Daughters of the Deer, page 11
Anahu insists that neither rain nor snow will fall from the cloud-covered sky that night, so they sleep without shelter beneath the stars. Tucking himself into his furs, Pierre glances at the leaders and sees that they are curled into the same furs. Anahu’s arm is wrapped around Tihkoosue, like sin doesn’t exist under a wide open sky. Pierre feels the fish he ate swirling in his stomach. He prays to his Lord and gives thanks for their safe arrival on day one. He then prays for his body, for his upset stomach, his sore shoulders and aching thigh. He prays for Marie and their unborn child. Lastly, he prays for the wretched souls of the hunt leaders and for protection—for their sin not to seep into his own spirit as he sleeps so close to them. It is only after his prayers that he realizes he forgot to offer the river tobacco for the fish he caught. The pouch remains untouched in his pocket.
* * *
*
MOST OF THE OTHERS ARE still asleep, lumped under their furs, when Pierre wakes in the early dawn feeling restless and still tired. He’d forgotten how much he dreams when he sleeps in the open, and these ones had a merciless intensity that has leaked into the morning. He sits up and scratches at his beard, nodding at Anahu, who had taken the last watch over his protests. “You will have your turn, Pierre,” he’d said. “But on this first night, take your rest.”
His brother’s dead face assails him from out of his dreams. He gets to his feet and hikes to the river, which is remarkably calm. When he arrives at the shore, he crouches down and splashes icy water over his face. But, still, the memories persist.
A cold sweat speckles his forehead, as he relives the sight of his brother, Philippe, floating face down in the water, his wet blond hair fanning out. Pierre had swum frantically toward him, then hauled him back to shore, swallowing mouthful after mouthful as he repeatedly went under. Pierre was only thirteen, but that was three years older than Philippe. He knew he shouldn’t have left him alone by the river while he went to look for yellow apples in the nearby orchard. His brother was not a strong swimmer. Neither of them was. After he dragged him onto the bank, Pierre tried to shake him awake, shuddering in fear in his heavy wet clothes. At last, he wiped the tears and snot from his face, and lifted his brother’s body in his arms and carried him back to the farm. Back to their parents.
Pierre closes his eyes by this foreign northern river, relieved to be alone while he wrestles once more with the memory of his brother’s death. The only sound that surrounds him is the dawn chorus of birds whistling their sweet, sad songs. He sits down under a large birch and recites his morning prayers, slowly feeling himself settle. The wind picks up, causing the water to ripple, and the birds continue chirping their melodies. He’s not looking forward to another day of paddling on the river, especially if he can’t shake these dreams. Prayers done, he gets up to check on the canoes and the beaver traps, which are empty. He remembers the tobacco in his pocket and pats the pouch, promising that he will offer some the next time he is lucky enough to catch dinner.
On his way back to camp, he catches a glimpse of Anahu and Tihkoosue embracing among the birch trees. He immediately looks down at his boots, coughing loudly. When he looks up, Anahu waves to him, but Tihkoosue yanks Anahu’s arm, pulling him back toward the camp. When they’re gone, Pierre gets on his knees to pray again, deciding he will fast this morning. He needs the Lord to know he does not condone their ways.
Back at the fire, Henri offers some bread to Pierre, who waves it away.
“Not eating today, friend?” Jacques calls, smirking as he takes a swig from his flask.
“I saw them,” Pierre whispers.
“Who?” Henri asks.
“Them, you know. The couple.”
Jacques doesn’t bother lowering his voice. “Did you see them fucking?”
“No.” Pierre squeezes his eyes shut. “But they were kissing. Out in the open.”
“Did you get hard?” Jacques bursts out laughing and Henri laughs with him, but then covers his mouth with regret.
“That’s enough. Enough,” Pierre says.
Henri gets to his feet. “It’s strange, two men, that’s for sure.”
“It’s a sin,” Pierre insists. “And we are sinners for allowing it in our presence.”
Jacques chews on some dried venison. “What do you want to do, shoot them? Jesus Christ, Pierre. Just look the other way. They clearly only have eyes for each other.”
“These people need guidance. They need the Lord to lead them. To heal them.”
“Let’s concentrate on getting our moose. Until one of them climbs on me in the night, I’m going to worry about other things.” Jacques jiggles his flask from side to side and chugs the rest of his liquor. “But, make no mistake, if they were to touch me, I’d blow their fucking heads off.”
* * *
*
ONCE EVERYONE HAS EATEN, the men pack up their belongings and set off for another long day. The early morning mist clears as they paddle the ice-cold river. Pierre can’t stop thinking about Anahu and Tihkoosue. Their wickedness. Their deviance. He tries to centre himself, watching each dip of his paddle, listening to its swoosh. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and his brother’s body appears, bobbing in the water. He opens his eyes and gasps for air, trying to think of Marie, of her warmth, of their soon-to-be-born child.
* * *
*
AFTER THREE MORE ARDUOUS DAYS paddling north, against strong winds and falling snow, the leaders say they’ve gone as far as they need to go to find their moose. Pierre is terribly relieved. The last two days have been nearly unbearable. As predicted, Jacques ran out of drink and his mood soured the entire natural world around him. His temper is short and his words are ever cruel, with Pierre his steady target. A sober Jacques does not find his friend’s piety a laughing matter, but a reproach, and Jacques can’t bear any man’s judgment. Pierre almost wishes he had managed to bring more brandy in his pack, for he is more tolerable with the drink.
* * *
*
THAT EVENING THEY ONCE MORE search the perimeter of the area where they will make camp for signs of enemy presence. Finding none, they cook their dinner and set their sentries, and, as soon as they’ve eaten, even Pierre is able to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
In the thick of the night, raised voices awaken him. He sits up to see Etchemin, silhouetted by firelight, holding an Indian by the throat. An Iroquois, his head shaved on both sides, his remaining hair like a high tail.
Despite Etchemin’s large hands around his neck, the Iroquois doesn’t struggle. Anahu and Tihkoosue stand on either side of him.
Jacques, beside Pierre, rolls to grab his rifle. “It looks like we got ourselves a scout.”
“I hope there’s only one.” Pierre fumbles for his own rifle and feels better when he touches it.
Henri also wakes and, after checking out the scene, inches closer to the fire and stokes it to bring back a stronger flame.
The Algonkin men tie the scout to a tree.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Jacques calls. “We killing him?”
Etchemin comes to squat by the fire, staring for long minutes into the flames as if he’s listening for counsel. Without answering Jacques, he gets up and walks toward the river where the boats are tied. Mingan follows him into the dark. Pierre wonders if they’re looking for more Iroquois. Maybe he should follow them.
“What about our new friend?” Jacques calls to Anahu, who is attempting to raise the prisoner’s head so he can look into his face. The man keeps his eyes shut tight. Both he and Anahu ignore Jacques, who eventually lies back down and pulls his fur over him.
Pierre feels unsettled having the Iroquois here. He knows he won’t sleep again this night. When you come across a bear cub in the woods, it often means the mother is close by. An ambush is possible, even probable. He sees Etchemin and Mingan come back from the river and Etchemin whispers something to Anahu, who nods at them, and then toward their bed rolls. Anahu and Tihkoosue sit down by the prisoner to keep watch.
The sky is nearly lightening by the time Pierre shuts his eyes.
A few hours later, he wakes and realizes that he is covered in a light dusting of snow. Even with his warm jacket and fur draped over his body, he still shudders. He seems to be tolerating the cold less and less as he ages. At thirty-three, he often cannot chase the chill from his bones no matter how close he sits to the fire. As a soldier in France, he spent months in the mud and the damp, with no shelter even when it poured with rain. Now he is sure he wouldn’t be able to survive such conditions. He sits up and looks around him. The prisoner is still tied to the tree, asleep, with his head bent, guarded now by Gilbert and Etchemin.
Pierre stands, and stretches his back and neck, then walks over to a large pine to relieve himself. He wonders how this Iroquois will affect their plans. He doesn’t have the stomach for torture—in his early days of soldiering here, he’d seen what Indians can do to their enemies—and hopes that he won’t have to witness it. Sometimes, those visions crawl into his night terrors, joining the other horrors. Pierre wants more than anything to catch his moose so he can return home to Marie.
By the time he comes back from saying his morning prayers amid an ancient cluster of white pines, the hunt leaders have decided that Henri and Etchemin will stay in camp to guard the scout. The rest of them are to spend the day hunting as planned.
“You feel all right about staying behind?” Pierre asks Henri.
“I’ll be fine.” He glances anxiously at the Iroquois, sitting quietly in his restraints, a cut over one eye.
“Lucky you,” Jacques calls to Pierre from where he stands by the fire. “I’m your partner for the day.”
“Fine,” Pierre says. “Just don’t slow me down.”
“Me? You’re the one who should be staying with the prisoner so the rest of us can hunt.”
Pierre slings his rifle over his shoulder, takes his smaller bag with his canteen and leaves Jacques to follow him through the dense bush.
* * *
*
NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS have passed or how much distance separates them from their motherland, Jacques will never let him forget what happened on the battlefield back home. He doesn’t even have to mention it outright to hold it over Pierre’s head.
In one long battle in France’s decades-long war against Spain, Pierre suffered a grave leg wound. Struck down, he lay helpless and bleeding on the field, as the battle raged on around him. As images of his brother dying alone and afraid arrived to haunt him, Pierre decided that he deserved to die too, and gave up. But somehow Jacques stumbled upon him among the dead soldiers littered on the ground. Without hesitating, he lifted Pierre in his arms and carried him to safety. His life was saved, as was his leg. The two men have only spoken of the incident once, when Pierre was still in the field hospital. Pierre had thanked Jacques for saving his life, but afterward it was like the balance between them was permanently tipped in Jacques’s favour. Pierre now believes that Jacques only sticks close to remind himself how much braver and more valiant he is than his friend. How much more of a soldier. After all, he received a medal of valour for saving Pierre as well as a promotion, while Pierre remained a corporal.
Pierre rubs the rounded scar on his leg and pushes on, calling back that he thinks they should try their luck along the river. Remarkably for once, Jacques doesn’t argue.
They hike up the rugged riverside, every now and then having to slash their way through the undergrowth. The ground is blanketed with last night’s snowfall, a fresh canvas they scan for moose tracks. Pierre looks for foraging signs in the trees, broken branches, chewed up twigs, any proof that a moose is nearby. He was frightened of moose when he first arrived, having heard stories about them on the ship. How monstrous they were. How easily they could trample you.
They spend the morning searching for traces but find none.
At last, Pierre says, “Let’s try this caller Marie gave me.” He pulls it out of his bag.
“I don’t know,” Jacques says, regarding the little cone of bark skeptically. “Too much hocus-pocus, if you ask me.”
Pierre puts his lips to the cone and blows. A weak sound spurts out and Jacques chuckles.
“You try it then,” Pierre says.
“Hand it over.”
Jacques takes it and makes it honk immediately, surprising himself and Pierre, who says, “Finally, your big mouth is good for something.”
They crouch in a large cluster of fragrant balsam, and Jacques honks again, this time holding it for longer. The wind picks up and Pierre breathes in deeply, and tries to engage all his senses in summoning the moose, just as Marie suggested. The trouble is, he doesn’t believe humans can communicate with animals and the effort makes him uncomfortable. What kind of sorcery is this?
Still, after only a few minutes, they hear branches crack. Pierre holds his breath, staying perfectly still, careful not to turn in the direction of the sound. Soon both men are enveloped in the nauseating stench of male moose. Jacques lifts up on his heels to peer around and then points. A large bull moose is grazing at most twenty steps from them. Jacques stands, raising his rifle. His shot strikes the animal in the chest, and he is up and running toward it before the moose has fallen.
“Jacques,” Pierre calls in warning. He’s heard of a bull moose chasing its hunter and trampling him even when riddled with wounds.
Jacques doesn’t stop, but he’s a lucky one. As he reaches the animal, it drops to its knees, making a last surrendering cry. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jacques slices the moose’s neck. Blood gushes at his feet.
Pierre flinches at the gore and says a silent prayer, thanking God for their success. He thinks of thanking the animal too, but only for a moment. Instead he thanks the Lord a second time. He edges closer, in awe of the beast’s size. Even though he has seen moose often enough, he’s astounded by the immensity of this animal.
Jacques grabs hold of the large antler and turns to Pierre, with a cocky tilt of his head. “What a beauty! This might be the biggest beast I’ve ever taken down.”
Up this close, Pierre feels the need to hold his nose against the powerful stench of urine. “Should I go for help so we can carry it back to camp?”
“Nah, we can handle this. First, help me roll the beast on its back. Then cut some branches we can turn into a sled to haul the meat back.”
Pierre has to push with a shoulder, digging in with his feet, to help shift the carcass. Then he cuts several lengths of vine from a nearby tree and ties the animal’s back legs out of the way.
Jacques is already slicing its abdomen, from throat to anus. Pierre is glad to be spared this, he has to admit. Maybe Jacques is right about him; maybe he’s lost his tolerance for bloodshed. Between the wars in France and the battles he fought in his early days in this land, he’s seen enough of it. He scans the area for a tree with sturdy branches he can cut to create a makeshift sled. Seeing nothing suitable, he ventures into the forest, away from the smell. As he kneels to wash his hands with a handful of snow, he spots a calf trotting away in the distance, and wonders if others from the hunting party have killed its mother.
He dries his hands against his pants, pleased to be alone under the canopy of trees, some still hanging on to a few orange and red leaves, a sharp contrast to the evergreens. He stands listening to the sound of the wind and appreciates the shafts of sunlight that filter through the branches, turning the dried grasses that poke through the fresh snow golden. He warms himself with thoughts of Marie. Soon, his cabin will be filled with the sounds of a baby. He’s all at once flooded with gladness and starts to walk, scanning for the right tree. He hopes the baby is only the first of many. Pierre has always wanted a large family; his own always felt too small, and drastically so after his brother died. Abruptly, uneasiness hooks him. He cannot allow himself to be too satisfied. Too happy. He must continue to atone for his sins. He looks around the floor of the forest and finds two stones, each the size of his fist. He picks them up and places them in his pockets. He will carry them for the rest of the day to remind himself to stay humble.
When he hauls his bundle of branches back to the site of the kill, he finds Jacques up to his elbows, his pants, his shirt, even his face, covered in blood. Jacques is a better soldier and a better hunter than he could ever be, Pierre thinks, but Pierre is a better Catholic. A better husband. And he’s certain he’ll be a better father. He lashes the branches together with more of the vine, and unfolds and spreads a large skin on it. Then he stands watching Jacques, the rocks heavy in his pockets, one of them rubbing against his scar. He both despises Jacques and is reluctantly impressed by him, and wishes with all his heart that they didn’t share a past in the old world, or a future in this new one they are making, married as they are to cousins.
At last, Jacques has done what he can. They load the pieces of the slaughtered moose onto the sled and wrap it in the large skin, then tie it down. Pierre stands between the long poles of the makeshift sled and loops vine around his chest, then tugs his load carefully forward through the trees. Jacques follows, occasionally pushing the sled from the rear, and keeping an eye out for coyote or wolf. Blood stains the snow behind them.
“We’ll smoke it, but only after we feast on a fat, juicy steak,” Jacques says.
“First you need to wash your filthy body.” Pierre grunts against the pain in his legs.
“I’ll be sure to cuddle up to you tonight, friend.”
Pierre shakes his head. Large snowflakes begin to fall.
