A Season for Miracles

by Jean Little

  I am looking at my hands right now and feeling proud of every callus and rough spot. Chopping down trees was very satisfying. And watching the beans grow in the garden that Mother and I scrabbled in amongst the stumps — even though they were the only seeds that we could plant because it was so late by the time we got a small garden cleared — was so gratifying. Father and his Indian friends have caught so many fish that we have a whole barrel salted down and, thanks to Angus and Duncan’s good shooting, their bear will supply us with meat until spring. (I was so tired of salt pork after having no other meat for so many months after we left Albany. Mother kept saying we were fortunate to have it, but I notice she avoids it like the plague now too.)

  Our cabin is snug and warm; the fire is blazing. Even though Mittens is getting to be a big cat she is curled up on the hearth in her favourite spot, right between Laddie’s paws. Laddie is snoring mightily, his nose twitching and his paws scrabbling a bit, which is making Mittens curious. Any moment now I’m sure she’ll be batting at them. She’s not too grown-up for that. I wonder what Laddie is dreaming of? I wonder if he ever remembers the home he lost when he was a puppy? Jamie loves him beyond reason and I love him too. Especially when he isn’t too smelly.

  We won’t be celebrating Christmas other than with prayers, of course, but I remember how it was last year when we were at Machiche, how kind Mrs. Livingstone was, and what a feast she gave us on Christmas Day. I can still smell that goose.

  Grannie is glaring at me right now and waving a broom. I’d better put this journal away and get to work. I’ll write more when I have time. I can’t thank Father enough for giving me this new journal for my fourteenth birthday last week. I’d filled every page of my old one and I didn’t know what I would do. Writing in it for the past year after we were driven out of Albany by the Rebels has helped me so much, I couldn’t imagine how I was going to carry on without it. But Father made me up a new one himself from the supplies he got for the school.

  I didn’t realize that he knew how much having a journal to pour my thoughts into means to me. I should have, though. Father and I have always had a special understanding.

  Uh-oh, Grannie is bustling over and she looks fit to be tied.

  Away with you, journal!

  Later

  What a lovely day it turned out to be. Angus and Duncan came by from their own shanties and brought raccoon skins. Though they’re grateful the British gave them land of their own in return for their loyalty, those shanties are far less comfortable than our own snug cabin, and they do seem to visit as often as they can.

  Jamie is delighted that Angus remembered his promise to make him a raccoon hat, and I will have warm mittens. Then Mr. Murchison turned up early this afternoon and we were able to have prayers with him and we sang all my favourite hymns. Grannie was so pleased. She has not stopped smiling since. Mr. Murchison is staying the night and she filled him so full of squirrel stew for supper that I thought he would burst. He will leave early tomorrow morning, however, as he wishes to go on to the Rosses’ and the weather looks threatening. I told him I could smell snow, and my nose is never wrong.

  I have written a note that he has promised to give to Hannah. I haven’t seen her for over a month.

  Time to blow out my candle and snuggle down beneath my quilt now. Jamie is sound asleep and snuffling a bit. He sounds like a puppy.

  December 27th, 1784

  My nose is never wrong. It is snowing heavily outside. Chores must be done anyway, so I will have to leave my warm nest of a bed and brave the cold. The water in the basin beside me is frozen solid. Oh, how I do not want to get up! But get up I must, and get Jamie up too. The animals must be fed and Bess the Second milked.

  Take a deep breath. Here goes!

  Later

  Oh, dear, what a dreadful thing has happened! I dug Jamie out of bed and chivvied him into his warmest clothes and out we went into the blizzard. Laddie, of course, was right at our heels. We fed the chickens and the geese, milked Bess, made certain the lambs — sheep now, really — had fodder, and slopped the pig. All done at top speed because I was most dreadfully cold and anxious for the bowl of hot porridge that I knew would be waiting for me.

  Then, just as we were making our way back from the shed to our cabin, there was a most tremendous clap of thunder! I have never heard thunder before with snow! Before we could grab hold of him, Laddie lit out for the bush. Jamie called and called and would have gone barging through the snow after the dog if I hadn’t wrapped my arms around him and held him back. I had to drag him to the cabin. It was snowing so hard by then that I could barely see our way back and I knew we had to take shelter. There was no question of going after Laddie. But now Jamie is huddled by the fire, crying, and will not eat a bite. I couldn’t force even a swallow of porridge down either.

  There’s nothing we can do but hope the fool dog will find his way back.

  December 28th, 1784

  Still snowing. Laddie still not back. The wind is howling around the cabin like a thousand lost souls in torment. Despite the care we took in chinking between the logs, drafts whistle in up here in the loft. My candle flame is flickering so much that I am afraid it will blow out. Jamie is inconsolable.

  December 29th, 1784

  Now I do have a story to tell.

  I awoke this morning and lay for a moment wondering what was different. Something was missing. And then I realized that the wind had stopped. I leaped out of bed and climbed down the ladder, ignoring the cold completely. I couldn’t see anything through the greased paper that Mother had covered the windows with, so I lifted the latch and pulled the door open. What a sight! Snow everywhere, glistening and sparkling in the early morning sun. It made a wall halfway up the doorway. But it had stopped falling. There was such a dead silence outside. I couldn’t hear a thing except the occasional soft plop of a blob of snow falling off the tree that we left standing beside the cabin to give us shade in the summer. I just drank in the clear, crisp air.

  And then Grannie let out a holler.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she cried, heading for me with fire in her eyes and a switch in her hand, but I nipped back up the ladder before she could reach me.

  The moment Jamie realized that it had stopped snowing, he was determined to go after Laddie, but Mother would have none of it.

  “The dog will find his own way home,” she said. “I won’t have you traipsing off in the woods.”

  Jamie stuck out his lip and looked sullen. Then Father gave him a hug.

  “I’m off to cut wood and see how Angus and Duncan have fared,” he said. “I’ll keep a lookout for your dog. Don’t worry.”

  But there was no reasoning with Jamie. We went out to do our chores and feed the animals. I stayed back to gather up the slop pail and when I came out of the shed there was no sign of him. Fresh tracks led off into the woods. My heart just sank like a stone. I ploughed through the snow back to the cabin as fast as I could.

  “Jamie’s gone off to look for Laddie,” I gasped as soon as I got in the door. “I have to go after him!”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Mother said, but I’m just as stubborn as Jamie. Father was long gone, and we couldn’t let Jamie wander around in the woods by himself. Mother has not been too well because of the baby she expects in the spring and she couldn’t go. Grannie of course is much too old. I kept on and on at Mother until finally she gave in. I assured her I’d follow Jamie’s tracks and catch up to him quickly, then make him turn back and we’d follow our tracks home. “We’ll be fine,” I said. And I really believed we would.

  But I hadn’t reckoned with the wolves.

  I have to stop now. My candle is guttering out and I cannot write more. I will finish my story tomorrow.

  December 30th, 1784

  The wolves. I have never been so frightened in my life. Not even when we heard that bear when we were picking blueberries last summer. Here’s what happened:

  I caught up to Jamie easily, but
of course he would not turn around. I had to trail him for the longest time, pleading and then threatening him. Finally I laid hands on him and was about to force him to turn back when I caught sight of something moving in the woods beside us. Something grey. I let go of Jamie and hissed at him to stop walking and be quiet. I must have sounded serious because for once in his life he obeyed me.

  I stared into the woods and suddenly realized that eyes were staring back at me. Yellow eyes. A lot of them. And then I realized that a pack of wolves was standing in the trees, staring at us. There must have been about five or six of them.

  “Wolves!” I whispered, and pointed.

  Jamie turned as pale as the snow.

  “What are we going to do?” he whispered back.

  For a moment I couldn’t think. I just froze in place.

  “Don’t look at them,” I said. Hadn’t Angus told me not to look a wild beast in the eyes if I ever came across one? “Let’s just start walking slowly back.”

  I took his hand and we began to retrace our steps. I wouldn’t look straight at the wolves, but to my horror I could see that they were keeping pace with us. I could see their forms slinking in and out of the trees beside us. My heart was pounding so hard I was certain they could hear it, but I had to make myself stay calm so as not to frighten Jamie.

  I told him as quietly as I could that it would be all right, willing my voice not to tremble. But I didn’t believe myself, and Jamie didn’t either.

  I don’t know how long we fought our way back through the snow. We could follow the path we had made coming out, but even so, it seemed to be taking so much longer to go back.

  The wolves never made a noise and that made it even more frightening. They just stalked us. Then I realized we were coming to the clearing we had made around our cabin. What would the wolves do then? We would be completely exposed to them and it was too far to the cabin to run for it. The wolves seemed to sense our fear and began to close in. I stopped in my tracks and clutched Jamie to me, not even trying to pretend that I wasn’t terrified anymore.

  The wolves spread out and began to encircle us. I picked up a branch and held it high, but I knew it would not be of any use.

  And then — oh, thanks be to the mercy of God — and then I heard a shot ring out. One wolf fell dead even as he was about to spring, and the rest disappeared back into the woods. I looked up and there stood one of the Indians that Father had befriended. The younger one. The one who looked to be about the same age as Angus. He just nodded to me and motioned for me to follow him to the cabin. I was shaking so hard that I could hardly make my feet move. When we reached the cabin I began to babble some kind of thanks to him, but he just nodded again and left.

  We burst through the cabin door just as Mother was bursting out, only to be greeted by the smell of hot, wet dog. Laddie was curled up in front of the fire, Mittens between his paws as usual.

  “He turned up right after you left,” Mother said. “And I have been beside myself with worry about you. What was that shot?”

  It took me a long time to calm her down.

  When Father returned and Mother told him what had happened, late though it was, he took off immediately with a sack of flour and a big pouch of his tobacco for the Indian boy. He didn’t come back until well after dark.

  “It was little enough I could do to thank him,” he said.

  My hand is still trembling so that I can hardly read what I have written. But I am happy. Jamie refused to come up to the loft to sleep. I just peeked down and saw him curled up beside Laddie on the hearth. While I was watching, Grannie crept over and tucked a quilt around them both.

  January 1st, 1785

  We have had a lovely Hogmanay and it is still going on. Grannie and Mother and I had our cabin cleaned and scrubbed until it positively shone. Grannie made her wonderful oatcakes, sweetened with maple sugar that the Indians gave us, instead of the usual honey. They were delicious. No singing at the doors of neighbours’ houses, of course, as the Rosses are half a day’s journey away. But we celebrated anyway. Angus came in for supper and brought bannock that he had made. Who would ever have suspected he could do that?

  Duncan did not appear and at first I was upset about that, I must admit, but then I began to have a sneaking suspicion. Much to my delight my suspicion proved correct when there came a knock at the door just when it must have been around midnight. It was Duncan, playing the part of the first-foot. He brought bread that he had baked himself and a scuttle of burning coals to add to our fire. Warmth and comfort for the whole year, exactly what the first-foot is supposed to bring.

  And then, today, a ringing of horses’ bells and a great shouting brought us all outside just as we were about to sit down for dinner, and there was the whole Ross family with their horse and cart. What merriment! Jamie, George and Hugh took up right from where they had last left off, making mischief, and Molly was scolding as usual, but with sidelong glances at Angus all the while. Mother and Aunt Norah hugged each other and could not stop laughing and talking. Aunt Norah even hugged Grannie and Grannie almost hugged her back before she caught herself and remembered her dignity. Father and Uncle Andrew escaped all the noise and bustle as soon as they could and went outside to smoke their pipes, but Angus and Duncan stayed until it was time for them to go back to their own shanties.

  Hannah and I have not stopped talking since she arrived. She is tucked up in bed with me now and I have just begged a few moments to bring my journal up to date and then we will start talking again. The boys are supposed to be asleep, but there are a lot of thumps and giggles coming from their side of the loft. I’m pretending not to notice it, but between the lot of them they have managed to smuggle Laddie up and he is under their quilts with them. I may not see him, but there’s no mistaking the smell.

  For the first time Hannah has admitted that maybe, just maybe, she fancies Alex Calder as much as he fancies her. For my part, I showed her the quilt I have begun to make.

  “For my marriage,” I said. “Although it will most certainly be a long way off.”

  “A long way off,” she replied, “but I warrant I know who it will be to. Someone who seemed mighty proud of his socks, perhaps?”

  Fortunately it was so dark that she couldn’t see me blush. But it is all right for Hannah to know my secret. She is my best friend and always will be.

  I am sitting here with a quilt around my shoulders. I can smell the wood smoke from our fire. The wind is just whispering around our walls tonight and it is warm and cosy in here. My candle is making dancing shadows on the walls and the boys have fallen silent at last. I hear a faint snoring but I think it is Laddie. Downstairs, Mother and Father are still talking quietly with Aunt Norah and Uncle Andrew. Molly must be fast asleep beside Grannie. I wonder if she is dreaming of Angus?

  I remember last year around this time, thinking that home was a very sad word. That I would never have a home again. But you know what, dear journal of mine?

  I was wrong.

  Now Hannah is nudging me to put my journal away and get back to our talk.

  So I will.

  In 1862 Harriet Palmer undertook a treacherous overland journey from Manitoba to the Cariboo gold fields of British Columbia. On the journey she became close friends with Talbot Dyer and the Morgan brothers.

  A Night to Rejoice

  Tuesday, October 27, 1863

  As gloomy a day as I’ve ever seen. Fog and drizzle roll into Victoria and the damp settles in the convent’s brick walls, where it will stay all winter. But the weather suits my own dreary mood. I am writing this during Literature class. I just took a peek, and Sister does not seem to notice my inattention. The cause of my gloominess is that Talbot has not yet returned from the gold mines in the Cariboo. Joe and Henry Morgan arrived two weeks ago, Henry leaving immediately for business in San Francisco, Joe staying in Victoria. Talbot was to finish repairs to the water wheel at the gold claim on Williams Creek, and then winter here in Victoria. He promised me he’d see me
at Christmas!

  Tilly just poked me in the back. I best pay attention. Drawing is next — my favourite subject here at St. Ann’s School. I have begun a portrait of Talbot, which I want to give to him at Christmas. (My most hated class is dancing. It appears my feet have a mind of their own.)

  Thursday, November 26, 1863

  I write this upon the deck of the steamer that takes Tilly, Joe and me to New Westminster. I am accompanying Tilly, who is heading home to a month of Christmas festivities, dances and parties with her betrothed, a man who she says lacks hair on his head, smells of damp and old age, and has hands that feel like wet fish. Her father has arranged the marriage. Tilly insisted I come with her, despite the three-year difference in our age, as she says I am the only person of sense she knows. That and the fact we are both without mothers created a bond between us when we first met at St. Ann’s.

  I jumped at the invitation because it meant I could ask after Talbot. He still has not arrived in Victoria, and will have to pass through New Westminster on his way from the Cariboo. Joe is accompanying us, and is quite puffed out with importance to be responsible for two young ladies. (Which is funny, since Henry asked me to keep an eye on his brother.)

  It is a good sail today through the rocky, heavily treed islands. I would enjoy it except for Talbot’s absence. Half the time I am vexed with him, half the time worried. Joe is concerned, too. Remembering all the troubles we faced on our trek from Fort Garry to the Cariboo last year assures me that Talbot can take care of himself. But we still hear stories of people freezing to death in the Cariboo during a fall blizzard, or injuries at the mines, or miners being hit over the head by a gold robber, or even murdered.

  Monday, November 30, 1863

  New Westminster