Midsummer Night

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Lucie leaned heavily on his arm as they made their way slowly through the fort toward a long, low building with a wooden cross nailed to the gable. “We’re here to see Soeur Anne,” Beaubien said to the nun who opened the door.

  They were ushered into a small room lit only by a fire in the hearth. Beaubien helped Lucie to a seat at a table near the fireplace and paced the length of the chamber. Mebkis stood like a statue near the window, the contrast in his demeanor highlighting Beaubien’s restlessness. Lucie slipped the elastic from her messy braid and ran her fingers through her tangled locks but realized too late that she couldn’t rebraid it one-handed. Knowing that loose hair was considered seductive, she twisted it and shoved the ends down the back of her gown so she’d look a little less wanton.

  Moments later, a woman opened the door. Her hair and eyes were the same as her brother’s, her cheekbones softer but still prominent. Lucie would have recognized them as related even if she hadn’t known beforehand. Soeur Anne’s eyes widened when she saw Lucie, but she said nothing until she turned toward the others.

  She took the First Nations man’s hand in both her own and squeezed it warmly. “Mebkis! Kwey wìdjìwàgan. God’s blessings on you; I am glad to see you.” Then she hugged her brother, saying, “Nicolas. Saint-Christophe has brought you safely back to me. I shall sleep well this night. Now. Come, sit. I’ve asked that food be brought to us. In the meantime, tell me about your guest.” She sat down at the table and looked at Lucie expectantly.

  “Anne, may I present to you Madame Lucie Tremblay?”

  Lucie dipped her head in what she hoped was a reverent bow. “I’m honored to meet you, Soeur.”

  Soeur Anne looked at her keenly. “Madame, or Mademoiselle?”

  “The latter, Soeur. I’m singl ... unmarried.” Lucie couldn’t help but look at Beaubien for his reaction to her admission. His face remained still, but she thought she saw his eyes brighten.

  “And how did my brother come to meet you? I thought I knew all the women in our settlement.” Soeur Anne glanced at Lucie’s filthy dress. “Though you are somewhat worse for wear, it is clear that you are a lady of refinement and standing.”

  “I ...” Lucie hesitated. She’d been pondering a cover story but hadn’t come up with much through her haze of pain and fatigue.

  The door opened, and two other nuns brought in a candelabra and trays laden with food and clean dishes. They set out the dinner, poured what looked like cider into four pewter goblets, and left the room.

  Soeur Anne took up her goblet. “To your health,” she said to Lucie before drinking. “Which seems to be in some question. What misfortune has befallen you?”

  That was easier to answer than the nun’s first question. Lucie sipped the flavorful juice, which felt like a balm on her dry throat. “I fell early this afternoon,” she explained, trying to match the formality of the other woman’s speech. “Your brother and Mebkis were kind enough to bind up my wounds and bring me here to you. I’m afraid I’m at your mercy, as I am quite lost and do not know how to find my way home.”

  “And where is your home?” Soeur Anne, asked, dishing up venison stew and passing out plates. “Have you come from the east, from Tadoussac? Or Trois-Rivières, perhaps?”

  Lucie took a large bite of stew and chewed, racking her brains for accurate historical information. Which was the more convincing lie? Ville-Marie, which later would become Montréal, or Trois-Rivières? The latter was closer ...

  “She is from this place, but not from this time.”

  Lucie, Soeur Anne, and Beaubien all looked at Mebkis in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” said Beaubien.

  Mebkis held Lucie’s gaze. “She is not from this time,” the First Nations man repeated. “She has come here through fire.”

  Beaubien and his sister both crossed themselves. Lucie sat in shock. “How did you know?” she finally managed.

  Mebkis grinned for the first time since Lucie had met him early that morning. “The trees whispered it to me when we first found you. Also, you smell wrong.” He fell to his stew with gusto.

  Lucie became acutely conscious again of her underarms and bad breath. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not a smell, exactly,” said Mebkis around a mouthful of food. “But I do not know the French for what I mean. The fire you light at the summer solstice. It brought her here.”

  “She came through the chavande?” Beaubien and his sister exchanged a glance.

  “What’s that?” Lucie asked.

  “At home in Lorraine,” Soeur Anne explained. “We call the midsummer’s eve bonfire the chavande. It represents the hope that though the light lessens, it will return.”

  “But traveling through the fire? How is it possible?” asked Beaubien. “It sounds ... diabolical.”

  Mebkis shook his head. “She is not madji-manidò. There is no evil here.”

  I’m glad to hear it, thought Lucie as she ate, but held her peace. It was vital that she not be locked up—or worse—as a witch, if she was to find her way back.

  “No,” agreed Soeur Anne, looking into Lucie’s eyes. “It is not witchery that has brought her to us.” She took her rosary from around her neck and held it out to Lucie. “But just to be sure. Kindly say an ‘Our Father,’ if you please?”

  Lucie took the string of beads. She hadn’t told the beads of a rosary since middle school, but once she started, it was like getting on a bicycle. When she finished the prayer, Beaubien and Sister Anne both visibly relaxed.

  “Come now, Mademoiselle Lucie,” Beaubien said. “Tell us your story.”

  Lucie related the details of the previous evening—had it been only twenty-four hours ago? When she finished, she took up her bag and made a show of unzipping it. All three of the others gasped at the noise it made, and Lucie laughed at their wonder. She’d been taking zippers for granted all her life.

  She held the bag up to the candelabra so they could see the zipper’s tiny teeth and how they fit together as she moved the slider. Then she removed her spinning wheel. As she’d suspected, it was broken: the treadle had snapped in half. But she set it up for them next to her on the bench.

  Beaubien came around to her side of the table and knelt beside the wheel. He ran his hands lightly over the smooth wood and pushed the levers that moved the wheel. “It’s marvelous,” he murmured. “If you wish, I believe I can repair it for you.”

  Lucie warmed at his offer. For the first time, she felt a pang of regret at the idea of getting back to her own time. “I would be grateful, but I hope I’m not here long enough for that to happen.”

  Beaubien stiffened and looked away. “Of course.”

  To cover the awkwardness of the moment, Lucie pulled her cell phone out of her bag of wool and turned it on. Its screen flashed cold white, blinding eyes accustomed to candlelight. Once they all adjusted, Lucie showed them a few photos. Sister Anne crossed herself repeatedly, and even the unflappable Mebkis looked ... flapped. Finally, Lucie powered down her phone again and put it away.

  “And from how far into the future have you come to us?” asked Beaubien.

  “From 20—” Lucie corrected herself. “The year of our Lord two thousand nineteen.”

  “Nearly four hundred years,” whispered Soeur Anne. “That seems impossibly far away. You poor child.”

  “I’m not exactly a child,” returned Lucie. “I’m thirty-one years old.”

  Beaubien laughed in astonishment. “That cannot be true. That is my sister’s age. Begging your pardon, Anne.”

  Lucie glanced at Soeur Anne. She’d thought the nun was twenty years older. It made sense, though. Uneven access to high-quality food, exposure to the elements, childbirth, and tragedy all had aged pre-Industrial women. Lucie had learned as much in her studies, but being confronted with this reality was a different thing altogether.

  Soeur Anne smiled faintly. “Well, then. We have all had enough excitement for one evening, have we not? I suggest that we take our rest and reconvene on the morrow. Wo
uld that be acceptable, mademoiselle?”

  Now that her stomach was full of savory stew, Lucie felt fatigue blanketing her mind. “Yes, please.”

  Beaubien stood, squeezing his sister’s shoulder fondly. “We will all think more clearly after some rest. We’ll take our leave. I have business to which I must attend in the morning, but Mebkis and Michel and I will meet you at midday, yes?”

  “Yes,” his sister answered. “I am most anxious to see my nephew.”

  Beaubien moved to the door, Mebkis at his heels. “Until tomorrow, then, sister. Mademoiselle.” The trapper bowed to each of the women in turn and left.

  “Have you eaten and drunk your fill?” Sister Anne asked.

  “Yes, Soeur, thank you very much for your hospitality.”

  “Charity is the watchword of our order. Let us find you a bed, then, and something to wear. I’ll clean and dress your wounds and make you as comfortable as possible. Some willow bark tea with plenty of honey is in order, yes? With perhaps some valerian to help you sleep.”

  Lucie smiled gratefully. The throbbing of her arm and foot were the only things keeping her awake, and the salicylic acid in the willow bark should help take the edge off the pain. If only she’d had some ibuprofen in her bag of wool ... “Yes, please.” She followed after the nun.

  In a room no bigger than a broom closet, Soeur Anne unwrapped Lucie’s foot. She inhaled sharply when she saw the cut, which now looked puffy and inflamed. “Bring me some goldenseal from the infirmary,” she directed the novice who had come in with them. The girl returned with some withered roots a moment later and handed them to the nun. Sister Anne set a shallow wooden basin under Lucie’s foot and poured vinegar over the cut. Lucie winced at the sting but held her leg as still as possible. Once the wound was flushed clean, the nun spread honey on Lucie’s skin. Next, she sliced open the roots, pressed the cut sides against Lucie’s flesh, and wrapped the foot, roots and all, with clean linen.

  She surveyed the splint on Lucie’s arm, smiling approvingly at Mebkis’s work. “We’ll leave that for now,” she said. She helped Lucie out of her gown, murmuring amazement at the zipper set in the side of the bodice. “I’ll clean and mend this myself,” she told Lucie as she bundled up the fabric. “It wouldn’t do for others to see it.”

  Once Lucie was down to her bra and bicycle shorts—she noticed Soeur Anne trying not to goggle at her twenty-first-century underwear—she gratefully sponged her body off and donned the clean nightgown the novice had brought her. The large bell sleeve just fit over her splint. She’d have to move carefully to avoid tearing it.

  “Now, drink your tea, say your prayers, and rest.” Soeur Anne smiled and shut the door behind her as she left.

  Lucie curled up on the short, narrow cot after drinking her tea. Her splinted arm felt like a log, but it was wonderful to lie down. Despite her exhaustion, she was afraid to go to sleep. After all, it wasn’t necessarily the bonfire that had brought her to this time, no matter what Mebkis thought he knew.

  And curiously, the thought of waking up at home without another chance to see Nicolas Beaubien, a man she barely knew, troubled her more than she wanted to admit.

  Finally, though, Lucie slept.

  Her body was one massive muscle ache when she woke up the next morning. Her splinted arm was all over pins and needles, and Lucie felt sure that if she looked at her foot, it would be visibly pulsing with each beat of her heart. Almost as bad, she could barely stand her own smell. I’d trade at least a week’s pay for a hot shower, she thought.

  Someone rapped softly at the door, and a moment later, Soeur Anne popped her head in. “Bonjour!” she sang out.

  Lucie levered herself up to sitting as the nun bustled in with a tray of food and medicaments. Nuns kept grueling schedules; Soeur Anne had surely been up since well before dawn. “Good morning. What time is it?”

  “It’s past nine. You slept for almost twelve hours. There’s nothing like sleep for healing.” Soeur Anne set down her tray and moved to Lucie’s bedside. “May I?”

  Lucie nodded.

  The nun turned back the covers to expose Lucie’s bandaged foot. Once it was unwrapped, Lucie could see it looked better. Soeur Anne repeated the wound care she’d performed the night before and wrapped Lucie’s foot back up. “It will leave a scar,” she said. “If someone could have sewn it up shortly after you injured it, it might have healed more cleanly.”

  “I don’t mind the scar,” Lucie said. “Thank you for your help.”

  Soeur Anne handed her a plate with bread and cheese on it. “Break your fast while I fetch your gown. I did my best to clean it last eve. It might smell somewhat of smoke. I hung it to dry at my own hearth. I left the sleeve open for your splint, but turned the edges under to prevent the fabric from fraying. It’s a surpassing fine weave. What looms you must have in your time.”

  You have no idea. “You are too kind,” Lucie said aloud. Smelling like smoke was far better than the alternative. “Would it be possible to get a basin of water and a cloth? With more vinegar—and perhaps a comb? I would like to wash.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Once the nun left, Lucie wolfed down her food, thinking as fast as she chewed. Vinegar would cut the smell and the greasy feel of her skin somewhat—and would also make a basic mouthwash. Lucie wished that during their journey the day before, she had thought to gather some bergamot or teaberry to scrub her mouth with.

  After eating, Lucie took some wool roving and her drop spindle out of her bag. Spinning with a drop spindle was much slower and laborious than using a wheel, but it was all she had at the moment to keep her hands busy and her mind focused.

  Soeur Anne soon returned, Lucie’s gown over one arm. “I’ll leave you to your toilette. Once you’ve finished, come out to the hall, and we’ll sit in the garden. Fresh air and sunshine will do you much good, and I plan to receive my nephew and Mebkis there.”

  The garden—perfect. Lucie could hopefully pick some mint or parsley and chew it. It would be nice to see Michel and Mebkis. Was it too much to ask that Nicolas Beaubien might be able to accompany his son?

  She was disappointed; the boy and the First Nations man came alone.

  “Father and Dufour are overseeing the loading of our furs onto the ship,” Michel explained. “They have much to do before it sails. They’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Your father is going to France?” Lucie tried and failed to keep disappointment out of her voice.

  “No, madame. He sails only downriver to the Atlantic to see off the ship. It has become a tradition.”

  “Oh.” Lucie bit her cheeks to keep from smiling. What was wrong with her? She was acting like a silly teenager. She looked down at her spindle to hide her face.

  “When they return next week, Father will host a dinner. He asked me to extend an invitation to you. Please say you’ll accept.”

  Oh, that hopeful spark. Lucie should put the boy out of his misery sooner rather than later. “I would be glad to. I’ve just had my thirty-first birthday, and I would love to celebrate it with you.” She smiled as Michel tried to cover his shock.

  “Madame ... I ... we all will be so glad of your company,” he finished lamely.

  Soeur Anne laughed. “I am sure she will look forward to it. Michel, you should go help your father now,” she suggested. “Mebkis and I need a word alone with Madame Tremblay.”

  “Yes, of course.” The boy stood, bowed, and left.

  “The poor boy,” the nun said, looking fondly after her nephew. “Well, Mebkis,” she said, returning her attention to the crewelwork in her lap. “What think you of our poor lost Lucie’s quest to find her way home? Saint-Jean’s Day is past, so we cannot build another chavande and hope for that strange magic to repeat itself.”

  “If there was a way here, there must be a way for me to get back,” added Lucie.

  “I know of nothing that could send a person forward through many thousand tomorrows,” the First Nations man said. “I wish to return
to my people and consult the elders. If anyone in all of Kanatà can solve this riddle, it will be them. They have some powerful magic, but it is guarded closely. I cannot promise they will give you any aid, but I will try. I will be gone at least seven days, but I will make haste.”

  “Thank you,” Lucie said. “That’s very generous of you.”

  Mebkis took his leave. A week—at minimum—seemed a long time to wait, but what else could Lucie do?

  Why had this happened to her? Was it just a random blip in the normal functioning of the universe, or did this strange turn in her life have a purpose?

  “Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet,” said Soeur Anne, seeming to have read Lucie’s thoughts. “Time will tell us the meaning of all things.”

  Lucie thought about that as she let the roving twist through her fingers until it was a single ply of yarn. Finally, she said, “I’ll just have to trust you on that.”

  The days in the monastery were quiet, punctuated only by meals and prayers. Lucie spent much of her time in the herb garden in the shade of the porch, spinning awkwardly on a borrowed wheel and watching bees pollinate the flowers. There wasn’t much else she could do; the only books the nuns owned were precious copies of the Bible and collections of music. She did beg some paper, pen, and ink so she could record her observations of daily life. Once she got home, she thought she might write a book and set straight some misconceptions that had persisted down through the centuries. How she’d support her assertions was another matter, but she could worry about that later.

  Paper was scarce, however, and there was only so much writing Lucie could do. Needlework was impossible. Lucie fairly ached to knit or do some kind of embroidery. But she’d have to wait until her arm was healed, and that would be another three weeks, at least.