Aunt Belle shook the apron. “The dishes, Katydid, the dishes! I’m assuming you know how to clean a kitchen?”
Kathryn felt insulted. “Of course, Aunt Belle. I’m sure a young lady with my education should have no problem with simple domestic duties.” She took the apron and surveyed the kitchen. Making crepes with fixings had produced a gigantic mess. The bacon grease had congealed and the plates were a goopy petrified mess. At her home, the cook did the dishes and at school, they ate in the dining hall with a staff that took over when the students were finished. However, she was not about to let Aunt Belle know any of this. She wanted to appear capable and utterly competent, even at this type of drudgery. Pushing up the sleeves on her tasteful white eyelet blouse, she set to work.
The wood stove had a reservoir out of which Kathryn dipped steaming water, pouring it into the dishpan cradled in the dry sink. Adding soap, she scrubbed and rubbed the grimy plates, pots and pans, and then dried the dishes, replacing them in the china cabinet when she discovered they were the only ones in the cabin, and not the Sunday best she’d assumed. When she checked the back of the plates, she was surprised to see they were in fact, quality bone china from a well-known English manufacturer.
After wiping the table and stove, Kathryn lugged the heavy dishpan outside and emptied it onto the road. She polished the table with the beeswax until it gleamed and then swept the floor of every crumb.
By the time she’d finished, she was sweating and her hair had come loose from the stylish chignon she’d fashioned that morning. In truth, she was ready to go back to bed. Instead, she collapsed into one of the wing chairs, sure she’d completely impress her aunt with the speed and skill she’d shown. And as a reward, for the rest of the day, she’d stay curled up in a chair and read her current book. She was at a particularly exciting part where her hero, Sir Giles, whose chivalry was known throughout the pages of her novel, was competing in a joust for his fair maiden’s favour.
“Don’t feel badly, Katy, with a little more practice, you’ll get much faster.”
Kathryn sat up with a jolt. Her aunt stood silhouetted in the doorway and her words were like being dowsed with a bucket of cold water. Faster? FASTER!
Impossible! She had practically flown through those nasty chores.
Aunt Belle appraised Kathryn with a critical eye. “You should change into rougher clothes. We wouldn’t want to ruin your lovely outfit. Working with clay is dirty work.”
It was then that Kathryn remembered the mysterious reference to “getting the clay ready.” What clay and why did her aunt have to get it ready? Somehow she didn’t think she was going to like whatever was coming next.
“These are my rough clothes,” she said with apprehension.
“Well then, let me find you something more suitable.” Her aunt went to the steep stairs that led to her loft bedroom and scampered up them like a woman half her age, only to return with the ugliest pair of worn denim dungarees and threadbare flannel shirt that Kathryn had ever seen.
She recoiled in horror at the rags. Surely, Aunt Belle didn’t expect her to wear them! But her aunt mutely held out the ridiculous outfit, and, as Kathryn accepted it, Sir Giles rode away without her.
“This has to do with the arrangement that made me late to pick you up. The friends I spoke of have offered to help today, and so I jumped at the opportunity. He who hesitates is lost.” Aunt Belle marched to Kathryn’s makeshift bedroom and pulled the bed from the wall, shoving it against the back of the sofa. At that moment, there was a knock on the cabin door.
“Heavens! They’re early. Could you get that, Katy?” Aunt Belle asked as she continued clearing out the sleeping area.
Kathryn didn’t know what was coming; what she did know was that there was no way she’d leave her beloved books in harm’s way. Hastily retrieving the precious cargo, she carefully stowed the novels in her trunk before going to answer the summons.
She opened the door...and screamed. The head of a deer stared balefully down at her, complete with pointy antlers and a lolling pink tongue!
The deer whirled around and it was then that Kathryn saw it had been slung over the back of a man who would have been given the part of the giant in any fairytale. The formidable visitor had wild black hair accented by a grey streak at the temples and a huge bushy beard that could have used a trim four months ago. He looked very Indian, but remembering Aunt Belle’s talk yesterday, she decided he was probably a Métis.
“Tansi, Mademoiselle. Belle, she is home?”
“Aunt Belle, there’s a deer at the door!” Kathryn called, still mesmerized by the dead animal. “I mean a gentleman wishes to speak with you.”
Her aunt, a dirt smudge on her face, came over to join her niece. “Why, if it isn’t Claude Remy, returned from your trap line in the bush. Wherever that hidden camp of yours is, you should think about finding the nearest barber before coming back to civilization.”
The big woodsman took no offence. “Ma Belle, you are magnifique. First ting I do, I bring you a yearling jumper, fresh killed dis morning.” A broad grin split the dark beard. “I gut it out back. Oui?”
His accent was strange, and Kathryn decided it was sort of French and sort of something else, mixed in.
“Merci, Claude. I’ll be sure to share the meat with everyone in River Falls. Oh, and we’ve had a bear through so please, when you’re done dressing the buck, don’t leave any tasty morsels lying about.”
The big man grunted, then walked toward the shed where Nellie was stabled.
Aunt Belle closed the door. “Hmm, I think this venison comes with strings attached, n’est-ce pas?” With a shake of her head, she went back to moving Kathryn’s belongings.
Kathryn didn’t know what her aunt meant by this and before she could ask, another knock sounded through the cabin.
“That will be them and I haven’t got the tea made. Katy, would you mind...”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” Feeling decidedly like Alice in Wonderland, Kathryn opened the door, wondering what she would find on the other side this time.
The man standing there reminded her of a stork – tall, extremely thin and oddly angular. He had several heavy boards slung over his shoulder and behind him was another fellow, short and stout, carrying a large saw and various other tools.
“Pierre, my favourite carpenter, please entrez-vous.” Aunt Belle shouted from the kitchen. “I was about to put the tea on.”
“Salut, Belle. You said your lovely niece needed a room of her own, so we came with our this and our that,” Pierre replied. “I brought the this,” he tapped the planks, “and Joseph brought the that.” Kathryn swung the door wide, stepping back as the two men tramped in.
“And this beautiful young lady must be Katy, Patrice’s girl. Welcome to River Falls, Mademoiselle.” Pierre paused in front of Kathryn, the boards teetering precariously on his bony shoulder as he touched the brim of an imaginary hat.
“Ah, actually, it’s Kathryn,” she corrected as he continued past her with the lumber. “And yes, I’m Patrick’s daughter. Won’t you come in...” she called to his retreating back.
“Bonjour! Bonjour!” Pierre’s partner Joseph greeted her cheerily as he scurried in, lugging his tools. “Bonjour! Bonjour!”
She immediately thought of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.
Before she could close the door, Kathryn spied a diminutive woman hobbling up the path toward the cabin. The white-haired matron used a silver-topped black cane carved with the most elaborate decoration and obviously of high quality. Trailing several steps behind was a boy carrying a wrapped bundle. It was her Prairie Puss-in-Boots, the same boy she’d seen when they’d arrived in the sliver-infested cart. His large red hat was perched at a jaunty angle and the shiny black feather gleamed in the morning sun.
Kathryn stood at her post of doorkeep, waiting for these newest visitors to arrive. Her aunt had to have the busiest cabin in the west!
The wizened elder stopped at the door and motioned f
or the lad to give Kathryn the parcel. She took it from him, a tantalizing smell rising from what she hoped was a cake wrapped within.
“Merci, JP. Run along now.” The grandmotherly woman shooed the lad away with a wave of her cane.
He wiggled his eyebrows impishly at Kathryn, mouth ringed with cake crumbs and icing, no doubt his fee for carrying the delicious package. He was older than she’d first thought; perhaps her age. It was the ridiculous hat that made him seem like a child playing dress-up.
With a wink, he turned and whistling a lively tune, strode back down the path.
“Mon Dieu!” The old woman gasped. “That trail gets longer every time I come here.” She carefully stepped over the threshold, nodding at the parcel in Kathryn’s hands. “This gateau is for the tea I know Belle is making. My name is Madame Ducharme. You may call me Kokum.” Her voice was strong and clear.
Kathryn checked the path to see if there were any stragglers, then took the cake inside. She saw the men were already busily constructing two inside walls in the far corner where her room would be and from the framework, it would be a very small room indeed.
The old woman stabbed her cane in their direction. “She will need a proper door. Every young girl needs privacy.”
“Francis is bringing one later, Kokum. He’ll make sure it’s hung before tonight.” Joseph answered. “I would have done it myself except Giselle keeps me busy riding all over the countryside for the special herbs and spices she uses in her baking. Some weeks, I’m lucky to make it to Sunday mass.” He chuckled. “At the rate they’re ordering from us, the ladies of Hopeful will forget how to make a loaf of bread soon.”
“And the whitewash? When is that to be done?” the bossy elder demanded of Aunt Belle.
“In its turn, Kokum. The clay and straw are mixed and Katy and I are about to begin. I’ll leave the tea to you.”
“I need milk. Kathryn, fetch some from the well, girl!”
Kathryn jumped. If the two builders were Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, then this tiny tyrant had to be the Queen of Hearts. All that was needed was the command, Off with her head! The Mad Hatter’s tea party was already in full swing: dead deer and a crazy woodsman, workers marching around swinging boards and hammers, old ladies who commanded everyone like they owned the place, and now, milk from a well?
Aunt Belle, seeing her confusion, came to her rescue. “We keep dairy goods like milk and butter in the well so they won’t spoil. It’s cool down there.”
“I thought your water came from the river? If you have a well nearby, why not use it?” Kathryn was even more confounded.
“Because the well is nearly dry. There’s enough water so it stays damp and that keeps everything cool.”
Kathryn started for the door and then stopped. “And this Métis ice-box is where?”
“On the other side of the lean-to. You’ll see the pump handle.” Her aunt instructed.
Kathryn did as she was bid. Rounding the corner of the shed, she stopped, reeling back at a sight that made her stomach twist. She’d forgotten that Mr. Remy was dressing the deer. From what she could see, it was more like undressing the poor creature.
Hurrying past the bloody carnage, she retrieved the milk and raced back to the cabin, ready for a needed rest.
Instead, she’d barely set the quart sealer down when her aunt thrust a bucket mixed with mud and straw at her.
“Enough dawdling, Katy. Time to get started.”
Chapter 4
The Three Little Pigs, Robin Hood and the Big Bad Wolf
Kathryn took the bucket from her aunt wondering what she was in for next. One peek and her stomach lurched for the second time that day as the dank, fetid smell overwhelmed her.
Glumly, she followed her aunt to the corner of the log cabin where her bedroom was soon to be. “Aunt Belle, what on earth am I supposed to do with this muck?” She held the mud mixture as far from her body as possible.
“This.” Her aunt reached into her own bucket with a wooden trowel, scooped out a large gob of the mixture, and then plastered it onto the outer log walls across from the plank ones Tweedle Dee and Dum were busily beavering away at. She did it with so much gusto, you’d have thought she was icing a cake. “We’ll put a coat of the straw mix on, filling the chinks and smoothing it over the logs, let it dry, then top coat it with straight clay, again letting it dry so we can fill in any cracks, then finish it off with whitewash. Voila! You’ll have a room fit for a queen, or at least a princess, as nice as any back in Toronto. I want you to feel at home.”
Gingerly, Kathryn reached into the bucket with a trowel and tried to mimic her aunt’s actions. The clay fell off the wall with a disgusting splat.
“Add a little water to keep it sticky,” he aunt instructed.
Kathryn poured some water in and tried again. This time the gooey mixture stuck. Trying not to gag, she filled in the spaces between the logs, then scooped out more and spread on a thick layer, making a flat surface, or at least as flat as she could with the uncooperative mud. She felt like she was building one of houses for the Three Little Pigs.
“Good! That’s perfect.” Her aunt encouraged.
Kathryn’s stomach quieted as she figured out the exact consistency needed to prevent the muddy mix from falling off. The work was messy and her arms ached, but she was bound to keep up with her aunt. Before long, she had gobs of muck in her hair, straw chaff on the inside of her shirt and the ugly dungarees were coated in drying clay.
“Wonderful!” her aunt said with satisfaction as she inspected her wall. “Once this is done, we’ll let it dry and then put on the smooth coat in a couple of days.” She smiled and added, “That one we put on with our hands, Katy.”
“You want me to actually touch the vile stuff!” Kathryn sputtered.
“The clay is good for your skin. It pulls out all the impurities, like those fancy mud baths in Europe.”
Wincing, Kathryn thought of how the squishy mud would ooze between her fingers and felt nauseous again. The straw mix had the consistency of fresh dog droppings and felt like cold sludge. What must the smooth coat feel like – slippery, slimy?
She swallowed as her stomach told her that it had had enough for one day. But there was no way Kathryn would show discomfort to her aunt and these strangers. She knew the old woman called Kokum had been watching her, judging her. With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, Kathryn went back to applying the clay straw mixture, smearing it over the wall. Now she was grateful that her new room was so small.
As they worked, a succession of Aunt Belle’s neighbours stopped by, dropping off various food items. One, Aunt Belle said, was lii torchiyer, which Kathryn would have called a meat pie in Ontario; and another dish had the improbable title of li rababoo di liyev, which turned out to be rabbit stew. Kathryn’s face hurt from the fake smile she kept stitched to her lips as she greeted each visitor politely. She felt like a side show attraction at the circus. Aunt Belle flew through her wall and was soon finished, dropping her trowel into the bucket with a finality that worried Kathryn.
“I’ll step over here, out of your way,” Kathryn said, backing up so that her aunt could take her place. Their eyes locked for a split second and Kathryn had the sinking feeling that she was being cut adrift on a mud raft in the middle of the ocean. A rogue wave washed over her tiny craft when her aunt rinsed her hands, drying them as she stood in the doorway of the half-built room.
“You’re doing fine. I’ll sit with Kokum while you finish up.”
“Me? But, the logs and the wall and...” She protested, but saw she had no choice. Was this what it was like to be a slave under her master’s cruel whip? This was indeed a Grimm fairytale. She continued fighting with the clay, listening with one ear to Pierre and Joseph talking while they nailed up the last of the rough-sawn boards.
“I’m telling you, it was him!” Pierre said stubbornly.
“You saw him?” Joseph mumbled, holding several nails in his mouth with his teeth.
“Oui.” Pierre assured his workmate. “He was très formidable with a black hat and disguised with a mask of silk across his eyes.”
The reference to a masked man immediately caught Kathryn’s attention and she stopped squishing the mud to eavesdrop more closely.
“It was the Bandit de Grand Chemin out doing good works again.” Pierre insisted.
Bandit? Black hat? Mask? Kathryn forgot about her muddy mess entirely. “What man is this, sir?”
“Why, The Highwayman, Miss Katy.” Pierre explained eagerly. “He is a true hero. He is the phantom crusader for the Métis of River Falls. When we are cheated, he finds a way to balance the books; when an injustice is done, the Bandit de Grand Chemin rights it.”
“What is this cheating and injustice?” Kathryn asked, intrigued.
The two workmen exchanged a glance; then Joseph shrugged. “She will find out soon enough.” He hesitated. “The truth is, the town’s people, the whites, they don’t like us Road Allowance folks. They have their own way of treating the Métis and it’s not good. They remind us we are halfbreeds with no rights every chance they get. Sadly, we are often swindled and the law is always on their side. The Highwayman, he takes the problem and corrects things. ”
Kathryn felt a flutter of excitement. “You mean he robs from the rich and gives to the poor, like, like...” She gasped. “Like Robin Hood!”
Pierre agreed excitedly. “Exactly. He is River Fall’s very own Robin Hood.”
“This Highwayman, who is he?” Kathryn asked breathlessly, imagining this hero of the underdog.
Joseph shook his head. “No one knows. He is a mystery man.”
Kathryn couldn’t believe it. Here was a hero who could have stepped out of the pages of one of her books! She had to find out more. A thousand questions jumped up for answers, but when she prompted Pierre and Joseph further, they had none. Her mind raced through stories of merry men and the Sheriff of Nottingham as she finished the loathsome mud coat on the logs.
Finally, the two men nailed up the final board of the two adjoining plank walls, complete with a frame for a door that was yet to materialise. Kathryn swiped on the last of the clay and then stood back to admire her handiwork.
Outcasts of River Falls Page 3