Distant Fires

by D. A. Woodward

  Other images of family life presented themselves at random...the women carrying their crops from the fields in baskets made of thin splints of wood from the black ash tree, with a strap which they wore across the forehead…watching her aunt weave corn husks into summer slippers from the inner bark of the hickory and base wood trees...her grandmother’s sister spinning and braiding cords for binding and carrying bundles...the games she used to play—her favourite, though she was never very good at it—the one where wild plum pits, painted black on one side, which were trapped in a wooden bowl, making the stones land with different sides up, until the player with the most landing either dark or light side up was the winner... She had been happy, for she had won that last game with her cousin, Malagwe. She thought of the winter fun...lacrosse, skinny snow snake. Games she often watched the young braves play…

  A noticeably drier novice re-entered, characteristically austere in her manner. She purposefully crossed to the bed, motioning to Shanata to raise her arms, whereupon a dark, foreign article of clothing was harshly pulled over her shoulders to cover her nakedness. It felt stiff and uncomfortable—not at all like the soft buckskin she was used to wearing, but she realised it would not do to object.

  They must be covering me to take me to mother…

  Her little heart quickened. Anticipation mounted as the novice reached for her hand, and with a little tug, led her out the door.

  Passing through a dimly lit hallway, where nuns and patients whisked in and out of doorways, they arrived at an adjoining anteroom. She held her breath, eager to behold the warm, sweet beauty of her mother’s face, and to feel the security of her loving arms...

  A man, sitting on a chair with his back to her, came into view. She recognized him as the man who had brought her here. He had been talking to another old woman, when they arrived, and as he turned and saw her, he smiled with more force than feeling. She noticed that his face was clouded, burdened with deep concern. He, in turn, must have noticed her disappointment, for he said, “Do not fear, I have come to take you to another place...to meet a kind woman who is sad. I think she would like to meet you…”

  Her heart dropped and she did not know how to respond. Should she stay with these covered women, or go on another journey with this man? Although they had given her food and shelter, she had no desire to remain with the sisters. She did not trust them, but a voice from within told her that the man might try to help her.

  “Yes”, she uttered, with the dejection that comes from immense disappointment, “I will come with you to see this woman.”

  Again he smiled, this time with a sense of relief. He spoke to the older woman a moment longer, and then, gathering a few bandages and miscellaneous items he had been given, bade Shanata follow, and went outside.

  Gathering her weightless frame up into his arms, he mounted his ebon mare, and as she gazed down at the kindly face of the old nun, she silently prayed to the Great Spirit that she had made the right decision.

  Chapter 9

  When they reached the Chateau de Ramzay, Nicholas immediately rode up to the stables, where a groom took their horse, and he lifted the little girl to the ground.

  “Nicholas... I saw you from the window.”

  He turned. Alexandre Girald, the Giralds’ middle son, rushed from the residence.

  He was a tall, slender fellow of eighteen, clad in grey riding clothes; his thin, shoulder-length hair was tied into a queue, and he sported a slight limp, the result of a childhood injury.

  Since Nicholas had been posted to the garrison, they had met on numerous occasions and while Alexandre was something of a man about town with no true vocation, Nicholas had come to regard him as an intimate.

  “I was on my way for a ride,” he said in a solemn voice, failing to notice the child shadowed by his friends’ side.

  He hesitated slightly. “You will be pleased to hear that your Mother appears much improved today. Maman had a visit with her before breakfast, and they managed a little talk…” He gave Nicholas’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze, adding sympathetically, “I know of your fears regarding her...sensibilities, but the doctor was in to see her, and seems certain that the worst is over... In fact, she is up and determined to attend the memorial service, on the Sabbath. She told mother that she wishes to return to Quebec, as early as next week. It seems that she intends to settle your father’s affairs, and return to France, in due course.”

  Nicholas was obviously taken aback by the change of events, but before he could voice his objection, Alexandre added, “I am aware of your concerns regarding her safety and health, and share your grief and confusion. But may I say that, as a friend, I feel that you would do right to stand by her decision. It would be unwise to counter her desires at present. Give her time.”

  Nicholas acknowledged the sense in this suggestion. What his mother needed above all, in her present state, was a plan; a focus for her life, one that would give her the will to pluck herself from the depths of sorrow.

  For his part, he had no desire to leave this country. He looked upon himself as a career officer, and in time, had come to love and admire the harsh beauty and hard-working, fun-loving people of this land. But although he had been preparing himself for an eventual break from his parents, following an end to their tenure, the unthinkable had occurred, and with it the fear of any further loss.

  Since the tragedy, the need for his mother had magnified, and he worried to think of the chasm between them... then again, perhaps he was being selfish. Why not leave? Other than his presence, there was nothing for her here. She was a lady. She needed the comfort of living on the continent... friends, a social life. Since his father died, he had not cried, though the need for it had been, at times, overwhelming. Instead, the concerns for his mother loomed to the fore.

  Only now did he realize that he had inherited a title, “the Duc de Béarnais,” heir to a grandiose estate, a town, forests and hereditary lands. He could, in fact, be presented at court. Strangely, he did not feel the least inclination. For, although his childhood years had been spent in idle luxury, the move to this colony had opened his eyes to a sense of loyalty and purpose he would not have found otherwise. Through it, he had become a man, and it was no longer possible to turn back the clock.

  The child nudged the side of his leg as she drew behind him. During the course of conversation with Alexandre, she had ceased to exist. Once again, his problems notwithstanding, she had risen to the fore. He wanted to tell her that her future had been decided; that the truth of what had happened in her village that seemingly long ago night had been determined.

  The harbinger of this report was none other than his commanding officer Marchand, who, having arrived unannounced the previous day, was aware of the failed mission, and had learned from informed native sources that Charmion and the rest of his men had been killed.

  He was told that an Indian party, enroute to the village during the early morning hours, spotted the fire and sent for help. Not long after, they made an attack on the unsuspecting group as a number of canoes were attempting to embark. In the ensuing battle, all were slain, including Charmion. Through a strange twist of fate, revenge, it would seem, had been exacted, and from what they could gather of the carnage, there would be no further reprisal.

  While Nicholas’ superior was not pleased with his peripheral involvement, the fact that he was not directly involved merely resulted in a tongue lashing and warning not to use regulars in affairs beyond their jurisdiction.

  As to the fate of their little captive, the Captain, wishing to wash his hands of the affair, ordered Nicholas to deal with her as he saw fit. He could, he reasoned, have attempted to reunite her with, if not her family, at least her people, but he feared the eruption of further grievance and anger should her existence become known. Relations were at an incendiary point, and if his noble efforts were to be repaid through a prolonging of retaliation, he would receive more than a reprimand.

  Therefore, her future was to be placed in his
hands, and the expression on her face when he found her at the grey sisters convinced him she would be better off elsewhere.

  He was not sure what to do next, but he knew that his mother was lonely and bereft, and that she loved children. Perhaps the sight of this small child might touch her heart, as she had, him. She might have a suggestion of her own, regarding the child’s future.

  He thought of the memorial service to be held in two days’ time; there had never been a funeral, as the bodies had not been recovered. It would be a day of mourning throughout the colony. Not only had he lost a father he valued—a kind, and helpful parent—but, the new Intendant, Comte Leger, whom his mother had mentioned in her letter: A fine man and friend of his father. The loss to the colony was manifold. He wondered if Monsieur Leger had any relatives who might settle his affairs in Quebec...it seemed terribly sad to have none but strangers to mourn one’s passing...

  Alexandre’s sister Sophie, older by a year, arrived from a shopping excursion in town. She bent from her carriage, wearing the very latest in fashion, which had newly arrived from Paris on the last ship—a Watteau style, loose-backed jade coloured dress of Bombasine, with lace bodice, and matching lace head-dress and fan. Her compartment was overfilled with boxes, which were removed and taken indoors by the footmen. Though tall and striking in an unrefined way, she lacked finesse, and could be as brash and overbearing as Nicholas on many occasions—such was the case at a recent dinner. Although she often sought him out on his visits, for his part, he found her barely tolerable. He suspected that with his newly acquired title and inheritance, he appeared a little more interesting.

  Trying desperately to imitate the style of her betters, she pattered over to where they stood in delicate little steps, flashing a smile behind her fan. Noticing the child, she stopped short, staring at Shanata, with a kind of horrified curiosity. Shanata did not like the way the woman looked or smelled, and when she spoke, without understanding the words, she knew that they were cruelly directed at her.

  “My dear, Nicholas,” she hissed with affectation, “could it be that you have found yourself a little...savage?”

  Nicholas tried his best to keep his cordiality, but his anger could not be fully masked.

  “The child,” he replied, emphasizing the word, “was placed in my care. She is a... Huron orphan. I brought her to see my mother.”

  “Your mother!” She almost shrieked. “I am afraid with the terrible loss you have suffered, you are experiencing some confusion. The dirty creatures in the streets, in the countryside, surround us. Why now, in your mother’s present state of health, would she wish to see a...a savage?”

  Alexandre, hearing this exchange quickly sought a diversion.

  “Sophie, I think what Nicholas’ mother needs is not for us to say. I shall speak with you later, Nicholas; now, if you would excuse us, Sophie would like to show the family her latest acquisitions. Come, Sophie!”

  She set her jaw in petulance, as her brother took her firmly by the arm and escorted her back to the chateau. Nicholas could hear her grumbling, “...that creature is not going to set foot under our roof…”

  Realizing now the problem that might arise in bringing the child into the house unannounced caused him to leave her outside, whilst he attempted to locate Madame or Monsieur Girald and seek permission.

  Escorting the child past the guards at the front, he led her round to the rear entry, near the gardens and fruit trees. “Stay here, until I return.” he said in a kind, but firm voice, as he settled her on the grass and hastened back to the chateau.

  Tired from the heat and the confusing series of events, she lay back on her elbows, smelling the sweet grass and absently looking about. The noonday sun beat down on her, causing sweat to form beneath her dark clothing. She hoped the man would return soon.

  Flowers, in colours that she had never seen before, dazzled her eyes amidst the trees and passing foot soldiers.

  Looking toward the other end of the garden, she noticed a woman—a very light woman, who appeared so soft and light that she seemed like a cloud, sitting on a long chair, staring straight ahead. Shanata couldn’t take her eyes off the woman, for she reminded her of some strange Spirit, one which materialized out of nowhere.

  The woman lifted her face to the sunny skies, as though calling upon the Great Spirit in prayer, and then, as Shanata watched in fascination, she dropped her head and fell into uncontrollable sobs.

  What would cause the light cloud lady to weep like a dark cloud? She thought curiously, rising on her wobbly legs. She had not wept since they had taken her from her village in the canoe, but she understood the pain that made people cry. The man told her to stay, but she wanted to go to the cloud lady. Maybe she could help her.

  The cloud lady did not see her come up beside her, but she did feel the tiny hand, which touched her on the arm, and was, somewhere in her conscious mind, moved by the gesture.

  At last she lifted her gaze, and was startled by the smooth, dark skin and hair of the face that greeted her. Questions and fears flit through her mind as they stared at each other, neither saying a word. Nicholas loomed into view above her head, breaking the spell.

  “Mother, I thought you would be in your rooms, I was in talking with Madame...uh, I see you have met Shanata,” He squat to the child’s height, “This is mother, my mother,” he emphasized, “You call her…ah…Lady.”

  Shanata looked at Nicholas and then his mother.

  “The cloud lady, she is your...mother? She asked, timidly.

  Nicholas nodded and looked a little puzzled. “Why is she the cloud lady?

  She lifted her brows. With a shrug of her shoulders, she answered, “She is the colour of a cloud. Tell me,” she inquired with curiosity, “if she is a white cloud, why does she rain with tears?”

  He smiled at this comparison, but it was a smile tinged with pain. “She is without her husband, my father, and it makes her very sad. You see, it is very hard for her...and for myself. Just as it is for you.”

  Louise, whom had been listening to this exchange through tears, wondered what was being said. She smiled slightly when told that the child had dubbed her “cloud lady”.

  “I believe it is the lightness of your hair and gown that causes her to think you are a kind of heavenly vision. When she saw you weep, it appeared to confirm it.”

  “How charming”, Louise said, brightening a little. She looked at the small, expressive features of the cherubic face, the spare, diminutive body covered in a coarse, charcoal grey dress several sizes too big, and saw sorrow in her eyes, eyes, she somehow suspected, which had seen and known more pain than they should ever know. A deep compassion welled up within her, in spite of her personal concerns.

  “She has been staying with the grey sisters for the past few days, and I thought you might like to meet her.”

  Louise gestured to the child to sit by her, and watched as her son spoke gently to the little girl. “I see that you feel a certain... responsibility for the child’s well-being,” she stated. “By what name is she known?”

  “Shanata,” he replied, simply. “I... I will explain how she came to be here, when we have a private moment. Suffice to say, she has been severed from her family through... misadventure, and has suffered much trauma. It should not have happened. You see,” he uttered, as the words had stuck in his throat, “she is a Mohawk of the Iroquois tribe…”

  An expression of fear and distaste crept across Louise’s face, as she stared at the child as though she were some menacing monster.

  “Oui, Maman,” he continued, in frustration, “an enemy of the people. But I assure you, she has done nothing to deserve her present plight. An unfortunate set of events has brought her to this. It should not have occurred.” He slid his fingers through his wavy, brown hair, and shook his head.

  “While I suppose one might wonder why a single, friendless creature should matter so much, I feel a certain share in this consequence, and as an Iroquois child, I am sickened by the very
thought of what she must now be forced to bear.”

  Shanata looked up as though aware of what was being said.

  “What’s worse,” he added, seeing his mothers aversion and mistrust, slightly ease into one of compassion.

  “Like any other child, she has need of her own family, but we do not know where the missing family members relocated. Nor can we send her off with an escort, to find them, for there is a possibility of putting ourselves at further risk of reprisal over knowledge of the child’s existence.

  “Therefore, it has been decided that it would be in her best interests to pass her off as an Huron. It should not be difficult; as the language is very similar. I have been ordered to place her with the nuns … possibly a Huron family.

  Louise fell silent a few moments, reflecting on the possibilities. After some deliberation she said, “Ask the child if she would like to return to the Grey Sisters.”

  When Nicholas spoke, Louise saw the tiny face darken, and for the first time, show sign of breaking. “She says that she wishes to return to her family.”

  Reaching for the child, she drew her to sit by her side. Staring into her soft fawns’ eyes, and felt imbued with a sense of mission.

  “Stay with her here,” she said, mysteriously, “I will return presently.” And with that, she breezed out of the garden and into the chateau.

  A short time later, she returned, smiling in satisfaction.

  “Without disclosing the particulars, I told Madame Girald, that you had been made guardian of a native child, and asked if I might keep her in my suite for the present,” she laughed, “she somewhat confusedly, agreed.”

  “Now,” she said, displaying a recurrent surge of interest, “I shall have a bed for her placed near my dressing closet, and then, of course, she may dine with me in my rooms …”

  Suddenly, her mind resumed upon another matter, and with it, an attendant gloom.

  “My son,” she began, quietly, “I had assumed we would have a moment to speak privately, but I fear that under the present circumstance, it may be difficult.”