Daughters of the Deer, page 13
To be honest, she prefers her mother’s stories, which are not about punishment or sin—about being good or bad. Rather, they show how everything is interwoven, interconnected, attached by an endless invisible thread. Jeanne remembers fondly when her mother taught her about Kitchi Manitou—the Sun, the Creator—and how animals have spirits, as does the vast river that borders their property. She learned that the land, rocks and sky, moon and stars, and every creature in the natural world possess a potent life force that watches over them like an owl in the night. Her mother encouraged her to hold gratitude in her heart for nature’s offerings. When she was little, she and her mother walked through the forest hand in hand every day as Marie shared her wisdom. But as she had more children, and the work of the farm grew and grew, Marie had less time to teach any of her children the ways of her People. Jeanne now wonders if her mother still believes these things, or if they have faded away like the light in her eyes. Two fallen stars.
* * *
*
BY THE TIME Jeanne reaches the creek, her lungs are burning. She leans against the cedar tree, catching her breath and listening for Josephine, who is not as carefree as Jeanne is in the woods. She’s more afraid of the night sounds, of the dark shadows among the trees.
“Hoo hoo,” Jeanne calls softly. Her heart raps against her ribs.
“Hoo hoo,” she hears faintly.
Jeanne goes up on her tiptoes to search the trees for sight of her. “Hoo hoo,” she calls again.
Josephine appears before her, ducking under a hanging branch. Her long dark hair frames her moon-shaped face, her linen nightgown glowing in the starlight, as white as her pale skin. Jeanne runs to her and they embrace like they haven’t seen one another in weeks, rather than days. Their lips touch, their tongues meet, and then Jeanne steps out of Josephine’s arms. She takes off her own clothes and then helps Josephine out of her shift. They join hands and wade into the creek.
The water feels cold against Jeanne’s legs and the stones are slick beneath her feet, but she holds on firmly to her Josephine. They smile at each other and then duck under, both of them gasping at the shock. Jeanne bobs to the surface beside her lover and kisses her neck as Josephine presses into her arms, with only the talisman around Jeanne’s neck between them, the one her mother told her never to remove. Jeanne puts her hands into her love’s hair and pulls her even closer, breathing her in like a flower. She reaches between Josephine’s legs, and soon the girls moan in joy and release under the blinking stars while the trees bend above.
* * *
*
JEANNE COUNTS TEN HEARTBEATS before she surfaces and fills her lungs with air. The water now feels warmer against her skin than the night air. Josephine bursts to the surface beside her, the moonlight brightening her fine face. “Do you want to swim out a bit?” Jeanne asks.
“No,” Josephine says, pushing wet hair behind her ears. “Not this time.”
“You’re covered with goose pimples.” Jeanne pulls her close.
“Remember when I was young,” Josephine says, “and I’d say that when I grew up a French prince would come here and he’d take one look at me and ask for my hand in marriage? I’d sail back across the sea with him and wear a crown of jewels and have ten children.”
“Your father filled your head with such frightful stories,” Jeanne teases.
“He really did. I can’t believe I once wanted that story to come true.”
“So you don’t any more?”
“Not since last year’s harvest celebration.” Josephine smiles at her. “Ever since my hand brushed against yours and you glanced at me with those bright-green eyes, I knew I could never marry a prince.”
Jeanne tilts her head to the side. “You make it sound like I cast a spell on you.”
Josephine’s eyes fill with tears.
Jeanne grabs both of Josephine’s hands. “What is it?”
“I overheard Father last night. He’s arranging for me to be married.”
Jeanne tries to keep her voice steady. “What did he say, exactly?”
“Not much more than that he would have me married before summer’s end.”
“That can’t happen.”
“Jeanne, you know this is just a fantasy. By the king’s law, we have to be married by the time we are seventeen.”
Jeanne lets go of her hands. “You’re only sixteen.”
“And you have already turned seventeen, Jeanne. My father won’t be persuaded. Not only will I be one less mouth to feed, the stupid king will pay him one hundred and fifty pounds once I’m married. Father is counting on that money. What if I end up with that old man at the edge of the seigneurie, the one who never bathes? Or worse, they send me to Trois-Rivières or someplace else so far away, I never see you again. I won’t survive it, Jeanne. I won’t.”
A rustle of leaves startles them. They stiffen, stretching their ears, but hear only the trickling sounds of the creek.
“Time to get dressed,” Jeanne whispers, and they wade back to shore.
As she pulls her nightshirt over her head, Jeanne says, “Why don’t we run away. We could go north and make a life of our own.”
“Jeanne, we would never survive. Between the Iroquois and the never-ending winters, we’d either be killed or starve to death.”
“I can trap and fish as well as my brother. Can’t we at least try?” She grabs Josephine by her hips, and pulls her close again. “I love you, Josey. Don’t you love me?”
“You know I do. You’re my only happiness.”
“Think about it, then. I can’t lose you.” Jeanne rests her forehead on Josephine’s shoulder and they hold each other until their wet hair has chilled them so much they shudder.
They agree to meet again in seven nights.
“Promise me you’ll think about running away,” Jeanne calls softly as they part, but Josephine, hearing coyotes begin to yip in the distance, is already running for home.
* * *
*
JEANNE WAKES TO THE USUAL SOUNDS of her father and brother talking over breakfast. She knows she needs to fetch water, yet she wants to stay in bed a little longer, dreaming of Josephine’s sparkling brown eyes and small red mouth. Then she uneasily remembers that when she crept back into the house in the night, her mother was awake, nursing the baby, Jean-Baptiste, the child that never sleeps. Marie didn’t say a word, only watched her until Jeanne pulled the curtain closed and climbed into bed, careful not to disturb her sister.
She can’t ignore the day much longer. Her sisters are all hopping out of bed, their noise quickly flooding the place. Guilt creeps across her like a long-legged spider. Jeanne should get up to help her mother, but she resents being stuck with women’s chores. Why can’t she be like her brother Louis—a year younger and free to go outside when he pleases and to work the land with their father. Jeanne flips on her side and watches her family from under her fur.
“Good day, baby.” Pierre kisses the top of Jean-Baptiste’s head. Then he says, “Good day, Wife,” and kisses Marie’s cheek.
“Louis, don’t forget to fill your canteen—it’s going to be a hot day,” Marie says, as Jean-Baptiste starts to wail. She bounces the fussy child in her arms.
“You take such good care of us, my dear Marie,” Pierre says, as he and Louis head for the fields.
As soon as the door closes behind her father and brother, her sisters’ voices rise, like seagulls shrieking. Jeanne sits up and rubs her eyes. Marguerite and Elizabeth dash to her side, with Angelique close behind them. They flop onto the bed and Jeanne settles herself to fix their hair. Her mother wraps the baby, who has miraculously stopped crying, in his cradleboard and sits down to make sure her youngest daughter, Madeleine, eats her porridge.
“Just one braid today,” Elizabeth demands.
“Me too.” Marguerite hands Jeanne a comb.
Jeanne sighs and starts to pull the jagged teeth through Elizabeth’s long, tangled hair. When it’s smooth, she braids it and ties the end with a scrap of leather. After she does the same for her other sisters, they scamper off to have breakfast. Jeanne tries to tame her own hair into a braid, but her curls make it difficult. Her hair is only one of the things that make her stand out from the rest of the Couc brood. She’s also the only child with green eyes like their father’s; her siblings all have their mother’s deep brown eyes. Angelique, five years younger, is jealous of Jeanne’s eyes, saying it isn’t fair that only she has eyes like their father.
“You look tired this morning,” Marie says as she watches Jeanne slip out of her nightdress and into her tunic and trousers.
“I’m not,” Jeanne answers.
Marie keeps her gaze on her daughter. “You were outside for a long while.”
Jeanne shakes out the sleeping robes and tidies the beds. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s becoming a habit, you going out at night.”
Jeanne doesn’t want to have this conversation. She moves to collect the dirty bowls from the table and stacks them.
“My dear daughter, I don’t want to see you go. But soon, you’ll be married and have a family of your own to care for.”
Jeanne turns to face her mother. “And what if I don’t want a family?”
“What do you mean? You don’t want to be married? You can’t stay with me forever,” Marie says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Jeanne thinks her mother knows exactly what she means. Marie caught her kissing a girl when she was only twelve. A girl older than she was, a cousin who was visiting Gilbert and Audrey from Ville-Marie. They had been playing hide and seek together, hiding from the younger children in the barn. It was the first time she had ever kissed a girl, or anyone for that matter. When her mother walked in, though, she pretended not to see and just called out her name.
Like Marie was reading the pictures in Jeanne’s mind, she says now, “There are rules.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“When I was a girl, we could leave our tents when we wanted, even in the middle of the night.”
“And now women are caged in their own homes.” Jeanne bites off each syllable.
Marie stares into her daughter’s eyes.
“Women live in captivity, caring for children while men do as they please. Even my brother, who is younger than me, has more freedom.” Jeanne turns around to hide her tears. She rubs them away and then shoves the door open and rushes outside.
Even if Jeanne didn’t love another girl, she still wouldn’t be as free as Louis. Their father has always preached about a woman’s virtue, pointing to the example of a blessed mother who is also a virgin. Jeanne has heard about the ways they discipline loose women in Trois-Rivières. Her cousins frequently visit the town with their father, Jacques, and bring back stories of how they lash such women in public for having sex with men who are not their husbands. Husbands turn over their wives for punishment based on suspicion alone. Some husbands apparently make up lies so they can find new wives. Younger wives. Prettier wives. Women are held to such a different standard than men—an impossible one.
Jeanne also knows what they would do to her if they learned the truth about who she really loves. What they would also do to Josephine.
She paces through the wet grass, past the outdoor table, and toward her younger sisters playing in the sun, still unaware of the burdens to come. She sighs, and then picks up her buckets, setting off to fetch water from the river to wash the morning dishes.
When Jeanne returns, she tasks her sisters with picking dandelions and watercress for today’s meals. She decides she will make venison stew and hopes they still have some bread, or that will be another chore. Since her mother had the new child, now a few moons ago, the main meal has been Jeanne’s job. Marie is still tired from the birth, and often naps when the baby naps during the day.
Jeanne remembers what it was like when both her father and her mother had more time for her. They came here after Jacques was asked to become the manager of the seigneurie on behalf of a nobleman who was serving as a governor in Ville-Marie. After Jacques accepted, he offered her father the first parcel of land, which Pierre had painstakingly turned into their twelve-acre farm. Pierre often recounts how he built their house with a few men from the seigneurie. The larger oak trees were reserved for the king’s shipbuilding, but the rest of the wood—pines and maples, cedars and birch trees—was theirs to use. They framed the house with cedar posts and then covered them with planks, and clad the exterior with stones from the fields, using clay they found along the river as mortar.
To pay his lease, Pierre is obliged to give Jacques a bag of grain for every fourteen he grinds. This is what was negotiated, although Jeanne has often overheard her father complain about her godfather also helping himself to the hunting and fishing across everyone’s farm, including their own. Still, she knows her father is grateful for the livelihood the farm has given them.
Now that the house is so crowded with children, her father is absorbed with thoughts of expanding their fields and teaching Louis everything he knows about farming—proud that his son will be the fourth generation of farmer in the family line. While Jeanne still helps during spring planting and fall harvest, and feeds the animals, as well as tends the kitchen garden, her first responsibility has become helping her mother with the children. Jeanne is as strong as Louis and smarter too, but she knows not to complain about her lot or her father will encourage her to join him in prayers for a good marriage. Jeanne doesn’t like to spend time on her knees with her hands laced and her head bowed. She’d rather pray with her head tilted to the sky like her mother does.
Her thoughts circle back to Josephine, and the idea of running away together. A wave of heat rises in her chest at the memory of Josey’s body pressed against her own. She imagines the nights they could share, sleeping side by side—no longer having to count the days until they can see each other. She needs to persuade Josephine to leave.
A shadow passes over her, and Jeanne looks up to see dark clouds sloping in, and the summer sky blackening. She looks around for her sisters. She hopes they are down by the river, looking for watercress, but who knows how far they’ve gone? Cold drops of rain spatter against her face as thunder growls across the field, and then a heavy rain starts to fall. Jeanne is soaked through before she spots Angelique, Madeleine and Elizabeth by the river’s edge. Where is Marguerite? Jeanne starts to run.
Angelique lights up to see her older sister. “She got into the canoe without a paddle.”
Sure enough, there is her seven-year-old sister huddled in the centre of the canoe, her arms over her head, floating out into the middle of the river. Jeanne kicks off her moccasins and wades in, grateful the current is gentle here. Then she swims for the canoe. As she grabs the bow, the little girl lurches for her.
“Sit down, Marguerite! Sit right in the middle and stay still!”
The girl obeys, and Jeanne turns on her side, hanging on to the canoe with one arm and kicking for shore.
The thunder growls louder. “Hurry!” her sisters shout, ducking as lightning forks through the sky.
She touches the bottom, and pulls the canoe straight to shore. When they’ve landed, Marguerite leaps into her arms and wraps her scrawny legs around her waist, crying so hard Jeanne decides not to scold her. She leads her soggy sisters to the shelter of some low willows and they huddle there while the thunderstorm rages.
Once the sky finally clears, they run to the farmhouse, clothes and hair dripping, abandoning the dandelions and watercress they’d picked. Jeanne will have to go back on her own. She broods about what will happen if she and Josey really do run away. How would her mother manage? Angelique, the second-oldest daughter, is only eleven. And Madeleine, the youngest of the girls, is only four. She knows that her parents haven’t pushed her to get married yet because they still need her at home.
Maybe Josey heard her father wrong. Jeanne hopes she will be able to put off choosing between her family and her love because she knows which choice she’ll make, and she doesn’t think her family is ready. Not yet.
21
ONCE MY DAUGHTERS ARE DRY and warm again, I find I am desperate to leave the house. I need to touch the wind and taste the air.
“Jeanne, can you please watch the baby?” I ask. “I’d like take a walk before he wakes again.”
“Fine,” she says, though she doesn’t look happy about it. I know she loves her siblings but she hates spending so many hours inside. So do I.
I nod in thanks and wedge a blanket under the baby so he stays in place. I open the door and step out into the fresh, rain-watered air—breathing in deeply, hungrily. The ground is wet and the trees are still dripping, and the air feels cool against my arms. I place my hands on my stomach and breathe in until I feel my belly rise, then let it out, slowly, steadily, relieved to be out under the splendid sky.
I’m still trying to find my way since this baby’s birth. I know I’m tired and that I’m not a young woman any more. Yet every day is such a trial. I rarely have the time or energy to leave the house. I feel like I mostly live in bed.
I walk into the trees and lean my forehead on the trunk of a hardy maple and gently rub it against the bark. I crouch at the tree’s feet, then sit on the wet moss, letting the moisture seep through my clothes. I reach for a handful of soil and inhale it. Sadness rises and I let it surface, even though I worry I won’t be able to push it back down again.
I love the family Pierre and I have made, but I miss my village, terribly. Even now, after sixteen years, longing rises like the river. I still miss belonging to a tribe, to a People. I miss spending my days with other women and children, working and playing side by side. Here, on the seigneurie, we only come together on special occasions or for weddings and funerals. We are alone—or, as Pierre likes to say, the king and queen of our own castle. It’s a half hour’s walk to the next farm and there is always so much work to do, there’s rarely time to visit. I miss the way Madeleine and I used to pass our days, chatting and laughing, while we worked. How we gathered in the evenings by the fire. Her time, like mine, is now consumed with her own children, and with Jacques.
