“I wonder why she does not sleep beneath the moon,” Ehta pondered in rising discomfiture, observing the outspread bodies, many of which were asleep.
Had she been unwell, her mother would stoically resist, rather than seek assistance from another. Caught up in her own sorrows, she was unaware of any change in her mother’s health, but Tahne’s outspoken frankness escalated her fear and consternation. “Why did you not tell me before?” Her voice rose frantically, rousing her aunt and numerous others, to semi-wakefulness. “If she shows strain, then I am to blame. She has planted far more than her share, just to ease my labours. It is only now, as you speak, that I…”
She made to stand, but the voice of her sister, halted her in mid motion, “Calm yourself, Ehta,” she commanded, low and stern. “...I meant not to alarm you. Mother is very...tired. That is all.”
Tahne shook her head, angry for setting these events in motion, and mystified by the irrational urgency of Ehta’s response. Since the time of the last war party, Ehta seemed much changed.
In her view, the death of her brother-in-law Salgan offered no great loss; his much-vaunted craftsmanship was far less important than his lack of ability in other areas. Unlike her husband, a great warrior chief who rarely shared an intimate word with his wife, Salgan did little more than shame the family with his fawning ways and womanly interests. Perhaps that Ehta could no longer share her workload with another was at the root of her discontent, for in all ways, she was better off without him. The possible loss of yet another baby, she reasoned, held her deepest concern.
I hope the child comes soon, Tahne thought, in a rare expression of sympathy, doubtless the event would restore her. “If it will please you, sister,” she sighed in resignation, “I will see to her myself.” Gathering the sleeping infant to her shoulder, she carefully stepped between bodies, gradually retreating into the darkness.
A quiet descended around the fire; the murmuring of a few, young Huron slaves, adopted by the tribe some time before, lingered as the only human voices. In the distance an owl hooted, the crickets kept their steady chirp, and, now and again, the sound of a bat honing in on an insect broke the nocturnal peace.
Waiting...waiting...Ehta’s entire life amounted to one long wait—for the miracle of Salgan’s return...for the birth of her child...she reflected on what it might look like: a son, no doubt, as handsome and gentle as her husband. She had no delusions about the knowledge that she would soon remarry; her children needed a provider, but she shuddered to think of the intimate physical duties imposed upon her, and the unrequited silence of her heart.
Time passed. Ehta gazed up at the stars, chiding herself for allowing logic to elude her. Surely, they would have been alerted to a problem by one of the female elders who chose to stay behind with the children, had anything been wrong...but...why was Tahne taking so long? Had she been detained by the needs of her children, or was she so angered by Ehta’s behaviour that she couldn’t bring herself to return?
Guiltily, she struggled to her feet to put the matter right, stepping around bodies in the failing firelight; some curled up and silent, others outstretched and noisily snoring, as she worked her way to the area of thinning trees leading to the fortress.
The trees were a bower above, and somewhat sheltered from the breeze, creating a walkway noticeably dank, as evidenced by the sweat of garments which clung to her expectant frame, tempting her to return to the comfort of open air.
A crackling sound in the bushes further along caused her to stop. Listening intently, she waited, and satisfied at hearing no untoward sign, continued on. Again, she stopped short. Hollow thuds, like that of an animal chasing over countless layers of compressed needles, caught her ear. Likely a deer, she thought, knowing the area was commonly used as a crossover in their nightly quest for water. Moonlight shone upon the entrance to the palisade. She felt a certain relief.
A shadowy figure appeared ahead—Tahne. Had she found their mother in a condition too worrisome to relate?
“Is she alright?” Ehta whispered loudly, “I had to come.....Tahhhh...”
The name caught in her throat. A brutal hand flattened against her lips while her arm was yanked and twisted behind her back.
Fragments of clarity flashed within an overpowering panic, filling her with dread and disbelief. Who were these fiends? Huron? Abenaki? But...why? Why?
The undergrowth tore at her arms and legs like jagged spikes, as she was half-dragged from the confines to the edge of the fallow field, away from the sleeping gatherers. Sinking to her attacker’s knees, breathless, she was ready to surrender, too dazed and vulnerable to overcome her capture, until the venomous words that he spoke hit her like a thunderbolt. The glint of his knife and the smear of war paint could not mask the identity of her assailant; she had been ambushed by a white man! They, whom had slain her husband, now meant to destroy all that remained…even that which she carried within. Fear was replaced by vengeance; reviving her like a bitter potion.
In a split second, using all of the strength she could muster, she lowered her chin to loosen her jaw, managing to open her mouth wide enough to clamp her teeth upon his fleshy palm. Her captor dropped the knife and flung back, cursing.
“Shanata! Mother!” She screamed at the sudden stab of pain that ripped through her body.
The alarm she sounded signalled an immediate response. The echo of war cries filled the air.
Her assailant, grasping the wounded hand, fumbled for his weapon and, heedless of her, charged into the conflict.
The pain persisted, unabated, wrenching her insides. “I have been wounded,” she thought, resignedly. Then, a warm gush of fluid swept about her inner thighs, in a moment of horrifying knowledge.
“The baby...nooo...not here, not now!”
Her nostril caught wind of an acrid odour, alerting her to danger of another sort—Smoke! They were setting fire to the village!
“Mother...Shanata!”
Her nightmare was complete.
Again she cried, cradling for a harsh contraction, and unable to lift her head to project into the din of confusion beyond. She had to discover the fate of her child, at any cost.
Knowing that her legs would not support her, she endeavoured to inch her way along the ground, using her arms.
Everywhere, the wails of mothers and children tearing through trails accompanied the trampling of earth, in terrified abandon.
Spotting a young brave who looked to be Tahne’s son, Sumac, grappling with a much larger man in the distance, she was stung, in the briefest instant, by how many would indeed survive the attack, after being taken so abysmally unaware.
Each moment became an eternity, as she painstakingly dragged herself forward, hampered by rocks and scrub, which further scraped and tore at her tender skin. Now, the agony rapidly began to mount in intensity, with shorter lapses in between.
Pausing to wipe the sweat as it dripped from her brow, she stared at the blaze, too stupefied and spent to fully comprehend the horror. Sparks flew off to nearby bushes and trees, some already afire, threatening to engulf the entire forest.
Was her child at this moment being burned alive, in the house where she had been conceived and born, and by the hand of the very monsters that had killed her own husband?
Soon, the flames of the burning outer walls whipped perilously near, but the vice-like pressure in her body made her impervious to the rendering of its threat. The pain was excruciating now. Her vision blurred, and relentless though she was, the suffering appeared unendurable. Breathless, clawing at the earth, she was blinded by a final paroxysm, writhing through her blistering torment…
Someone was there, seemingly suspended over her…a soothing tone...mother...was it mother? No...it was...Salgan. He had waited...waited long enough...she no longer had to resist, for the sake of their children...at long last...they would all be together…
“Put your arms about me,” he whispered, but she screamed as an intense release passed through her, lifting h
er higher and higher...away from the white light, and into the shadow of calm. But before she drifted, she thought she heard the far-off cry, of an infant.
Chapter 3
At the hour normally reserved for breakfast, Louise de Belaise sat openly despondent at her writing table, in an alcove off her bedchamber. Seemingly overnight, the soft, ethereal quality of her face had altered into strain and concern, as she fixed an eye to a small crucifix on the wall. Wavy, golden hair curled about her shoulders and down her back, teasing the lace of the filmy pink nightdress, which fell open at the side, revealing remarkably shapely limbs. With a sudden sense of purpose, she unlocked the drawer and withdrew a leather-bound journal. Leafing through the many blank pages, she again returned to the start, and in smooth, delicate strokes, began an entry:
June 28, 1739 Chateau Saint Louis Quebec City
In truth, I feel neither the strength nor inclination to put pen to paper, but recognize any effort to subdue this wretched state is worth the bother. Failing a respondent with whom to advise, I find no other vent.
Upon heaven, I have made many mistakes in my life, some I managed to successfully amend, and others simply mellowed to unimportance with the passage of time. I have ever striven to maintain a communion with God, following his precepts most fervently.
Why, then, must the direction, once taken, be wrenched from me by a power neither He nor I can as yet control? If only the past days had not resulted in such a tempest of emotion, causing me to both ache and rush madly into the fire.
Oh, Armand...that was the conflict in you from the beginning. Your impetuous nature has long been at variance with the needs of others. Yes, you have succeeded in proving your devotion to me...but at what cost? Surely you could leave what is past behind, release me from that burden of pain that began with our final parting and would have remained buried, like bittersweet memories, through our separate lives. Or is this some vile plot...an exercise in revenge? Surely not. Perhaps God has seen fit to punish me
A low rap on the door caused her to swiftly blot the page, sliding the journal to her lap.
“Marie,” she stammered icily, “I am not to be disturbed.”
“My dear,” came the unexpected voice of her husband, in response, “is anything the matter? Are you unwell?”
“Oh, it is you, Felippe...I am merely slow to rise.” She answered shakily, praying he would not persist, and angry that she had been forced to tell even the measure of a lie. “I shall join you momentarily if you wish.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Felippe replied, impassively. “I am to attend a meeting at the Palais de Justice within the hour, and shall return by late afternoon. Perhaps, you would do best to stay abed the day.” His voice lowered to one of solicitude. “You may very well be ill. I did notice you were peaked, the evening last.”
The evening last. She froze at the very mention of it.
“Thank you for your concern,” she responded correctly, struggling to control her emotion.
The echoing of his footsteps into abject silence served to underscore her reprehensibility and despair. While the suns’ rays penetrated the window, she clasped a floral wrap about her slight frame, shivering.
“This is madness,” she lamented aloud, as her eyes took in the accoutrements of privilege.
“I have been blessed with a fine and honourable husband, a loving son, a prominent place in society. Why then, must I be led into this duplicitous situation knowing it can only lead to catastrophe?”
She put her head into her hands, shedding bitter tears of self-reproach.
Papa was right, she thought, angrily, when he once called me a wilful and ungrateful child...if you were offered the moon, Louise, you would surely decline it in favour of the sun...how well did he know me!
Yet he was not aware that in nineteen years of wedlock, I have sought to suppress the ideals and dissatisfactions of my youth, in exchange for the responsibilities God has guided me toward...It has been a challenge, fraught with trials, and only now, resulting in the true test of my spiritual stamina.
Lifting the journal back up onto the desk, she reopened it, and took up her quill, through trembling fingers:
It all began but six short weeks ago...the day when the first of our mail ships arrived from France, carrying the king’s memorandum and recommendation for the newly vacated office of Intendant to the colony. Raymond de Gascon had served his term most ineffectively in our estimation, for it was discovered that both his financial and judicial administrations ran contrary to his influence peddling and profiteering, which—during the second year of his four-year tenure as Governor of New France—proved unconscionable to Felippe, who pleaded with the king for his dismissal.
Having awaited word on his successor through a long and particularly bitter winter, I was eager to learn the choice and hoped would include a female companion, for due to my isolation and position, I longed for a confidant in the absence of my sister, Celeste.
Feeling somewhat under the weather, I declined to attend the welcoming ceremonies reserved for such debarkations, rising instead by late afternoon to await the return of Felippe.
Shortly after I took up my needlepoint in the parlour, my husband entered in a highly uncharacteristic manner, fairly brimming with excitement and sentiment. “My dear...I must say, you are looking ever so much better. I have marvellous news. An old classmate of mine, one Armand Leger, has arrived most unexpectedly with the ship, as our new Intendant.”
I was struck dumb with astonishment. No information could have arrested me with greater dread or confusion. It was impossible, some ghastly mistake! Could it be another man of the same name? Surely, the son of a bourgeois Parisian merchant had not the fortitude, to say nothing of the financial backing, to distinguish himself as a lawyer, and proceed from there to the attention of the king himself! Armand had, most assuredly, hidden any hint of such aspiration when I had known him…
While reeling inwardly from this startling revelation, Felippe detailed his friend’s background - confirming his identity - and delightedly gave full account of his triumphs and accomplishments.
It appeared that, following our separation, Armand enrolled in the same military college as Felippe. Despite the fact that Felippe, as the elder son of the Duc de Belaise—an old and wealthy family in the province of Loiret—sprang from a much higher standing, and was older by three years, they forged a camaraderie, which had ended with the sudden death of Armand’s father.
According to Felippe, Armand, as eldest son, was called upon to maintain the family business for a number of years, whereupon he left the operational side to his brother, Gilbert, and began his studies for the bar. Upon obtaining this objective, he acquired a small partnership, which, in time, led him back into the sphere of the military. In what would appear to be a series of skilful manoeuvrings, he came to the notice of the Secretary Of State for the Marine, and was subsequently offered the post of Intendant to New France.
“I grant we shall do very well together,” Felippe had offered earnestly, pausing to pour a glass of brandy and adjust himself in the opposite armchair. “In his youth, Armand was much admired for his bravery and intelligence. He is the sort who is needed for the post; neither an addle-headed fop, nor a conniving hypocrite. From what I recall and would indeed believe, he is a man of spirit, enterprise, and integrity—guarded, though not unapproachable. And possessed of a keen willingness to understand all aspects of his new station. In short,” he spouted merrily, “I can see no reason why his term should not prove to be of benefit to us all.”
I winced at the final remark, but gave no indication, other than to say I approved his judgement, and hastened to add my apologies at not being present to welcome our new Intendant and his Madame.
Lowering his glass to the tea table, he released an infectious laugh, causing his wig to shift against his reddened face. “Why no, Madame. You could not be further from the truth. I am sorry to say, we have another ‘lone wolf’. But,” he added, as another
roll of mirth rocked his jocund frame, “a wolf can be tamed, and if the ladies at our early reception have their will, he shall doubtless be ensconced before the bishop in no time!”
Much as I heartened at these words, I realised that, had he been sometime married, the object of seeing him would be far less difficult. Paradoxically, I secretly clung to the notion that he might still hold some remnant of our former love. Through the years, I took comfort in the belief that we were each safely wedded. Now, I could only speculate as to the feeling which might be unleashed upon seeing him, though nothing, I upheld, would induce me to permit the whiff of a scandal or defile my husband’s good name. Unless otherwise altered by the king, we had two years left on our tenure and should Armand’s company prove strained in the interim, I would commiserate in silence.
Over the next few days, I was visited by this ponderous distraction through every waking hour, while busying myself in preparation for the ball to be held in his honour. Standing before the mirror in my bedchamber as Marie helped me to dress, I could see, while no longer the tempestuous and adolescent maid he once had known, neither had the bloom faded in my thirty-nine years, and he might well be pleased. I had chosen a dove-coloured gown of crisp taffeta, with the addition of my diamond and sapphire necklace—a gift from Felippe, on the birth of Nicholas. This ensemble, at the very least, won the approval of Felippe.
“You look positively radiant, my dear,” he exclaimed, admiringly. I hesitantly took his arm, my insides turning taut with anticipation as we descended the staircase.
A steady stream of guests filed in; among them, members serving political office in the superior council, the Prevote, lesser officials, merchants and their wives, and the elder sons and daughters, all bedecked in such fashion and finery to rival any patron of court, assembled in the Great Hall. Greeting each in turn, expressing pleasantries and humour, my mind was suffused with indecision and expectancy. What if he should react with open surprise, or worse yet, grudging civility? Surely, he had not known of my marriage to Felippe, for they had each gone their separate way before our engagement, and subsequently travelled in different societies. Felippe may have cited my Christian name, but that would shed no light.
Distant Fires Page 3