Kokum waved dismissively. “There’s all night to talk. Belle, you are twenty-six now, people will gossip if they don’t see you dancing. They say it’s time for you to move on and let the dead rest.” A weak smile struggled at the corners of her mouth. “Why don’t you show our Kathryn how a toe tappin’ jig should be done so she’ll know for the next time a young man asks her to join him.”
The flash of impatience that crossed her aunt’s face was noticed only by Kathryn as Aunt Belle laid her shawl aside and moved gracefully to the centre of the floor with Claude.
It was then Kathryn saw her aunt also had one of the red sashes draped from her shoulder and tied off at the waist. She and her partner slipped effortlessly into the intricate dance, keeping perfect time to the music. The crowd cheered when the fiddler picked up the tempo; the ladies skirts flared and the men’s sashes flew. Kathryn marvelled at what she was later told was the Reel of Eight and then the Broom Dance, which was performed with an actual broom. She thought that one most ingenious.
As the excitement rose, Kathryn found herself clapping along with the other bystanders. This was like nothing she’d seen back in Toronto and, truth be told, she was enjoying it immensely. It was as though everyone in the house belonged to one huge family. The main object of the dance seemed to be simply to have fun and laugh. Here you were allowed to stamp and clap, holler and whistle, which was an inexcusable breach of etiquette back home.
As Kathryn watched Aunt Belle being whirled around the floor, she thought of the old woman’s words and wondered if there had been a tragic romance in her aunt’s past.
“Kokum, you said that Aunt Belle should ‘let the dead rest.’ Did someone close to her pass away?”
The elder lowered her head. “Oui, c’est tellement triste. Poor Claude has been pursuing our Belle for a long while now, but Belle was in love with my son, Gabriel, and turned him down. Belle and Gabe, so much love...” Her eyes grew misty. “They were to be married, then sadly there was some bad business and my boy had to run or be lynched.”
This shocked Kathryn. She’d heard of lynching Negroes in the United States, but surely there was never anything so terrible in Canada. “Was it vigilantes?” she asked breathlessly.
Kokum hesitated, weighing her words, as though to judge whether this young girl would be allowed to know something very dark indeed. Kathryn sat up ramrod straight, her hand gently pressed to the side of her cheek, trying for an air of composed maturity. She wished she’d brought long gloves, preferably ivory lace, to help with the overall effect. Her attempt at a mature demeanour appeared to satisfy Kokum as she cleared her throat and continued with the story.
“It was a little over a year ago it happened. That despicable Constable Cyrus Blake stopped a young River Falls girl walking home alone after a dance one night.”
Caught off guard at hearing the man’s name again so soon, Kathryn inhaled sharply. “We had a run-in with him on the road this evening. I was so...” She was going to say terrified, then thought that made her sound like a frightened little girl, afraid of the bogey man. “Startled when he came across us on that deserted road. Fortunately, Aunt Belle resolved things nicely.”
Kokum’s head bobbed knowingly. “I bet she did. Belle’s no coward; she’s no fool either. She knows how hard to push and when.” She twisted her ancient gold wedding band. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. What happened that night was terrible. That animal Blake, he was... hurting our little girl when Gabriel showed up and fought him off. The constable pulled a knife and they wrestled. Somehow, the knife got turned around and Blake sliced off his own ear! Gabriel knew he would be killed for this. He had no choice, so my son ran. The constable vowed to get revenge; wanted to string Gabe up and let the vultures have him. Somehow, Blake found out my son was hiding in Medicine Hat. He tracked Gabe down and shot him in the back. Belle can’t get past Gabriel’s death and remains a spinster.”
“How terrible,” Kathryn whispered reverently. Constable Blake was the very definition of a Black Knight with a heart of pure evil.
Despite the undeniable tragedy of the tale, she felt an inexplicable thrill. This was like something she would read in a dime novel. How tragique. How exciting. How wild-west!
Then she saw the devastating grief etched on the face of the old woman and immediately, Kathryn felt remorse and wished she hadn’t brought it up. She quickly changed subjects. “I heard Aunt Belle call you Rose Marie, but you have asked me to call you Kokum. Is Kokum also your name?”
“No, no, girl!” The elder spoke as though Kathryn was being silly – again. “Kokum is grandmother in Cree. You are to live with us, and will naturally be one of my honorary grandchildren.” She made a contented sound. “As is everyone in River Falls. Much easier that way – I don’t have to remember who is and isn’t related and if you ever need a grandmother, voilà, I am always available.”
There was something about this that touched Kathryn. She resisted the feeling. She wasn’t going to live here for long and she had no grandmother. She wanted her old life back, with her father alive and her studies at the convent school and walking along the paved streets with Miss Hocking, and, and... A powerful wave of homesickness hit her. She desperately wanted to be back in Toronto where she belonged.
The truth was, she couldn’t bear the thought of a life here, with these primitive conditions and backward ways. Today’s mud-wall torture gave her a glimpse of what lay ahead. In fact, the only thing that had interested her at all since she’d arrived had been the conversation with Pierre and Joseph about the Highwayman. Now, that was something.
Kathryn focused on the soft lantern light, letting her mind flow out to that man in Lincoln green, the pheasant feather in his jaunty hat swaying as he leapt from log to rock, deftly escaping the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham who hunted him so relentlessly. She saw sturdy Little John and stout Friar Tuck, and, waiting for her hero to rescue her, beautiful and brave Maid Marian, dressed in a lovely dark rose dress with ivory lace collar and cuffs....
“Katy.... Katy....”
Kathryn blinked, then looked into the face of her aunt. Claude Remy stood close behind, preening as though he’d won the blue ribbon for the best heifer at the fair.
“I thought you two ladies needed some refreshments.” Belle set down a tray on which perched three cups of tea.
“Oh..., why thank you. The dancing was,” Kathryn hunted for the words to describe it. “spirited and,” she had to be honest, especially with herself, “quite wonderful.”
Belle laughed. “That wasn’t dancing, that was good old fashioned jigging, and darn fine jigging at that. Whew!” She puffed out her breath, blowing an errant strand of hair off her dewy face.
Claude shook his head. “Dat white man, he don’t know what he miss when he not Métis.” His laughter, deep and rumbling, was like thunder. “One day, God, he put dem all in dey’s place for how dey treats our people, especially that cochon Blake.”
The giant man spit noisily which offended Kathryn, and then she saw the spittoon tucked against the wall. He’d hit it dead centre. It was easy to read the hate on Claude’s face and there was something else too, something she couldn’t put her finger on. Kathryn suspected there was history between the creepy constable and Mr. Remy.
“Now, now, Claude. Let’s leave that talk outside.” Kokum admonished the big trapper. “Tonight, we welcome this young lady.”
He turned back to Belle. “Come, ma chère, we do some more jiggin’ now dat the fiddle she’s warmed up.”
Claude reached out to take Belle’s arm. In a deceptively quick sidestep, she avoided the grab and moved away. “I must be polite, Claude, and stay with my niece and Kokum. Please feel free to enjoy the party without me.” She motioned to a line of young women who had congregated near the far wall.
Mr. Remy’s countenance grew dark. He grunted something in Michif, then turned and swaggered over to the giggling mademoiselles.
“I think I’m getting too old for this nonsense,” B
elle said, fussing with her skirt as she sat. “I’ll be glad when I can stop.”
Kathryn thought this an odd comment as her aunt had been excited to come to the dance. Perhaps their encounter with Constable Blake had bothered her more than she’d let on. No matter – right now, Kathryn had other things on her mind.
“Aunt Belle, I heard the most extraordinary bit of news today,” she said excitedly. “There’s this mysterious fellow called the Highwayman, and he’s like Robin Hood, he steals from the rich and gives to the poor. Have you heard of him? What can you tell me about this masked man?”
At first Aunt Belle appeared taken aback at the abrupt change of subject, then she pursed her lips in a gesture so similar to one Kathryn’s father used to make that, for a second, a lump closed Kathryn’s throat.
“My, you are inquisitive!” her aunt exclaimed. “Yes, the Highwayman is somewhat of a folk hero around these parts. Some months back, there were several incidents that left our neighbours cheated and this stranger stepped in to settle things more fairly. Sadly, this is part of the life on the road allowances; there is no real justice and we must hope for the best when dealing with, well, anyone who is not Métis.”
“Why don’t the North West Mounted Police make sure everything is fair for the Ditch People?” Her aunt scowled at this label and Kathryn winced. It had slipped out before she’d had a chance to censor herself.
“Katy, the North West Mounted Police don’t interfere in business affairs – and anyway, it would come down to their word against ours. And in cases like this, it always ends up with the whites in the right.”
Kathryn thought this terrible. “They should vote in a law to ensure justice is done.”
“Except we don’t get to vote, ma chère.” Her aunt took a sip of her tea.
“Yes, yes, because you’re a woman and women aren’t allowed. I’m talking about the men.” Kathryn knew her father had voted.
“No, Katy.” Her aunt spoke as though Kathryn had reverted to that very young child again. “None of the Road Allowance people can vote. We don’t own the land we are on and so we don’t pay taxes which means we are not allowed. It also means we can be driven off at any minute, as has happened so many times.”
“What do you mean?” Kathryn asked.
“This is government land and if the municipality wants to use it for roads or some farmer needs a new pasture and strikes a convenient deal with the local officials, we must leave and after we’re gone, the good citizens burn our homes so we cannot return.”
Kathryn was stunned. She thought of Aunt Belle’s cozy little house reduced to a pile of cold, black ashes. Where would her aunt live? What a terrible predicament to be in – powerless and at the mercy of people who had already cheated and swindled you and who would rather you disappeared. No wonder the families of River Falls helped one another; no wonder they enjoyed themselves so intensely at evenings like this one. Who knew when it could all go up in a fiery blaze?
And where was the law in all this? She could easily see the need for the Highwayman, the Métis Robin Hood. There was only one word Kathryn could think of to express her outrage. “Impossible!”
Later that night, as they strolled home through the sweet-smelling pines, Kathryn’s thoughts continued to swirl around the Highwayman. Who could he be – and was he handsome? Surely he was; and young, and passionate.... “Do you know any other stories about the Highwayman? Has he ever rescued anyone from a tower in a lonely castle?” she asked dreamily.
Her aunt smiled at this. “We don’t have a lot of castles around here; still, I know some who owe him a debt of thanks. The gentleman who helped build your room, Pierre, he was the first to benefit from the Bandit de Grand Chemin. Pierre painted the outside of the hardware store for the owner, Mr. Campbell. He bought the paint and did the work and then, when he went to collect payment, Mr. Campbell said he wasn’t happy with the job and refused to pay. Pierre was out the cost of the paint and four days’ worth of hard work and could do nothing about it. A week later, he woke to find three gallons of paint sitting on his step, along with two bags of oats which covered the cost of his labour.” She laughed softly. “Everyone said it was only a coincidence that the very same hardware store he’d painted had been broken into and certain items gone missing.”
“And it was the work of the Highwayman?”
Aunt Belle was noncommittal. “Perhaps. No one knows for sure...”
Even in the dim light of the lantern, Kathryn could see that telltale twinkle in her aunt’s eye.
“Another time concerns Henri Beauchamp. He doesn’t live here; instead, he’s way down by the big bend in the Old Man River. He has this amazing red hair–it sticks out from his head like a fiery haystack. Anyway, he needed money so he sold his last hog to a white man who then ran Henri off with a gun – without paying for the hog.” She picked up a stone from the path, examined it, and then, finding it wanting, tossed it spinning into the woods. “Now you have to understand, Henri Beauchamp is a proud man and stubborn to boot. He told no one how tough things were, never complained, simply kept on trying to make a living for his family. After the animal was butchered, two large hams mysteriously disappeared from the white man’s smokehouse and reappeared at the Beauchamp farm which was a very good thing as the family had been reduced to eating gophers.”
“Gophers! You can’t be serious! You mean the little rodents that run around in the dirt?” To Kathryn, this was abominable.
“When your children are starving, Katydid, meat is meat.”
“And this was the Highwayman again?”
“Or God balancing the scales. One thing we know for sure is that if they could catch him, the law would put our Robin Hood in jail and throw away the key.”
Kathryn would love to meet this hero, whoever he might be.
They walked on in the still evening, but when they reached the place in the path where Blake had accosted them, Kathryn involuntarily shuddered. She peered into the dark forest but could see nothing. “Maybe we should have asked Mr. Remy to escort us home.”
“We’ll be fine,” her aunt assured her, but she moved a little closer to Kathryn.
It was such a protective gesture, unexpected and very welcome that Kathryn immediately felt better. “I want to thank you for taking me to the dance tonight. I truly enjoyed myself.”
“I’m glad you liked it because, as you will find out, we have a lot of get-togethers here in River Falls. I think we will have to work on your jigging for the next dance.” Aunt Belle did a complicated step in the dust, too fast for Kathryn to catch.
“Mr. Remy, he sure likes to jig up a storm.”
“Oui, but he is a little, shall we say, too insistent?” Belle laughed at this.
“He certainly didn’t take no for an answer,” Kathryn agreed. She’d noticed the big woodsman was also very possessive and obviously still had feelings for Belle.
Her aunt hadn’t been too forthcoming when it came to admitting any romance between them – maybe it was her way of being coy or keeping it discreet. Whatever the reason, this had been Kathryn’s cue, as mysteries were her weakness.
“Mr. Remy was so adamant in squiring you about this evening...” She kept her tone light and innocent. “I’m surprised he didn’t insist on escorting you home.”
Belle pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. “Actually, Claude did wish to walk me home. He lost some enthusiasm when I said it would be us he escorted. I assured him he should stay at the party and it didn’t take too much persuading to convince him.”
“I’m assuming he could come and go from the party so he could have walked us home, sat with you on the porch swing and then he could have returned?’
“Oh, yes. People often leave and come back. I felt that after our busy day, I’d rather go home without any complications.”
Kathryn thought complications was an odd way of referring to a suitor. There was something else she wanted to ask her aunt which would require some diplomacy as
she didn’t want to be offensive. “About Mr. Remy,” she wrinkled her nose at the memory, “he certainly was courtly tonight, all cleaned up and his hair so shiny.” She paused. “And that unusual coat of his with the beautiful beadwork...”
About then, she noticed her aunt’s lips had curved into the shadow of a smile. “Oh yes, we Métis are famous for that flower design. In fact, we’re known as the Flower Beadwork People.” The smile grew a tiny bit.
“Well, I was wondering, that coat, it sort of, well, it...”
“Had a rather strange bouquet?” Her aunt’s restraint evaporated as she choked back a girlish giggle.
“Actually, it was a little...pungent.” Kathryn agreed tactfully.
“That’s because it was brain tanned and smoked. Surely, they taught you about brain tanning at that fancy school of yours?”
“I must have missed that class.” Kathryn made a face, her own laughter bubbling up.
“After the kill, the brain is dug out of the animal’s skull and when boiled, enzymes ooze out. The hide is stuffed into the pot with the brain and the chemicals tan it, preventing rot.”
Kathryn couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly.
Her aunt continued the lesson. “Oh, it’s a very useful way to preserve the hides. There are lots of tricks to tanning hide. For instance, to remove the hairs, one needs a mild acid: in the old days, urine was used and for some processes, you rub dog dung into the hide. There’s also a smoking step, so it remains soft if it gets wet. That really adds a distinctive note, which you noticed.”
Kathryn was aghast...smushed brains, urine, dung, smelly smoke. Her aunt was a font of information, way too much information, in fact.
“The next time Claude is tanning, you should go and see. It’s unforgettable. He might even let you scrape off the bits of flesh and fat, which is the first step.”
Outcasts of River Falls Page 5