by Stef Penney
Parker follows a course along the river without a moment’s hesitation, and it occurs to me that he knows exactly where we are heading. When we stop for black tea and cornbread I ask, ‘So this is the way Francis came?’
He nods. He is, to say the least, a man of few words.
‘So … you saw this trail on your way to Dove River?’
‘Yes. Two men came this way, at around the same time.’
‘Two? You mean he was with someone?’
‘One was following the other.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘One trail is always behind the other.’
He seems to wait for a minute. I don’t say anything.
‘They made separate fires. If they were together, they would have one fire.’
I feel a little foolish, not to have noticed that. Parker radiates a subtle satisfaction. Or perhaps I’m imagining it. We are standing over our own tiny fire, and the mug warms my frozen hands through my mittens–a painful comfort. I hold the cup so that it bathes my face with hot, moist steam, knowing it will hurt all the more when it’s gone, but not enough of a winter veteran to forgo the fleeting pleasure.
One of the dogs barks. A gust of wind soughs through some snow-laden branches and a curtain of white flakes drifts to the ground. I don’t see how he will be able to follow the trail under the snow. As though reading my thoughts he says, ‘Four men leave a big trail.’
‘Four?’
‘The Company men, who followed your son. They are easy to follow.’
Am I imagining it, or do I see a ghost of a smile?
He tosses back the contents of his cup in one gulp and wanders off a few yards to relieve himself. He seems to have the facility I have noticed in other outdoorsmen, of swallowing boiling liquids without burning himself. His mouth must be made of leather. I turn away and watch the dogs, who have flopped down together in the snow for warmth. Strangely enough, one of them, the smaller, sandy-coloured one, is called Lucie, which he pronounces Lucee, in the French way. As a result I feel a sentimental affinity with her–she seems friendly and trusting, as dogs are supposed to be, unlike her wolf-like mate Sisco, with his unnerving blue eyes and menacing growl. It strikes me that there is a certain symmetry between the two dogs and the two humans on this trail. I wonder if this thought has occurred to Parker also, although of course I haven’t told him my first name, and he isn’t likely to ask.
In the icy air the tea cools so quickly that it is pleasant to drink within half a minute, and must then be swallowed quickly. A few moments later it is stone cold.
At night Parker makes camp and builds a small fire for me to sit next to, scorching my hands and face while my back freezes. Meanwhile he cuts a stack of pine branches with the axe. (I suppose Angus will be cursing its loss, but that is too bad; he should have thought of that before abandoning his son.) The largest of the branches he strips, and with these erects the skeleton of a shelter in the lee of a large trunk, or, if there is a suitable fallen tree, behind the plate of roots that have been torn out of the ground. He piles smaller leafy boughs on the ground, arranging them like the rays of the sun, leaves to the centre. The first time I see it, I think it looks like a place of sacrifice, and then have to quash that thought before it goes any further. He then covers the whole with the tarred canvas sheets I took from the cellar. The canvas is anchored to the ground with more branches and with snow scooped up with a bark trowel, until the walls are banked high and keep the warmth in. Inside he rigs a smaller piece of canvas from the branch that forms the tent’s spine, so that there is a sort of curtain dividing the space in half. This is his only gesture towards propriety, and I am grateful for it.
He builds this structure in the time it takes me to boil water and prepare a mash of oatmeal and pemmican, with a few shrivelled berries thrown in. I forgot to bring any salt, so it tastes disgusting, but it’s wonderful to eat something hot and solid and feel it burning its way down my throat. Then more tea, with sugar, to take away the taste of the hoosh, while I imagine the sparkling conversation I would be having if someone else were my guide–or is it my captor? Then, exhausted (in my case anyway), we crawl into the tent and the dogs worm their way in after us, before Parker seals the entrance with a rock.
The first night I crawled into the little dark tunnel with a hammering heart, curled up under my blankets, too scared to move, and awaited a fate worse than death. I held my breath, listening as Parker turned and shifted and breathed inches away from me. Lucie wriggled–or was pushed–under the curtain to curl up beside me, and I gratefully accommodated the small warm body next to mine. Then Parker seemed to stop moving, but some part of him, I realised with horror, was pressed up against the canvas curtain–and therefore against my back. I had no room to move away–my face was almost pressed against the snow-covered canvas where I lay. I kept waiting for something appalling to happen–sleep was, in any case, impossible–and then gradually, I felt a faint warmth emanating from him. My eyes were stretched sightlessly wide, my ears strained for the slightest sound, but nothing happened. I believe at some point I even dozed off. Finally, although I blush to think of it, I recognised the beauty of this system, which preserves a sort of privacy while allowing us to share the heat each of us generates.
The next morning I awoke to a faint light bleeding through the canvas. My cocoon was airless and stuffy, and reeked of dog. The tent was cold, but I was astonished, when I crawled backwards into the daylight, how warm it was compared to the air outside. I am sure that Parker was watching as I wriggled gracelessly out on elbows and knees, my hair loosened and straggling all over my face, but thankfully he didn’t smile or even stare much. He gravely handed me a mug of tea, and I stood up and tried to smooth my hair into a semblance of order, wishing I had brought along a pocket mirror. It is extraordinary how vanity clings to one in the least appropriate of circumstances. But then, I tell myself, vanity is one of the attributes that distinguish us from animals, so perhaps we should be proud of it.
*
This evening–our third–I am determined to make more of an effort with my silent companion. Over bowls of stew, I start to talk. I feel I have to prepare the ground, so to speak, and have been thinking about what to say for some hours.
‘I must say, Mr Parker, how grateful I am that you have taken me with you, and how I appreciate your efforts to make me comfortable.’
In the orange firelight, his face is an impenetrable mask of shadows, although the darkness does have the effect of leaching out the bruising on his cheek, and softening the harshness of his features.
‘I know that the circumstances are somewhat … unusual, but I hope that we can still be good companions.’ ‘Companions’ sounds the right note, I think; cordial without implying overmuch personal warmth.
He looks up at me, chewing on a stubborn piece of gristle. I think he’s going to go on not speaking, as though I don’t exist or am a creature of no account, like a dung beetle, but then he swallows and says, ‘Did you ever hear him play the fiddle?’
It takes me several moments to realise he is talking about Laurent Jammet.
And then I am outside the cabin by the river at home, hearing that strange sweet tune and seeing Francis burst out of the door, his face transformed by laughter–and I am paralysed by loss.
I haven’t cried much in my life, considering. Any life has its share of hardship–if one gets to the age I am now and has crossed an ocean and lost parents and child–but I feel it is uncontroversial to state that mine has held more than most. And yet I have always felt that crying was pointless, as though it implies you think someone might see you and take pity on you, which in turn assumes they can do something to help–and early on I found that no one could. I haven’t cried for Francis these last few days, because I was too busy lying and covering up and planning a way to help him, and it seemed like a waste of my scant powers. So I do not know what has changed now, to make tears spill down my cheeks, tracing warm paths on my skin. I close my eyes
and turn my head away in embarrassment, hoping that perhaps Parker won’t notice. It’s not as though he can help, other than by guiding me through the forest as he is already doing. I am ashamed because it looks as though I am appealing to his humanity; throwing myself on his mercy, as it were, when for all I know he has none.
But all the while I weep I am aware of the sensuous pleasure of it; the tears stroking my face like warm fingers, offering comfort.
When I open my eyes again, Parker has made tea. He doesn’t ask for an explanation.
‘Please forgive me. My son liked his music.’
He hands me a tin mug. I sip it and am surprised. He has given me extra sugar, the panacea for all ills. If only we could sweeten all our sorrows so easily.
‘He used to play for us when we worked on a gang. The bosses allowed him to bring his fiddle with him on portages. They knew it was worth the extra weight.’
‘You worked with him? For the Company?’
I remember the photograph of Jammet with the group of voyageurs and examine it in my mind to see if Parker was one of them. I am sure I would have noticed a face like his, but I don’t recall it.
‘A long time ago.’
‘You don’t seem like a … Company man.’ I smile quickly, in case that sounds like an insult.
‘My grandfather was English. His name was William Parker too. He came from a place called Hereford.’
He is smoking a pipe now. One of my husband’s, since his own was confiscated.
‘Hereford? In England?’
‘You know it?’
‘No. I believe it has a very beautiful cathedral.’
He nods, as if the presence of the cathedral were self-evident.
‘Did you know him?’
‘No. Like most, he didn’t stay. He married my grandmother, who was a Cree, but he went back to England. They had a child, and that was my father. He worked for the Company all his life.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Huh …’ A spark of emotion animates his face. ‘He married a Mohawk woman from a French mission.’
‘Ah,’ I say, as if that explains something. And it does, the Iroquois being known for physical size and strength. And supposedly (although of course I don’t say so), their good looks. ‘You are Iroquois. That’s why you’re so tall.’
‘Mohawk, not Iroquois,’ he corrects me, but gently, without sounding annoyed.
‘I thought they were the same thing.’
‘Do you know what “Iroquois” means?’
I shake my head.
‘It means “rattlesnakes”. It was a name given by their enemies.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
His mouth twists in what I am beginning to recognise as a smile. ‘She was supposed to be a good mission-educated Catholic, but she was always a Mohawk first.’
There is warmth in his voice, humour. I smile across the flickering fire. It’s always comforting to know that a suspected murderer loves his mother.
My tea is nearly finished; stone cold, of course. I want to ask about Jammet’s death but I fear it will upset the delicate rapport between us. Instead I gesture towards him.
‘How is your face now?’
He touches it with two fingers. ‘Doesn’t hurt so much.’
‘Good. The swelling has gone down.’ I think of Mackinley. He didn’t seem like a man to give up easily. ‘I suppose someone will try and follow us.’
Parker grunts. ‘Even if they do, with this snow, they will lose the trail. And it will make them slow.’
‘But will you be able to find the trail?’
I have become increasingly concerned about this. As the snow has fallen–deceptively light, pleasant snow, dry and powdery–I have convinced myself that Francis has taken shelter at a village somewhere. I believe this because I must.
‘Yes.’
I remind myself that he is a trapper and used to following subtle, light-footed creatures through the snow. But his confidence seems to stem from more than that. Once again, I have the sense that he already knows where the trail is going to lead.
We sit in silence for a while, with me envying the rhythm and ritual that is smoking a pipe, which makes a man look busy and deep in thought even while he’s doing and thinking nothing. And yet I feel more at peace than I have done for some time. We are on our way. I am doing something to help Francis.
I am doing something to prove how much I love him, and that matters, because I’m afraid he has forgotten.
At some point Francis realises that he is under arrest. No one has actually told him so, but something in the way Per looks at him, and at Moody, made him assume that. Moody believes he is Laurent’s killer. He feels irritated by this, rather than frightened or angry. Possibly, if he were in Moody’s shoes, he would think the same.
‘I don’t understand,’ Moody is saying, pushing his spectacles up his nose for the hundredth time, ‘why you didn’t tell someone what you saw. You could have told your father. He is a respected man in your village.’
Francis bites his tongue on the obvious rejoinder. It seems a reasonable enough idea, now Moody suggests it. He wonders if Moody has met his father.
‘I thought he would get too far ahead. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’
That is an understatement. Donald has his head on one side, looks as though he is trying to understand the concept of unclear thinking. He looks as though he fails.
This time, sitting silently beside Moody is a young half-breed, who has been introduced to Francis as Jacob. Francis has never heard him speak, but he supposes he is here as some sort of witness from the Hudson Bay Company. He has heard–from Jammet, among others–that in Prince Rupert’s Land the Company will send out men to wield a rudimentary justice. If a murderer is known, Company officers quietly hunt him down and kill him. He wonders if Jacob is the designated executioner. His designated executioner. Mostly he sits with head cast down, but his eyes watch Francis intently. Maybe they think he is going to make a mistake and give himself away.
Moody turns and whispers something, and Jacob gets up and leaves the room. Moody pulls his chair closer to Francis and gives him a small smile, like a boy trying to make friends on his first day at school.
‘I want to show you something.’
Then he pulls up his shirt, tugging it out of his breeches until Francis sees the scar–tender shiny skin, red against white. ‘See that? The blade went in three inches. And the man who did that to me … was sitting right there.’
He looks Francis in the eye. Despite himself, Francis feels his eyes widen with astonishment.
‘Yet I don’t think there’s a man in this country who cares more for me than he does.’
Francis forgets himself enough to half smile. Donald grins, encouraged. ‘You’ll laugh when I tell you why. We were playing rugby, and I tackled him. Took the legs out from under him–classic sliding tackle. And he went for me on instinct. He’d never played rugby before. I didn’t even know he was carrying a knife.’
Donald laughs, and Francis feels a spark of warmth within him, responding. For a moment, it’s almost as though they are friends.
Donald tucks the shirt back into his waistband.
‘What I mean is, even with someone you are friends with, there can be a quarrel, and one man can lash out in a moment of anger. Without meaning anything. A moment later–and he would give his life not to have done it. Was that how it happened? You quarrelled–maybe he was drunk … you were drunk … he made you angry, and you lashed out without thinking …’
Francis is staring at the ceiling. ‘If you care so much about justice, why aren’t you following the other footprints, the ones the murderer left? You must have seen them. I could follow them. Even if you don’t believe me, you must have seen them.’
Something has given within him and the words keep on coming, rising in volume.
‘You could have followed the tracks just to make sure you got somewhere safely.’ Donald leans forward, as if he fee
ls he’s getting somewhere at last.
‘If I were going to run away, I wouldn’t run here! I’d go to Toronto, or get on a boat …’ Francis rolls his eyes up to the ceiling with its familiar cracks and lines. Unreadable signs. ‘Where would I spend the money up here? It’s crazy to think that I killed him, can’t you see that? It’s crazy even to think it …’
‘Perhaps that’s why you came here, because it’s not obvious … You hide out up here and go where you want when things have died down–pretty smart, I’d say.’
Francis stares at him–what’s the point in talking to this idiot, who has already decided what happened? Is this the way it’s going to be? If so, then so be it. Now his throat is tight and the taste of sick is in his mouth. He wants to scream. If they knew the real truth, would they believe him then? If he told them what it was really like?
Instead, he opens his mouth and says, ‘Fuck you, fuck you! Fuck you all.’ Then he turns his face to the wall.
The moment he turns away, something comes to Donald’s mind. He has at last remembered what has been nagging at him for the last few days–the thing about Francis that reminds him of a fellow he knew at school but, like everyone else, avoided. So perhaps that was the motive. Hardly surprising, really.
Something extraordinary happens. As the weather continues utterly still and windless, and we carry on walking north through the forest, I realise I am enjoying myself. I am shocked and feel guilty, as I should be worrying about Francis, but I can’t deny it: as long as I am not actually thinking about him lying hurt and frozen, I am happier than I have been for a long time.
I never thought I could stray so far into the wilderness without fear. What I always hated about the forest, although I never told anyone this, is its sameness. There are so few varieties of trees, especially now, when the snow makes them all cloaked, sombre shapes and the forest a dim, twilit place. In our early years in Dove River I used to have a nightmare: I am in the middle of the forest, and turning round to look back the way I came, I find that every direction looks exactly alike. I panic, disoriented. I know that I am lost, that I will never get out.