by Nancy Young
Like a sleeping child himself, Walk-Tall remained in a blissful otherworldly state for a long while, wrapped as he was in the warmth of his lover and unborn child’s embrace. Isabelle was loath to disturb him, but she was aware that Madame Lowell might shortly return with the horse and cart. They pondered the effect Walk-Tall’s return would have on the older woman and agreed that the right time would come when they would bring her into their secret. For the time being, it seemed unfair to burden her with such unexpected news on so many fronts. He unwound his body slowly, unwilling but wise enough to know he must return to his home to recuperate fully before attempting to see Isabelle again. Both knew without discussion that his family would disapprove of his return to Isabelle, even though in his tribe it was custom for a man to join his wife’s family, and regardless of the fact that her murderous uncle was no longer of this world. Their union had already brought infinite misfortune on both sides.
•
In the midst of this expanse of virgin snow a solitary figure, wrapped from head to foot in a thick white cotton blanket emblazoned with a dark native design, soundlessly wends its way slowly through the forest, listening intently with eager ears swathed in cloth, searching for the sound of water, running water. The figure is a woman, a mother — cradled in her arms beneath the blanket, a small sleeping bundle provides ballast to her slow mincing steps. Even as the bundle stirs she inches forward, certain that the water source must be here where the colossal line of trees stands guard against an unseen and unknown enemy, their territory the domain of the regal peregrine falcon and the black bear in spring. In this stillness a thawing creek bed gives way with a trickle then a gush of running water, resolutely terminating the once vast silence with the tentative first notes of its intimate musical offering.
The distinct sound of water stops the young mother in her tracks; her head tilts up to search the tops of the trees and to pick out the old woman amongst the ring of giants. An old stately cedar stands before her, its towering height and formidable girth giving clues to the colossal measure of its life. Standing like a monument to this wild wonderland, the tree itself is her destination. She finds a familiar crevice in its impressive gnarled trunk where the 700-year-old roots heaved themselves above the earth to provide a human-like embrace and there she settles as she did many times before.
Softly she begins to sing, rocking the bundle in her arms, inured to the tears that fall upon her sleeping child. The blanket slips away from her head as she rocks, her body involuntarily moving in a rhythmic trance. Like a trail of blood after a successful deer hunt, a loose wave of auburn hair escapes from her small black bonnet, forming a meandering creek across the thick white weave of the blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes are closed and the lashes quiver; pale skin on her cheeks glows as translucent and wet as the thawing creek bed beyond.
Her singing becomes sleepy and sonorous; it summons a young scout who appears before her amongst the snow drifts. Unsure momentarily if the vision is real or a cruel trick of light, she draws in her breath sharply, and then slowly releases it again to the familiarity of his image. It makes her heart jump into her throat even as she continues her trance-like singing and rocking. The young brave is draped in deer skins below the waist; above he is bare, his wide brown chest emblazoned with the bold black markings of his people. Long jet black braids are tied at even junctures along both sides of his chiseled face and down to the narrow of his waist; loose eagle feathers trickle down from his ears to below the broad shoulders. His arms are held out before him as if he is making an offering of some treasured but invisible burden.
The scout slowly makes his way across the short distance of snowy ground to the woman and child, his moccasined feet making no sound at all. As he draws closer his image dissipates, dissolving into the frosty air like a soft word spoken from her lips. Around her the blanket draws itself tighter and the weight of his familiar body leans up undeniably against her. The old cedar welcomes them anew, shutting out the world around them and providing a shelter for their enduring but interrupted love. The mother closes her eyes and releases herself to a deep sleep, joining her blissful child in a place safe from the sorrows of the snow and ice. Content with their sleep the brave begins to climb the great tree, clearing the highest branches and disappearing into the tree top.
It was at this point, in mid-dream, in mid-prayer, that Amalie Lowell’s heart abruptly stopped.
•
For as long as there was light on the horizon Isabelle remained in the garden tending the trailing vines of potato and humming a soft song to herself. She listened diligently for the sound of the horse-cart in the distance but Madame Lowell did not return that afternoon. That evening, however, someone else arrived at the cabin in Solpetrière, and she watched as Cécile slowed down the horse and called out to Isabelle as she swung the horse and cart around the garden toward her.
Behind her, another horse carriage followed in which rode a young man, Cécile’s new husband-to-be. Isabelle approached the visitors with alarm, fearing the worst for Madame Lowell’s absence. Both visitors alighted from their vehicles and slowly came up to Isabelle, who was wrapped from head to toe in a thick cotton blanket. Cécile suspected it was an Indian blanket but pursed her lips in uncharacteristic silence.
“What is it, Cécile? What brings you here this time of the night?” Isabelle demanded. “Have you seen Madame Lowell?”
“Isabelle,” Cécile began. “It is about Madame Lowell. I’m afraid … I’m sorry but … ” she could not complete the sentence. “I wanted to come earlier, but … ”
Isabelle covered her mouth with her hands and began to tremble.
“No. Stop. Don’t say it, Cécile,” she cried, “don’t tell me. She buried her face into the sweat-soaked neck of the old gray mare. “No, no. It can’t be. No!”
“I’m afraid so … Belle.” The young woman had not called her by that childhood name and now it sounded hollow even in her own ears.
“No. No.” Sinking to her knees on the gravel path of the kitchen garden, Isabelle’s world spun in an unbelieving whirlwind. Nearly in a faint she pulled the blanket over her head and sat in the darkness of the hood as visions of Madame Lowell swam painfully in the black backdrop of that narrow cave. It was only when she felt arms folding themselves around her that she finally came to terms with her loss, and through the stiff cotton weave she slowly pronounced her words. “All right … please tell me. I am ready to know what happened to Madame.”
Cécile relayed the shocking news of the morning to her former friend as her fiancé looked on in silence. “Madame Lowell made a surprise appearance at our church in St.-Gérard this morning,” she began.
“Did she? I’m not surprised,” Isabelle replied now more calmly.
“She took a seat in the back row and several people said they saw her immediately bend down on her knees in prayer,” Cécile continued. “She did not seem to expect to meet anyone, and greeted no one. She just knelt down in prayer, and never rose up again.”
Isabelle gasped. “She never rose up again?”
“No,” the other young woman continued. “After the sermon ended, we all walked around her quietly, thinking she may have fallen asleep. No one wanted to wake her.”
“No one wanted to wake her?”
“No … but then Father Maurice came to speak to her, and he realized that she had joined the angels while deep in prayer.”
“Deep in prayer,” Isabelle sighed, imagining her rosary held between her palms and her forehead resting upon the back of the forward pew.
“Deep in prayer,” Cécile repeated. Isabelle’s tears now flowed like the melting of spring snow onto the banks of a thawing river. “I’m so sorry,” Cécile offered, placing a comforting hand upon the distraught woman. With her other hand she gestured to her fiancé to bring the horse-cart around. “Father Maurice will take care of her burial in th
e new church yard.”
“But I think she would have wanted to be with Father Ja … ”
“No, I think it is best this way,” Cécile interjected. Isabelle fell silent. “We brought the provisions Madame Lowell had bought this morning from my father’s shop,” she continued. “Twenty-five pounds of threshed flour and a ham. There are also a few things my mother sent along. Abel will take it all into the house, if that’s all right with you?” Isabelle continued to sob into the horse’s gray neck as Cécile looked on quietly. With a nod of her head, a sack of flour and a ham wrapped in muslin were procured from the cart. Hefting them upon his broad shoulders with his chin firmly pressed into his chest, the stout young man delivered the packages into Isabelle’s house.
Isabelle stopped her sobbing and thanked the other woman for bringing the horse and the provisions back. Leading the gray mare to the stable, she wiped her eyes, stowed the cart away, and filled the feed bucket before returning to her visitor. Cécile and Abel bid their farewells and left Isabelle soon thereafter in her kitchen all alone with a cup of tea and Madame Lonsdale’s apple cake. Straightening herself up, Isabelle moved automatically to gather the things she needed to carry on. A few handfuls of flour were strewn on the kitchen table and slowly the preparation for the baking of bread commenced. It was an activity that soothed and relaxed her, and the sad young woman was glad for the opportunity to sink cold hands into yeast-warmed dough and to light the oven against the coming evening chill. More than a few tears fell into the soft pliable dough which, when ready to sit in a dark place to rise, fed upon the salty addition and rose to a towering dome.
Isabelle never felt so utterly alone as now in the dark of her empty home and deserted village. Although she lit as many lanterns as she could justifiably light, it still felt dark and alone. Wrapping her shawl around her and grabbing a hurricane lamp, she braved the dark to walk around to the potager to pick up the wicker basket of vegetables she had left on the stoop. Béatrice would be pleased to get a freshly pulled carrot or two after her long journey, the first after a long winter in the stable, and happier yet to get a languid stroke on her long nose. As Isabelle approached, the horse whinnied and excitedly nudged her as if to say, I know who you saw today. Isabelle put her arms around the mare’s sturdy head and whispered the secret into her large white ears as they switched energetically in opposite directions.
“Yes, my girl, you are right. I did see him today, and I will see him again soon. How did you know?” she asked as she brushed the horse and lovingly draped a light blanket over her. “You missed him too, didn’t you? But, we must be patient.” Isabelle turned toward the house and slowly walked the brief distance with bittersweet excitement. Just as she got her best friend back, she lost her other dear old friend. She cherished the prospect of living a life of truth and beauty with her small family-to-be, but was sad that she had no one with whom to share this excitement, nor anyone from whom she needed to keep her secret.
“I will be strong,” she said out loud now as she entered the warm and well-lit kitchen. “I will be strong and there will be no more tears. Madame is in heaven now,” she said as she punched down the rounded dome of bread dough, “And Walk-Tall and I will live in ours soon. Be patient, Isabelle.”
•
Isabelle wrote a long letter to Father Pascal. She remembered a certain book she once perused within the dark wood and leather of his old library, which described the medicinal plants of the Americas, a companion to Father Jacob’s directory of common New World plants. The book was not extensive, but within its sheaves of parchment were copious watercolor renderings of strange and exotic plants — leaves, flowers, and fruits that called out to her now many years later in a faded but distinct recollection. At the time of her first reading these surreal herbal depictions had no relevance, but in their soft exoticism she remembered them to be fascinating. Some of these plants were described as poisonous and to be administered with utmost caution, while others were nutritious, and to others were attributed a cure for every known ailment. In her mind’s eye, Isabelle ran her hands over the pages and the healing essence of those medicines entered her with a warming sensation she could feel in her very being.
Two months to the day she imagined her hands on the book of extraordinary miracles three large cases arrived in a horse carriage from Halifax and were delivered to the old cabin porch by two straining, large, and dusty young men. The cases occupied a large portion of the veranda and Isabelle was just able to squeeze in between them to accept the letter one young man held out gingerly to her from the front steps. It was addressed to Isabelle Sébastiani and written in an oblique and official hand.
Messrs Lafayette Frères, Avocates
Forcalquier, FRANCE
12th July 1886
Dear Mademoiselle Sébastiani,
We are in receipt of your letter addressed to Father Pascal Gagnon. This was most fortunate as the Father had passed away nearly six months ago and left a will which includes your name, without address, as the recipient of a portion of his library collection, as well as two separate items which he believed to be of genuine interest to you.
If you are reading this letter, you will have received three parcels containing the book collection, in addition to the two individual items aforementioned. Please acknowledge the receipt of these items by placing your signature upon the bottom of the packing inventory on the following page and resealing it in the envelope wherein this letter resided. Return the envelope to the delivery courier and it will be remitted to our offices.
We thank you for your timely correspondence and wish you success in your endeavors.
Faithfully yours,
J Lafayette
Isabelle lowered the letter slowly from her scanning eyes and approached the cases as if they were three winged chariots alighted from Heaven containing the font of all knowledge. She never imagined that those volumes, precious beyond their monetary value, would ever leave Father Pascal’s library much less the country. But here they stood now as her hand nimbly unbuckled the strap of the first case. Pushing aside the suede cloth that swathed the volumes, Isabelle peered at the first title that revealed itself: The Divine Comedy. Dante Alighieri. Her heart pounded in her ears as she lifted the volume to her chest. Beneath it was The British Museum Botanical and Horticultural Guide. A miracle, the books are here, she shouted silently. Tears began their trek down her cheeks as she recalled the kindly old priest who in the first years of her life was the only father she ever knew. The volumes were large and luminous like the priest himself, and as they stood before her now like a tripartite mountain range; it was as if the old man presented himself to her here as The Holy Trinity itself.
Quickly finding a pen amongst her things, she placed an awkward initial on the second page as instructed. The two men hoisted the trunks into the cabin and took their leave as Isabelle sat herself down in the aftermath of the excitement, Dante’s allegories still clutched tightly to her chest.
By nightfall the majority of the volumes were removed from the first two of the traveling cases and placed neatly in rows in and alongside Father Jacob’s twin bookcases. Culpepper’s Book of Natural Herbs held a place of honor beside the Book of New World Medicinal Plants — the single pied piper of handbooks that brought the others to Isabelle’s world in an unexpected windfall of nostalgia and opportunity. Isabelle’s lantern burned late into the night and into the early morning as she reviewed each book lovingly and ran her eager hands over the gilt-lettered covers and renewed her familiarity with the hand-inked drawings and press-printed texts.
On opening the third case, Isabelle was overcome with emotion. Cradled in the midst of the volumes was a small black leather case whose beautiful familiarity alighted upon her like a flash of brilliance from an angel’s trumpet. A note was attached to the inside of the case.
Dear Isabelle,
At last this instrument has
found you. It was returned to me from the ship which delivered you to the New World. I have kept it with much care in the Library amongst the books that you will now have in your possession. There is also a special book which I am assured you will treasure. It was found beneath the mattress of one of the beds we were preparing to donate to the orphanage. I trust you will take care of all of these treasures of the Old World as you find your way in the New World.
May God’s Blessing be with You for Eternity.
Père Pascal Gagnon
She drew the guitar from its case and clutched it to her as she discovered beneath it another parcel wrapped in a black cloth. Placing the guitar on her bed, she unwrapped the cloth to find inside a red leather-bound notebook. With shaking hands she opened to the first page — it was her mother’s writing, still so familiar. The fine feathery words were like black birds embroidered in flight across the sky of a medieval tapestry. She remembered but once seeing its red cover escape from the black cloth in her mother’s hands just before she died. Thinking Isabelle was asleep, she had quietly taken it out and opened it to a page and written in it a few words before returning it to its secret hiding place. And now Isabelle was reading it for the first time.
As she leafed through the notebook, small passages captured her attention, snippets of observations about the birds in the garden one spring morning or one day when she harvested finger potatoes in the potager while Isabelle was still in her cradle beside her while she worked, and another when she was sick. This last entry was full of sadness and the knowledge that she was not long for this world. In it she addressed to no one in particular:
It is my fate to pass from this world without full understanding of my true purpose in this life. I have brought into this world my daughter Isabelle. Every day I cherish her wondrous life and bear witness to God’s love in her beautiful eyes. But I know not the fate of my brother, the poor lost soul who understood better than the rest of us what mysteries lay at the bottom of one’s heart. Nor what has become of Him, the one whose light carries on with my Isabelle. He is forgiven, as the Lord I pray has forgiven me for my trespass.