In a Field of Blue

by Liviero, Gemma

  “It was about a year ago, by accident. They never attempted to contact us again after they sent payment. And one day we saw him just outside the city. He was unloading pieces of timber that were being shipped by rail. Robert spoke to him, and he seemed to answer well. He said that he had found work northwest of here, in British Columbia, and then he made excuses to leave. Robert asked him if he wanted to visit us for tea, but he declined and seemed keen to hurry away.”

  “Was his wife with him?”

  “No. Not then.”

  “Why did they leave the city in the first place? Why didn’t they stay in contact?”

  She bit her lip.

  “There is something that you should know.”

  “I think I know what you are going to say. He is ill, is that it? His nerves? I’m aware that he was hospitalized for a time.”

  “Well then, if you come upon him, you should be prepared. He is harder, a man who doesn’t see the world the same as he did before. He frightened me a little, yet there wasn’t one particular thing he did to make me feel this way. It was just the way he looked at me, at Robert sometimes, as if he wanted to hurt us or didn’t know us. It sounds silly, I know. But whatever has caused this is serious.”

  I felt I was running out of time. And I had to wonder whether he did in fact die recently, which might have forced Mariette to return with the child.

  I told her then of Mariette and the boy’s arrival.

  She nodded. “Aunt Peggy wrote and told me they had come, though I have not had the mind or heart to write back, to continue with this lie. They begged me to keep their secret, and I promised that I would. I’m sorry, Rudy, that I did not write, but to see Edgar that way . . .”

  “You thought to spare us,” I said with a hint of bitterness. “To remember him as he was.”

  “Aunty told me how much the family grieved. I was heartbroken for all of you, for Edgar also. This new Edgar I met would not fit into your mother’s world anymore, and that I believe would devastate her more. I—”

  “It would have been good for us to make up our own minds.” I did feel a measure of resentment that was in danger of spilling over into the conversation, but the idea that Edgar was still alive kept my anger in check. I might finally be close to learning the truth about these missing years.

  “I’m so sorry, Rudy. Truly I am. Believe me when I tell you that for months after Edgar arrived I could think of nothing else but the situation I’d experienced, and my conscience was very clouded.”

  “Sally, I can move on from this if you can tell me everything about them, anything that might help me to find them.”

  She sat quietly for a moment before describing Edgar and his plans with as much detail as she could remember, eyes fixed to the window and some faraway thought.

  “There was something wrong about their relationship. They did not strike me as close, though I suspect that Edgar and his aloofness made it so. She was wary and watchful and very protective of him. It may have been my imagination, but she never let us see him alone. I suspect it might also have been Mariette’s idea to leave us here suddenly.”

  Sally frowned as she recounted an incident.

  “Robert suggested that he could find some work for Edgar close by. That Edgar could once again return to some sort of normal life. That employment and routine might help him get over the traumas of war. Edgar looked straight through Robert as if he might strike him, before storming off to the guest room, where he remained for the rest of the evening and into the next day. Only Mariette appeared for breakfast and said that we must not discuss any future with Edgar, that Edgar must be somewhere where there are no people. When I asked if I might go to apologize to him for anything we might have said to upset him, she rejected the idea immediately, telling us to mind our ideas and informing us not to approach him until he was ready. Mariette was like a ferocious lioness protecting her cubs or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Or trying to protect us perhaps. It was odd. And something else, too. The baby was always with her. I did not see Edgar pick up the child once, which I thought was strange. In fact he barely looked at him. Though many times he would ask Mariette if the child was well, irrationally fearful there was something wrong with him. I thought perhaps the child had been very poorly previously.

  “Mariette appeared to be a very independent woman, though she was not here long enough for me to form any solid opinion of her character, other than she was very formal and withdrawn, and not at all as you described her earlier.”

  Sally asked me to stay for several nights. She said it would be a good idea if I had plans to go north to search that I should at least speak to people who knew the area. It was vast and treacherous in parts, and easy to vanish in such places, especially in the winter. She would also buy and fit me with whatever I needed to make the journey.

  I welcomed a soft bed. The temperatures were dropping, and so often I had gone to sleep chilled during my train journey to Calgary. I welcomed the fire in the rooms and the bed covers filled with down.

  I went to bed mulling over our conversation, the effects of a second brandy leaving me feeling mellow, hopeful, and numb at various stages. I still believed that Edgar was alive. There was something in the intense way Mariette spoke of him, her words carefully arranged, as if he were always present in the room, telling her what to say. And of course then the words from the boy: he had said goodbye to his supposed uncle before he left for England. I would find Edgar, I thought. I would bring him home. It was the only plan I had.

  CHAPTER 29

  Loss, too, I believe, can be an illness. One day, while walking through the city, I spied a girl with dark-red hair and went from store to store to find her only to discover someone else, the event leaving me shaken. Mariette and Edgar never once strayed from my thoughts, so much so I started imagining them both close by. I felt possessed by the former and haunted by the latter. Finding one would uncover the truth about both. Though part of me did wonder if Mariette had in fact left England at all, or whether she had returned to France. And the question of the boy figured most. Why would a mother leave her child? Nothing made sense; in fact, as it came nearer the time to leave, I felt less certain about anything. It was clear that they did not want me, nor did they want to be found. This observation should have convinced me to turn back to England. But my purpose was only fueled by it.

  In the following days, I spoke to several people throughout town, using the deception of seeking old friends from war who worked for a timber company to justify the several names I was querying. I did not want to reveal Edgar as my brother, which would only draw more questions about our lack of contact. No one knew of Edgar Lavier or Edgar Watts or anyone named Fabien, presuming he had used any of those.

  Snow blanketed the city, and others who had come back from the north and the west said that the bad weather had come early. Passenger trains had stopped running, and to search thoroughly I would need alternate transport anyway. Sally feared that the journey wasn’t safe for someone who didn’t know the area, but she also knew it was pointless to attempt to talk me out of it. Instead, she assisted with my travel preparations, helping me purchase an old wagon, though it resembled more a trap with a cloth shelter roughly put together for some protection. She also provided me with blankets and extra woolen jumpers and snow boots that belonged to Robert, food supplies, and a bottle of whiskey to warm me along the way.

  “You must not veer from the main route where there are no trails or tracks,” she warned, while she pointed out the directions on a map.

  “At least you are giving it everything, because to go back now would only torture you,” she said as I departed the following day.

  She was right of course. I hugged her and vowed I would return without regret. I could not bear a grudge against her. Promises were made for a reason, and she, too, had suffered with the secret.

  I left on a day that scarcely cast a shadow, with the winter sun rising late and only briefly on my back, w
hile the flecks of sleet pelted at the front of me. The journey would be slow.

  I stayed at a hotel the first night and watched the snow pile higher beyond my window. The proprietors served me roast beef and fried potatoes and seemed bemused to hear of my journey. They also allowed me to put the horse in their barn and were eager to help answer many of my queries. There had been several Englishmen and Frenchmen passing through, and Edgar’s face in the photograph was familiar, which gave me hope, but they could not say how long ago they had seen him. They did not remember any woman with him or a child but said that people in the northwestern townships were likely to know who lived and worked in the area.

  I learned something about ice fishing and other helpful pieces of information about my trails. Not that I planned on any fishing. It was my best endeavor to get from town to town for a good meal, not catch my own. From the window of my hotel, I had a view of the train track and watched a freight train carrying timber bravely plough through the icy white terrain.

  I would like to say that the journey was over quickly and in the comfort of inns, but after a second night in relative comfort, accommodation for the most part after that was scarce, and for several nights I slept minimally inside the trap cocooned in blankets, my limbs stiff and frozen by the time I woke. There were few other travelers mad enough to test this weather and shovel snow from their traps after stopping for a period, and there were no more passing trains. Throughout my journey, I’d made enquiries about Edgar, but no one had heard of or seen him. I stopped at a sawmill without success and was guided further west.

  I was so weary by this point, clothes always damp, and the hardness of the wagon seat was something I did not look forward to each morning. Then there was the maintenance of the horse, the fear of encountering bears or cougars, and sometimes the cold, bitter winds slowed our pace down to a stroll. I veered northward, and after many hours I was fortunate to find more accommodation. This second-to-last room I stayed in was little bigger than a storeroom, though with the luxury of heating. On a piece of mirror above a wash tin, I was frightened by my reflection. Lines had appeared on my forehead, my hair was long and disheveled, and a stubbly, disorderly beard had grown. From my appearance, it seemed I was blending into the wilderness that surrounded me.

  Further north, where the snow had turned to thick walls of white, I reached the oasis of a chalet late at night. Above the chalet door a sign offered “Boarding,” and a light was on inside, but another sign on the front said “Closed.” I could see nothing but white-coated trees and mountains around me, and this place appeared to be my only option. A woman answered the door and nodded reluctantly that she in fact had a room, perhaps feeling sorry for me, but she did not have the space anywhere for the horse.

  “There is a house and barn down the road. You could see if they are still awake. They might put your horse up, but if not, it will have to stay out in the snow.”

  I patted the mare I’d named Sadie, regretting the challenges I’d brought into her life. I put my bags upstairs, and the woman, though terse, put some wild-duck stew, an apple, and some tea in my room. I almost inhaled the stew I was so hungry and then took the apple to Sadie before setting off down the road. I hoped they had more food for the horse, as the supplies I had brought for her had been rationed in the last two days.

  There were a number of local men milling around some horse stalls, and they viewed me silently as I approached. I felt several sets of eyes scanning me suspiciously. I spoke to them about my plight, and they seemed very curious at first and laughed amongst themselves as they passed around the photograph of Edgar, amused that I might be chasing a dead brother. But they were sympathetic enough toward the horse and let me leave her there. We agreed on a price, and I paid them in advance.

  Back at the chalet the bed was incredibly soft and warm, which made up for the not-so-warm reception I had received on arrival, and a small fire had been lit while I was gone. There was also a lantern on the wall, to brighten the room further, which I turned down to slip deeply into sleep.

  Though hours had in fact passed, it seemed only minutes later that I was woken by a rapping on the door. I looked up suddenly to see that morning had arrived late in a yellow-and-purple haze stretching upward from the horizon, and the air in the room was a shade of pale gray. The fire in the room had died out to allow the chill to spread, and there was frost on the windows as I climbed into my trousers. In front of me, as I opened the door, was a man of native Indian appearance. He was broad shouldered, and was at least a head and a half taller than I was. He wore his long hair tied back with a string.

  “Can I help you?”

  “You are looking for a man, Fabien?” he said.

  “Yes, yes, I am,” I said eagerly.

  I was suddenly very much awake and invited him in. He walked in and looked searchingly around the room.

  “Do you know him?” I asked, suddenly a little fearful as I sensed that he was not here out of the goodness of his heart. There was something else driving him, just from the way he examined me and the things in the room and his long glances outside the window.

  “They said he was your brother,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m told that he works in these parts.” I heard the word “was.” It did not fall away.

  “Your brother Fabien is dead.”

  The news should have been more shocking, but I had been denying his death for so long now that I struggled to believe anything anymore.

  “How do you know this?” I said, trying not to sound distrustful. His tone seemed so aggressive that I wondered if there was far more to it, if perhaps this was an old foe of my brother coming to exact revenge on a relative.

  “He was crushed under logs.”

  It could not have come to this. It cannot be, I told myself.

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he buried? Where was his place of work?”

  “North of here. He was buried without a name. I can’t tell you where.”

  It seemed odd, the treatment of visitors in these parts, and he was clearly not receptive to my questions. Perhaps he thought that what little he told me would be enough. But it wasn’t, of course.

  “Can I speak to other people he was working with? They might know something more.”

  “They are gone for the winter. No use now.”

  I had come too far and felt quite angry then, and I struggled to suppress it in my tone.

  “Well, I can’t leave,” I said, standing up and reaching for my jacket.

  “The horse is out front, ready for you to go.”

  I was taken aback.

  “Why?”

  “There is nothing for you here. Strangers aren’t welcome.”

  “This is a hotel for paying customers, is it not?”

  He didn’t respond. It made no sense why he wanted to get rid of me quickly, unless of course there was something to hide.

  “I can’t leave. Not until I know for certain. Not until I see a grave. I must speak to others. I must have some sort of proof.”

  He took a step toward me then, and I stepped back.

  “Stop!” I said.

  “You must go,” he said, the tone laced with unpleasant consequences.

  “Give me a minute then.”

  He paused and then walked outside the door, but I heard no steps descending the stairs. I sat for a moment and wondered about my next move. I even considered climbing out the window, which made no sense. I would probably kill myself in the process, and I was not particularly clever or fast at clandestine practices. I was not like Laurence, who had once scaled the walls of the manor to meet with friends in town for the night.

  There was only one course of action, and that was to pretend to leave, then continue my journey by way of a different route and find other villagers more agreeable; though villages had become so infrequent at this point I had been lucky to stumble across this one. As it turned out it was both lucky and unlucky. I felt close
to finding something despite the intimidating reception.

  I buttoned up my thick coat and dragged a fur hat down over my ears before the hostile stranger greeted me at the top of the stairs to then follow me down.

  “I don’t need a chaperone,” I muttered, to which he said nothing.

  As I settled the bill with the proprietor, I caught a look between her and the man and wondered whether she knew something more and was in on this somehow. There was no time for a hearty breakfast or coffee to warm me up, even though I could smell something savory wafting from the room behind the service counter. Regardless, I could scarcely think of food at such a time, my nerves jittery.

  I climbed on board the trap. The horse was brushed and had been given a fur blanket. I was grateful for that at least and offered the man some money, to which he shook his head.

  I headed back in a southerly direction. When I looked behind me, the man was still watching, close enough for me to see the snowflakes in his hair. He wore a thin shirt and was clearly unbothered by the cold.

  Once out of his sight, I stopped to pull out the map to find the next township that, according to my calculation, was several hours north. My plan was to bypass the village I had just visited, parallel to the road I’d just traveled, and continue through the forests.

  Sadie was sluggish, trudging through the deep, powdery fall of snow, under a sheet of damp and falling whiteness that showed no signs of abating. Apart from a few trees and the white wind that swirled and whistled menacingly through them, the only sign of life was my mare as she continued on stoically. I felt alone, afraid even, my ears aching from the cold, but my purpose was still clear. I could not bring myself to turn around until I had evidence in some form that my brother had been here.

  I had veered off the track for several hours and thought at some point I would have to head back toward a more obvious route. Returning to the map again, I studied the area of wilderness that I was ambling through. Our journey was slow and heading in what I thought was roughly the right direction. Some salvation came not half an hour later when I saw deep grooves in the snow that were not yet filled from the increasing fall, and I followed these with still a sense of optimism that I was indeed amid civilization. I felt encouraged by what I perceived as a track that had been cleared for access, and I saw the remains of some logs; these signs giving me hope that there were buildings or a village close by, which perhaps had not yet been mapped.