by Nancy Young
Quickly she found the general store just inside the town’s limits and made her necessary purchases: a twenty-five pound sack of threshed flour and a double smoked ham shank wrapped in muslin. The shopkeeper, Cécile’s father, recognized Madame Lowell immediately but their conversation remained formal and at a polite minimum.
“Good morning, Madame Lowell … I trust you are well,” the shopkeeper offered, avoiding her eyes in a way completely foreign to the normally convivial man.
“Good morning, Mr. Lonsdale,” Madame Lowell answered, watching him as he hung his head, busily examining the ham hock. “I am as well as I can be. Thank you for your kind words.”
“Well … ” he answered awkwardly smoothing the muslin around the ham. “It has been some time since we’ve seen you.” He wrapped the cured meat in brown paper and tied the package in twine. “Tis a warm day, must keep this out of the heat … ”
“Yes. Thank you. I will.”
He handed the bundle to her, adding, “The young Miss Isabelle is well too?”
“Yes. Not too badly. I will tell her you asked after her.”
“Good. Thank you. Shall I help you with the sack and ham?”
“Yes please.”
The shopkeeper carried the packages on his shoulders, hefting them carefully into the horse-cart and tying them expertly, one on each side of the carriage. He helped Madame Lowell climb with some difficulty onto the driver’s seat, and gave the horse a pat.
Just as Madame Lowell brought up the reins to start up the gray mare, he added, “Today is a special feast day, and me mum and dad have just left for church a moment ago. I’m sure they would be happy to see you if you were planning to stop in for Father Maurice’s service. They think very highly of him.”
Madame Lowell had not planned to attend the service but she arrived at the church just as the service was about to begin. She crept in quietly taking an inconspicuous seat in the last row of pews. Nearly three times the size of Father Jacob’s, the church was but half full. Occupying the forward seats were recognizable personages, some clutching new babies unknown to her. This observation made her realize just how long she and Isabelle had hidden away inside the small cabin like bears hibernating through an inhospitable winter. Sitting stolidly there in the new church, she felt liberated having conquered her self-consciousness and riding now above any possible ridicule she might receive for her futile attempts to salvage Father Jacob’s tainted church. Her only purpose now was to find some sort of employment to keep herself and Isabelle fed and clothed. If she could secure a caretaker or housekeeper role with this new priest here, or even one as a cook, she would be grateful.
The grandeur of the church was wondrous to behold, with its dark-stained timber rafters spanning a breathtaking expanse of masonry and brick, imposing a heavy celestial weight upon the heads of the congregation. Dropping her head in prayer as the priest’s words wrapped themselves like a penitence upon her shoulders, she realized then that she had not attended church or confession for many months, so ensconced was she in the duties of nursing her young charge back to health and tranquility after the traumatic events of the spring.
The yoke of prayer was so overwhelming and complete that Madame Lowell lost all sense of time and place. In her prayer she saw marvelous sights.
Jacob was dressed in his finest priest’s cassock and above the collar was the face of the younger man she knew from her first meetings of him. But he was floating just a few inches above the ground and the rim of his gown where the black cloth would have skimmed the earth as he walked glowed with an ominous half-ring of flames flicking steadily as he glided. Trailing not far behind in a similar airborne fashion was her husband, just as she last saw him, replete in his finest ministerial gown. The two men guided her along as they hovered just ahead of her in this silent pantomime, moving assuredly toward an opening at the edge of an unfamiliar forest.
She was young again, but it was winter in this other-worldly trance in which she found herself. The arch of the cedars and firs about her loomed precipitously high like the overwhelmingly vaulted ceiling of the cathedrals of her childhood. They were ancient and imposing, venerable and oppressive, but at the same time they brought an abiding sense of comfort and awe in which only the truly devout can revel. Like a pair of dolphins skimming the waves of a frigid green ocean, the two angels of men rose high up into the canopy of the forest. Parting the sea of trees among them, a golden ribbon of river strangely lit from an unworldly sun above was revealed to the earth-bound traveler below.
In its pristine grandeur the ravine widened out at this wintry bend in the river, but the bold bristling pines pressed in with inconceivable closeness and evoked a sacrosanct intimacy; it was a clandestine cathedral lit from within with its own other-worldly luminescence. Rows of giant cedars parted their veils and peered out through the stillness like young maidens receiving first communion in the silence of the snow. Freshly sprouted pine needles curved like eyelashes over demurely downcast eyes; soft mounded snow drifts rounded shoulders sheathed in white lace undulating over young bosoms quivering with anticipation.
As she stood frozen at the bend of the river, Jacob’s sweeping robes enveloped her for a moment and doused their flames upon her, transferring the heat of an early summer’s day to her in a blanket of warmth that suddenly filled her with a protective yet stifling sense of assurance. It was with a contradiction of fear and certainty that she surged forth into the forest as the apparitions began to recede into the thick pine foliage above. She called out to them but no sound came from her lips, except for the muttered words of prayer that her enslaved mouth pressed her tongue into forming. She found herself creeping deeper into the forest as the echoes of her own prayer filled the cauldron of trees in which she was submerged.
•
Even before the sound of the cart wheels was fully dissipated, Isabelle was weeping again, head bobbing and eyes streaming a flood of tears into desperate hands. The gnawing sensation in her belly demanded her to put food in it but she could not bear to look at the eggshells, much less break them. Through her tears she peered about the kitchen but found nothing at hand to feed herself, and could do nothing more than continue to sob hopelessly until finally, the tears came to a halt. It was only then that she heard a few slow hoof steps approach the house, this time from the opposite side of where the housekeeper had departed on the horse-drawn cart. Perhaps it was the mixture of surprise and fear which gripped her that dissolved the pain in her stomach. Isabelle rose out of her chair, rushed into her bedroom and pulled the bed covers off the bed to wrap around herself. She stood stock still cowering in her bedroom for an eternity it seemed, listening intently for footsteps at the door or any sounds of entry into the house. But there was none, only her loudly beating heart underscoring the hum of a horsefly and the incessant warbling of a distant bird.
Then, the hoof steps passed slowly by her window and Isabelle drew up her courage to walk soundlessly over to the window and step onto the footstool that she kept at the base. What she saw then through the small window nearly toppled her from her perch. The horse and rider had already passed her window so the male intruder had his back to her. But what was this? The figure was familiar, and furthermore it bore more than just a small likeness to her deceased lover — she would know it anywhere and from any angle. It was he, she was sure of it, perched slightly bent upon the bare back of a white and brown pinto, his black hair tied loosely down his back.
She almost called out to him, and then realized that she must be seeing his ghost, in broad daylight. Could she halt the figure from receding away into the garden and into the ether if she simply willed for the rider to stop and turn around, she asked herself? What if it is not him? Maybe it is one of his brothers? Maybe they are here to seek some sort of revenge? Or payment for their loss? What could she offer them? Herself, as a hostage? She would gladly do it. And with this thought s
he rushed out of her room and out of the kitchen door in her bare feet, rounding the corner just as the rider stopped and turned his head to see her coming around it, and then brought herself up short at the sight of him.
Walk-Tall was startled to find her looking so pale and thin, and even more so when she toppled over onto rocks and grass in a faint. Quickly he brought the horse around, urging it into a canter to the place where Isabelle had fallen. With some difficulty he dismounted, tied the horse to a tree and was at her side before she returned to consciousness. As if under water, her hands reached up to touch his face, not believing the reality of the beautiful but blurred image she was seeing. He was a vision she thought she would never see again, but here he was in flesh and blood. It was all too much for her and she fainted away again. Painfully aware that he could not pick her up and carry her into the house as he wanted to do, Walk-Tall simply pulled the bed covers tightly around her, and lay down beside her, his arm cradling her head and the other resting across her body. Small ruts jabbed his back and arms but he relaxed his body and patiently waited for her to awaken. When she finally did, it was with a jolt, her emerald eyes opening wide and her mouth forming a silent circle.
“Ahhh, it is you!” she cried, rolling them into a full embrace oblivious of the sharp rocks and tufted grass that formed their impromptu bedding. “You are real! You are real! I cannot believe it!” she repeated, stroking and squeezing his shoulders and arms to prove to herself he was not an apparition.
“I am real,” was all he said. Tears flowed and each felt as if they had regained a most treasured possession thought to have been lost forever.
“But, you were dead. They carried you away and you were dead! I thought I was dead too. I wanted to die … I did not want to live without you! But how did you come back? And why did you not come back to me straight away?” He could only close his eyes and smile wanly as she blanketed him with questions. “Oh, my poor darling … I am so sorry for what happened … I am so sorry! Oh … let me see what he did to you. Are you in much pain?”
He stayed her hand and prevented her from peering at his wounds. But he felt the excruciating pain sharply in his body where the bullets had torn large irreparable holes in his muscle, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry. It was ecstasy and agony entwined as he was in her arms, but he would have forfeited his right leg to be able to feel her body against his just one more time. He relaxed his body into the pain and drew her to him and kissed her deeply, first on the eyes then on the lips to quiet her sobs, and waited to begin his explanation.
“My mother is a medicine woman. She always had the touch. Her father — my grandfather — was the tribal medicine man and she learned everything from him, just by watching, understanding, and knowing.” She now cradled his head in the grass and listened intently as he told his story. “I was already dead, they told me, when I was brought back to my home. There was almost no breath coming out of me or into me. But my mother refused to believe I was gone. She shooed everyone out of the tent where they had laid me and she immediately undid the bandages and applied her magic poultices and rubbed my body from head to foot with her special medicines. No one knows what she applied to me or which god she made a deal with, but in the morning I awoke.
“I heard the rooster crow like I have never heard a cock cry before! It was as if my ears had swelled to the size of maize, and I felt all my senses like they were bolts of lightning and the crash of thunder upon my body. Yes, the pain was unbearable. I wanted to die again so I would not have to feel it. I got my wish, for my brothers tell me that I fell into a deep sleep and did not wake up again for nearly three weeks. I only remember the awakening part, of course, and by then the medicine was doing its work and the pain became more like a painful memory, coming and going rather than always there.
“She sat at my side every minute, I was told. Those three weeks were a test for everyone: a test of faith and test of our family’s love. The weave of my family’s basket was torn and my life was leaking out. My life hung by a small thread and they told me my fingers turned black and my mother rubbed them every day ten times a day until their color returned. I think she chanted every chant she knew, sang every spirit song she remembered. The tribal medicine man came, but she turned him away, telling him that in my fragile state his magic would be too much for my spirit and would drive it away instead of inviting it back. She told him that she saw my spirit and it was an owl that sat in a large cedar tree in the forest beyond our home. She was right; for exactly an hour before I awoke, a large owl kept watch in a tree beside my tent and flew away the minute I made my first move.”
Isabelle was transfixed by the story. She had been visited by the snow owl too, many times, as she had lain like a child in her bed. The soothing sound of the hoot in the night was like a lullaby, but in her dreams the bird was more like her mother, silent and watchful. Still in the dream she would find herself in the forest alone leaning against the large old cedar tree. She would be waiting for Walk-Tall to join her, but each time she heard a sound in the silent cathedral of trees, it would be the owl, arriving just after her and lighting upon a low branch just above. It would look down upon her with its stern yellow eyes, soft snow-white wings folding silently into their perfect position. If she closed her eyes and let go of her pain, those wings would grow and expand into a feathery embrace and she could lose all memory, lose herself in it.
Then one day a momentary panic descended. She listened for the plaintive cry of the owl at the expected hour but none came. Those visits and dreams were the only things that kept her from rising from her bed and finding a way into the frozen lake. Abandoned again, she thought. But what small grace the owl had brought in the days and weeks prior had buoyed her spirits enough to give her the strength to continue. With the passing days she came to realize that it only meant her lover had finally gone to heaven, to a beautiful place where someday they would be reunited. In her dreams that night, the owl came to visit but she no longer waited for her lover to arrive. The bird kept its watch silently from its perch in a nearby tree. It was then that she began to sense a small stirring of life deep inside her. It was nearly summer and Isabelle knew that come winter she would be a mother. It was with this realization that she arose that morning resolved to begin a dedicated regimen of manual work.
And now, as she held the father of her child once again in her arms, it was with relief, gratitude, and joy, unbelievable joy. She sat upright with the joy, and then retracted as Walk-Tall gave a grimace of pain. His wounds were on the mend, but far from healed. Carefully helping him into an upright position, she held back the tears, silently crying with remorse at his wounds, but her joy was like a heady brew and instead she gave a mirthful but genuine cry of happiness. “You must have been touched by an angel, Walk-Tall. Perhaps your mother is an angel? I must meet her some day and thank her. She must be a wonderful woman.”
“She is, my love,” he replied. “But I have bad news to tell you next.”
“Oh no. I hope you are not going to say what I fear you are going to say?”
“I am afraid, yes.” Walk-Tall reflected for a minute then reached for Isabelle and held her to him, even as the pain in his abdomen nearly made him cry out.
“Oh no, Walk-Tall! I am so sorry. That is why you did not come to me straight away!”
“Yes, that is why. She was an old woman already; please do not cry. She lived a most wonderful life. I was the much younger child that she did not expect. She sat by my side chanting for the three weeks of my long sleep. This is what they told me. Without sleep or food. When I awoke the second time, the final time, I saw her small body sitting on the floor beside me. Her eyes closed. In her hands was her most powerful talisman.”
“She was a good woman. The kind of mother I hope to be one day.” Isabelle sighed.
“Yes. And for a moment her eyes opened and she smiled at me. Then she gave out a long breath. I think it
was with that breath that she left for the spirit world. When I called her name, she did not answer. I tried to get up, but the pain stayed me to the bed and I could only call out with a weak voice. Soon, my father came in and when he saw her, he knew right away that she had already left us.”
They held each other and said no more words. Isabelle thought about the dream she had of their unborn child. But it was Walk-Tall who turned her face to him and looked deep into her eyes and seemed to read her thoughts. She grasped his hand and placed it under her bed-cover wrap on her stomach through the cloth of her night dress. Beneath the sharply carved cliff-line of her lower ribs, the swelling mound was a sun-warmed hillock. Their eyes met in a moment of corresponding vision and mutual understanding.
Walk-Tall could feel the life in Isabelle’s belly like the deep waters of a hot spring rising in an otherwise cool lake. The warmth emanating from her womb and into his hands had healing qualities that made the pain in his own abdomen and leg subside. Almost with gratitude the young man allowed his eyelids to close and his wrinkled brows to smooth out with relief. Isabelle mistook the action momentarily for returning pain. But when a beatific smile crept across and transformed his face, her fears were immediately allayed. That beautiful face was so familiar to her; the rapturous expression brought to her the memory of her early childhood so many years ago, and the gilded angels swooning in ecstasy between the covers of the books in Father Pascal’s library.