Soeur Anne turned to Nicolas. “Hasten here and inform me of your success,” she said. “No matter how late the hour. I will not rest until I know all is well.”
Nicolas nodded. “Come, let us begin,” he said to the others. “It will be far easier for us to approach the cave while there is still daylight in the sky. I would prefer not to be burdened with lit torches if we can avoid them.”
As Mebkis led them northeast into the woods, Lucie couldn’t help but think of their journey toward the settlement a little over a month before. In some ways, it felt as though she’d been in 1640 for far longer than five weeks. Yet as she walked behind Beaubien, she wished this day hadn’t come quite so quickly. She imagined bringing Nicolas home. He had bravely begun a life in a new land; was there a way he could start over yet again in a new century? Likely not. There wasn’t much call for trappers in her Québec. And surely the noise and people and technology would be overwhelming.
Now that she thought about it, after her weeks of peace—no television or internet, no cars or airplanes, no schedule other than the passing summer and the Ursulines’ daily round of prayer—she wondered if she would be able to endure the city furor she’d taken for granted her entire life.
Nearly four hours later, they stood at the base of Montmorency Falls. Lucie had visited the massive cataract many times, but seeing it unframed by any concrete stairs, suspension bridge, or tram wires made it look even grander and untamed. Mebkis was right, of course; there was far less water falling than there would be after spring or late summer storms. This was their best chance of reaching the cave.
They kept to dry ground as they climbed. After a few dozen meters, Lucie’s newly healed arm ached nearly as much as it had the first few days after the injury. She tightened her jaw and kept climbing. Beaubien, Michel, and Mebkis were doing all this for her. She couldn’t breathe a word of complaint.
It grew dark. The silver lining was that now Lucie couldn’t see how far down the base of the falls was. She focused on Beaubien’s feet just above her head. Finally, Beaubien reached out his hand and lifted her up to a narrow ledge on which he and Mebkis stood. Michel clambered up last of all.
“Now we’ll need light,” shouted Mebkis over the roar of the waters.
Taking out his flint and steel, Beaubien lit a torch he’d prepared earlier. By its flickering light, the entrance to the cave was just visible behind the cascading water. Though at their ebb, the falls were still mighty, and Lucie tried not to think about being smashed to a pulp on the rocks dozens of meters below. Beaubien held the torch steady so that Mebkis could see to cross the slippery rocks. Once the First Nations man had made it to the slight lip of stone that marked the cave’s threshold, Beaubien reached around Lucie and handed the torch to Michel.
“Wait here until we’re safely across,” he shouted to his son. “Once Mebkis has the fire going, hopefully it will cast enough light so that I can lean out and help you.”
Michel nodded, gripping the torch tightly. Slowly, Beaubien followed in Mebkis’s footsteps. His boots weren’t as flexible as moccasins, and his feet slipped once or twice as he inched toward the cave. Finally, he made it. He pantomimed to Lucie to take her boots off. That made sense; she pulled them off and stuffed them into her knapsack. Hugging the face of the rock, she felt her way forward centimeter by centimeter. Even though the summer heat still lingered in the air, the wet stone felt chilly against her face and body and positively icy on her sensitive feet. She forced down a shiver and continued with her eyes closed.
After an eternity, she felt strong fingers envelop her own. Beaubien heaved and pulled her across the remaining distance and into a tight hug. Lucie held the embrace, reveling in the feel of his hard, broad chest and strong arms. Then she forced herself away, waving back at Michel.
Mebkis had been busy in his few minutes in the cavern. He’d already made a small heap of tinder, kindling, and wood he had brought. Now, shielding the pile from the misty cave entrance, he worked his bow drill to produce a spark. He nursed it carefully until it was a flame, gradually feeding the fire until it burned brightly. Quartz sparkled and winked in the cavern’s moist walls and low ceiling.
Beaubien looked out at his son, motioning for him to douse the torch and come across. Michel frowned and shook his head.
“Why won’t he come?” asked Lucie.
“I don’t know. Maybe he can’t see well enough and doesn’t want to chance it. No matter. He can wait there, and it will be that much easier for us ... for Mebkis and me ... to make our way back to the bank.” Beaubien waved and nodded. Michel sat down, still holding the torch, his legs dangling over the edge.
“Now we begin,” said Mebkis. He sat near the fire and pulled out a rolled deerskin. Once he smoothed it out on the floor, Lucie could see it was covered with pictograms. The historian in her itched to take a closer look at it. There was no way she could take it with her, but she felt professional envy all the same. Murmuring in a low voice, Mebkis added some strong-smelling herbs to the fire. “Through fire and fountain, flame and water, I will see only what you envision,” he told Lucie. “That is how I will hold the door open for you.”
The smoke swirled around Lucie, making her dizzy. She leaned against Beaubien for support. He held her shoulders lightly, as if afraid he would break her.
“Jamais je ne t’oublierai,” Nicolas said softly in her ear.
I will never forget you. The first words she’d ever heard from him. “À la claire fontaine,” the old folk song he’d sung when she’d awakened at his campfire on Saint-Jean’s Day.
Her eyes teared up, and not just because the smoke had gotten thicker. She coughed a little and then stared. The flames had begun to spiral like a miniature cyclone. Mebkis raised the pitch of his chanting. “It’s time to add the sacrifices,” he said in French, then continued his monotonous song. He pulled the shaft of a broken arrow out of his pack and cast it on the fire.
Beaubien gasped. “The arrow that killed his father,” he whispered. “Be deeply complimented. That is a great sacrifice, indeed.” Then Beaubien himself tossed a small object into the flames. Lucie’s throat tightened as she realized what it was: his dead wife’s medal of Sainte-Marie. That he would give up such a precious thing for her ...
The melting lead dripped down into the ashes. The whirlwind of fire grew stronger and taller. Now it was Lucie’s turn.
She took out her wallet. It had been a graduation gift from her mother—a pale-blue calfskin wallet from Hermès, easily the most valuable accessory she owned. Never mind; she could get another. She had already emptied its contents into her knapsack. Now she carefully placed it on the flames.
Instead of increasing, the blaze died down somewhat, and Mebkis’s eyes widened in alarm. “Kawin tabise,” he said. “Not enough.”
Lucie felt stirrings of panic in her gut. What else did she have? She dumped out her sack and put her paper money on the flames. They sank lower. She added her driver’s license and credit cards—which made the fire stink even as it subsided further. The air reeked of melting plastic, and Lucie despaired. Those things hadn’t meant enough to her to generate the power the magical blaze needed. All that was left was her phone, and that seemed dangerous. She didn’t care that much about it, anyway, so it surely wouldn’t help.
Then it came to her. “Of course,” she whispered. Unzipping her case, she quickly took out the maple spindle, wheel, and treadle. This spinning wheel had seen her through so much and had become even more precious to her once Beaubien had repaired it.
But if this was her only chance to get home, so be it. She set the pieces of her wheel on the fire. Immediately the flames leaped upward once more, and the cyclone became ten times stronger.
“Now make the picture of your home in your mind,” directed Mebkis and resumed his chant.
Lucie imagined the Plains of Abraham, the Château Frontenac, the basse-ville that housed all of what she used to consider Old Québec—none of which had been built yet in this
time. She thought of her parents, her sister, and even sweet Olivier. She thought of poutine and pouding chômeur and chocolat chaud. She—
Behind her came a crash, and she was knocked forward until she almost fell into the fire. She whipped her head around. Dufour! The odious man had toppled Nicolas from behind and now grappled with him on the cave floor. Where had he come from? Lucie looked out to the place Michel had been sitting, but the boy and the torch were gone.
“What have you done?” she screamed, launching herself onto Dufour.
“Get off me, witch!” The stocky man threw her off easily, and she landed in Mebkis’s lap. His eyes unseeing, he continued chanting. She stood up and prepared to attack Dufour once more.
“Lucie, stop,” Nicolas gasped. “I can handle Dufour. Go, now, or all this will have been for nothing.”
He was right. Once Lucie was gone, Mebkis could let go of the spell and help him. Dufour was no match for both men. Leaving immediately was the best way to help Beaubien.
Lucie looked back at the flames. The fiery column reached to the cave’s low ceiling now, but there wasn’t much of the spinning wheel left, so she didn’t have long. She had to steel herself to step into the fire. You didn’t get burned coming through the chavande, she reminded herself. Trust Mebkis. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and jumped.
She landed on cool grass and heard sirens, the rumble of trains, and a million other sounds of the twenty-first century. She smelled car exhaust, frying sausages, and tar. She had made it.
But then she looked back through the portal still hanging in the air and gasped. Nicolas now hung over the edge of the cave, clutching the wet stones with slipping fingers. Dufour knelt beside him, pounding and slapping at Nicolas’s fingers. “No!” she screamed.
She dived back through the bridge connecting the centuries. Her momentum carried her forward into Dufour’s wide back. With a cry, he fell headlong into the dark falls. Lucie teetered and slid on the narrow stone lip. She fell hard on one knee but ignored the pain that rocketed up her leg as she grasped Nicolas’s wrists.
And then Mebkis was next to her, hauling his friend up to safety. The magical fire had died down to embers; the portal was closed, likely forever.
Once Beaubien sat safely on the cave’s floor, Mebkis looked out where Michel had sat. “I’ll go in search of the boy,” he said, and made his way swiftly back to the bank.
Lucie threw her arms around Beaubien. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered.
He coughed a ragged laugh. “I thought you were gone forever,” he replied.
And he kissed her.
As their lips met, joyous energy surged through Lucie. “My home is here now,” she said.
Nicolas chuckled. “Dufour was right about one thing. You are far too brazen for your own good,” he murmured in her ear.
“For shame, monsieur!” Lucie chided mockingly. “My brazenness just saved your life.”
Nicolas wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Indeed, it did. And now that it did, my life belongs to you.”
13 December 1640
Wrapped in furs, Lucie sat next to her sister-in-law in front of the bonfire burning merrily in Québec settlement’s small square. Lazy snowflakes hissed as they fell into the flames. Residents milled around, laughing and talking. The autumn ships had brought a few more women to New France, and Lucie welcomed their civilizing influence. She set down her knitting—a set of tiny wool stockings—and clasped her hands over her slightly rounded belly.
“Nicolas said he’d arrive in time for the fête,” she said.
Anne smiled. “He and Michel will be here soon. I think they have a surprise for you. It’s your feast day, after all.”
Staring into the bonfire, Lucie thought of her namesake, Sainte-Lucie, who had lit her path with a wreath of candles on her head so she could carry more food to the poor. Her very name meant light. It made sense that Christians would co-opt a day near the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year, to celebrate the return of the sun—just as they celebrated the summer solstice as Saint-Jean’s Day.
Michel sat down clumsily next to her, jostling her out of her reverie. He’d grown another six inches since summer and still wasn’t used to his gangly limbs. “Papa has something for you,” he announced, holding his hands out to the flames.
Lucie stood and wobbled as she kept from overbalancing. Talk about changing bodies. Lucie had yet to grow accustomed to her constantly shifting center of gravity. She turned to greet her tall, handsome husband, who had a large bundle in his hands.
“This is for you,” he said, reflected firelight dancing in his eyes.
He held out the bundle, and Lucie took it and sat down.
Slowly she unwrapped the layers of cloth as Michel and Anne looked over her shoulder. She gasped as she uncovered her gift—a spinning wheel nearly identical to the one that had burned in Mebkis’s magical fire back in July.
“How—”
Michel interrupted her eagerly. “Mebkis and I went back to the cave and pulled the metal pieces out of the ashes the week after you were married,” he said. “I wanted to go sooner, but Papa said I couldn’t go until Tante Anne took the bandages off my head.”
Michel had miraculously suffered only a concussion when Dufour knocked him down the cliffside. Thank heaven for the resilience of the young. That fateful evening, Lucie and Nicolas’s joy hadn’t been complete until Mebkis had discovered the boy dazed but otherwise unharmed.
Her stepson continued his explanation as Lucie unfolded the wheel and set it up on the snowy ground. “We’ve been working on it in secret for months. See?” He pushed down on the treadle, and it ran as smoothly as the original had.
“Thank you!” Lucie hugged Michel tightly and then stood to kiss her towering husband. “I cannot wait to use it. I feel terrible that I did not have a gift for you on your feast day.” Saint-Nicolas’s Day had been the week before, and Lucie had forgotten until then how much more important feast days were than birthdays in this century.
Nicolas laid his hand softly on Lucie’s belly. “You have given me a great gift already, ma belle au bois dormant.”
Lucie leaned into his strong arms. Happily ever after isn’t reality, she reminded herself. In four months, she’d give birth to her first child, far from any hospital. The fierce Canadian winter loomed before them, and their stores of food and firewood and faith would hopefully be enough to see them through until spring. Danger, disaster, disease—these were ever-present facts of life in 1640. But she and Nicolas had each other. That was enough for the present, no matter what the future—or was it the past?—would bring.
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Luisa Perkins is the author of the dark fantasy novel Dispirited, the conspiracy thriller Premonition, and the cookbook Comfortably Yum. She has had short stories and essays published in numerous print and online anthologies. Luisa Perkins loves abandoned houses, ancient trees, and graveyards. Reading a great novel while eating homemade cookies is her idea of heaven. She and her family live in a small town in Southern California. Luisa blogs (infrequently) at http://kashkawan.squarespace.com.
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