be able to find the shabby little cabin that was to be our new home amid all the other shabby little cabins. But Kip led me right to it. Actually, I think I would have found it without difficulty, even by myself. There simply was no other cabin in the village with so much activity. One wagon still stood in front of our little building, boxes and crates piled high in the wagon box. I wondered why Wynn had not instructed the men to unload all the things.
I entered the door with caution, not sure just what I would find. In among boxes and empty crates, I found Wynn working alone and trying to sort some order out of the chaos. He looked up as I entered, relief showing in his eyes.
“I was a little worried about you,” he said. “I wondered where you had gone, but one of the children said you took the path out of the village. If you hadn’t come back soon, I would have been out looking for you.”
“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just thought it would take some time until things were settled down so I could get in the cabin.”
Wynn was quick to reassure me. “Well, I felt better knowing that you had Kip, and also knowing that you have a good sense of direction in the woods now. I was quite sure you wouldn’t take yourself too far to find your way back again.”
“I found a lake,” I informed him with some excitement.
Wynn’s head lifted from his hammering on the crate.
“I found a lake,” I repeated. “It isn’t very big, but it is lovely.”
Wynn seemed to realize that the little lake was important to me.
“You’ll have to show it to me,” he stated with a brief smile.
“I will,” I promised, “just as soon as we get settled.”
I moved forward then, slipping Kip’s leash so he was free to explore his new home. There wasn’t much to explore. He would have it covered in two or three minutes. For me, it might take a little longer.
“I see there is still a lot to be unloaded,” I remarked as I moved forward.
“I don’t know what we’ll do with it,” responded Wynn doubtfully.
“What do you mean, ‘do with it’?” I asked him.
“There’s no storage available, and it will never fit in here. We might just have to throw a tarp over it and leave it on the wagon.”
My eyes traveled over the cabin. Wynn was right. It was already very crowded. There was a blackened cookstove, a handmade table, two wooden chairs, a fireplace, a sagging bed in the corner, and a few rough wooden shelves. That was it.
Above me were dusty, weathered rafters. My first sight from the hill had been right. The roof did sag. I hoped it would not come crashing down upon us with the first heavy snowstorm.
My eyes turned then to the floor. It was hardpacked earth. Imagine! Not even rough boards to cover the dirt.
I had never lived in a dwelling with an earthen floor before. I wondered how I would manage living in one now. At least it won’t need washing, I thought ruefully. I closed my eyes tightly as a shudder passed through me.
“We will soon need the lamp,” Wynn was saying. “Do you remember what crate it was packed in?”
His words jolted me back to my senses. I tried to think. Yes, it was the big crate, the one with our bedding. I moved forward to point it out.
Wynn soon had the crate open and I joined him to remove the contents.
“I’ll get this crate out of our way and make some more room,” offered Wynn. “Perhaps with it out of the center of things, there will be enough room for you to make us some supper.”
I looked toward the stove. Already a brisk fire was heating the room. The cooking surface was much smaller than I was used to. It looked like it would hold only the kettle and one pot at a time. I went over to check the kettle for water. It was already filled. A pail of water stood on the nearby shelf. It too had been filled with fresh water. Dear Wynn, I noted mentally. He was so thoughtful. I turned to find that food supplies had already been arranged on the two shelves provided. Our dishes were stacked on the small table.
“I don’t know where you are going to find room to store things,” said Wynn. “Those two shelves won’t hold much.”
Wynn was right. I looked around. There didn’t seem to be any wall
space left to build more shelves either.
“Some things can be hung up,” I said, noticing a few nails in the walls.
With Wynn working to empty some boxes and clear some space, and me busy with our first meal, we began to feel that this small, poorly built cabin was going to be home.
When I had our supper ready, Wynn laid aside his hammer and went outside to wash in the basin he had set on a stump by the door. Soon he was back, his sleeves still pushed up and his hairline wet from rinsing his face. He looked tired—and he hadn’t even begun to unpack his office supplies or medicines.
“Where is your office?” I asked him after we had bowed in prayer together.
“There isn’t one,” he answered simply.
“Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“What did the last Mountie do?”
“He was alone, so he just stacked things up by the wall, I guess.”
“Oh,” was all the answer I could manage.
“You’re the first white woman to live in this village, Elizabeth,” Wynn went on.
“I am?” Suddenly I felt a heavy responsibility. As the first one here, I had much to uphold. The people of the village would undoubtedly judge the whole white race by what they found in me. It was scary, in a way.
Would I be found worthy? Would I be able to contribute to their way of life, or would I appear to threaten it? Would I fit in where no white woman had been before? Would the Indian women feel free to come and sip tea, or would they see me as a strange creature with odd ways who should be shunned and avoided?
I did not have the answer to any of those questions. I looked at the small space around me. I knew without even visiting the other homes that this one was much like theirs. I smiled. I was beginning to feel some comfort in my strange, new home. If I lived like they lived, then surely it would not be as difficult for me to cross the barriers. If my floor was dirt, if my stove was small, if my bed stood in the corner of the same room, then wouldn’t the Indian women find it easier to accept me as one of them?
Wynn must have noticed my smile. He lifted his head and looked at me, the question showing in his eyes.
“Well,” I said, “I might be white, but my home will be no different. Perhaps that will make it easier to become one of them.”
Wynn nodded. “Maybe so,” he said slowly, “but I am sorry, Elizabeth, that it has to be so ... so ... uncomfortable for you.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Uncomfortable, yes. But it certainly isn’t impossible, is it? I mean, with so many people living this way, I guess one must be able to do it and survive.”
Wynn still looked doubtful. I was sure he was sorry he had agreed to bring me here.
“Look at it this way,” I said, attempting to make my voice light. “Think of the little time that it will take to keep house. Why, I’ll be able to loaf away hour after hour out by that little lake.”
Wynn appreciated my effort, I know he did, but he still wasn’t quite ready to respond.
During the days that lay ahead, I would have to show him, bit by bit, that I was able to handle living in such a poor little cabin as a home. It would take time. First I would have to thoroughly convince myself.
A deep thankfulness swept through me that this was my second experience, not my first, in Wynn’s wilderness. If I had faced such conditions when originally coming to the Northland, I was sure I would not have been able to accept it as readily. Now, bit by bit, I had been seasoned to the rigors of the North. I felt that I might even be ready to endure such stark barrenness. After all, it would not be for long. Wynn himself had said that the Force never left a man for too long in one location—perhaps not more than three or four years.
I looked about me. Three or four years seemed like an awfully long time.
FOUR
Getting Settled
The next few days were busy with unpacking, sorting and repacking anything not absolutely essential. There was no way that all our material goods, few as they were, would fit in our tiny cabin.
It was very difficult for me to decide what I could live without. I had thought I was already down to the basics in the two rooms, plus storeroom, plus office, that we had occupied at Beaver River. Looking about me now, our Beaver River cabin seemed like a large, spacious home in comparison.
Now I began to wish that Kip had been raised as an outside dog. He seemed to be underfoot no matter where I stepped.
I carefully sorted my pots and dishes, keeping only a minimum. If we should ever have company, I would need to wash plates and cutlery before I could serve them, but it was the only way I could make things fit. I allowed only one extra of each item, and packed all the serving dishes. I would dish up our meals directly from the stove. Two pots and a frying pan were hung on nails on the already crowded wall. I did not even have room to put up my pictures of Samuel, so carefully drawn by Wawasee. With a heavy heart, I packed them away in one of the crates to be stored.
My washtubs, brooms, dustpan, scrubboard, and anything else that would hang, were also on the wall. Back at Beaver River many of these things had hung on the outside of our cabin. Here, according to the trader who ran the post, everything had to be hung on the inside. The people of the village understood that anything outside was community property. Only they often forgot to bring the items back to the spot from which they had originally borrowed them.
I wondered about the possibility of adding on a room or two, but I didn’t say anything to Wynn. He was busy enough trying to sort through his new responsibilities and figure out where to keep his much-needed supplies.
I had not realized how much I had enjoyed the ready water supply of our Beaver River well until we reached this new village. There was no handy well with a pump here. All our water had to be carried from the stream which was almost a quarter of a mile from the settlement. One soon learned to conserve. I found that one kettleful would do many jobs before it was thrown out to settle the dust on our path.
The other problem concerned the fact that there was no out-building. In Beaver River Wynn quickly had a building constructed for more privacy and convenience for me as his new bride. Here, there did not seem to be materials, labor, nor time for that construction. I had to quickly learn the “rule” of the villagers so I would know which paths were used by the women and children, and which paths to avoid. There were no signs with directional arrows—this was an unwritten understanding of village life.
When I felt I had packed away everything I could possibly do without, Wynn placed all the full boxes back on one of the wagons and carefully covered them with a canvas tarp to keep out the rain or snow. Then he tied heavy ropes backward and forward, over and under the wagon, to keep out other things. I hated those crisscrossed ropes. They seemed to speak of a way of life that was foreign and objectionable to me.
Wynn still had not found a place to keep his medical supplies, so he had to stack them in our cabin. Already every available space seemed to be filled with our few belongings. The extra blankets and our clothing were in boxes under our bed. Boxes of canned foods were stacked beneath the table. When we sat to eat a meal, we had to turn sideways in our chairs since our feet would not fit beneath our table.
There was room in the middle of our floor for the one bearskin rug. It helped to hide some of the earthen floor. I placed a few cushions on our bed. Seeing we had no couch of any kind, I felt it would be nice to have some extra back support, but in the days that followed I tired quickly of shifting the cushions each time we went to bed. I began to wish I had packed them away, too. But they did add a note of color and cheeriness to our drab surroundings, I decided.
More than a week had gone by before I visited the village trading post. There was no use buying anything more, since I couldn’t find room even for what we had on hand. I went to the store more to make the acquaintance of the trader and the villagers than anything. I had been outside my own cabin very little in the few days I had been in the settlement. It was now time to meet the people and make
some new friends.
English would do me no good in Smoke Lake. None of the people understood it. Even the trader in the store knew only a few English words. He spoke the Indian dialect like a native, which he actually was in part, though his mother tongue was French. I was thankful I had at least a working knowledge of the Indian tongue.
I met two women from the village as I walked to the trading post, and I smiled and greeted them in their own language. But they avoided eye contact and passed on, looking almost frightened. It was easy to see it would take some time for me, the white woman of the lawman, to be accepted. I would need to be patient.
I entered the store by its one low door and looked around. The interior was dark and smelled strongly of furs and tobacco smoke—not a pleasant smell at the best of times, and in the close, suffocating little building, it was nearly unbearable. I held my breath against it and looked about. I did need eggs and lard, if they were to be had. In the clutter of the small store, I saw nothing that looked like egg crates or lard pails, but then not everything was visible, I reminded myself.
The trader eyed me shrewdly, squinting against the smoke wafting up from his hand-rolled cigarette and into his eyes. He spoke to me, but I did not understand a word of it.
“I’m sorry,” I said in English, forgetting for a moment, “I don’t understand.”
He gave me a quizzical look and shrugged his shoulders.
I remembered then, and I switched over to the Indian tongue. He answered me in the native dialect, though his words were accented much differently than mine.
At least we can understand one another, I sighed in relief.
“I need eggs,” I announced carefully, using the rather unfamiliar Indian words.
“No eggs,” he informed me with an accompanying shake of the head.
“I also need some lard.”
