Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  He had a tomahawk, and a skinning knife. His long gun would have attracted too much attention, and besides, no Christian Huron from one of the missions would have such a weapon. He took the knife from his belt.

  It was full dark now, and the waning moon had not yet risen, but there was enough starlight for him to see that behind its deceptive facade, Père Antoine’s house no longer existed. Like its neighbors it was a pile of stone and splintered, charred wood. Quent’s glance roved over the debris; he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow wrong. This place looked as if someone had deliberately wreaked further destruction after the English bombs and shells had done their work. In the far corner there was a gleam of light low down near the stone chimney breast that was still intact above what had been the fireplace.

  Quent picked his way toward it, unable to shake the feeling that he should be careful not to cause any loud or unexpected noise. Jesus bloody Christ! For all his care he’d nearly walked straight into a beam. It lay at a precipitous angle from a remaining corner of the roof to what would have been the hearth. It was as thick around as he was, and black with the smoke of more than the most recent fire. Had to have been one of the original ceiling joists. He glanced up. The dark was deeper where a large wedge of masonry hung between a section of the house’s north wall and the top of the beam he’d almost dislodged.

  Despite the gloom, he could still make out the shimmer that had attracted him to this part of the ruined room. He knelt down, stretched his hand toward the source of the glow, and touched something hard and cold. A large golden goblet of some sort, set with what were probably precious stones about the rim. Beneath it there was a flat golden plate, also bejewelled. No ordinary looter would have left such booty behind.

  “Not things a brown robe should have, neya?”

  The voice came from deep in the shadows. “Lantak.”

  “Yes, Uko Nyakwai, Lantak. Get up. And keep your hands above your head. I have been waiting a long time to see you again. It would be sad if we had no time to visit before I kill you.”

  As before, the renegade Huron had a long gun when Quent had none. The barrel end was an arm’s length from Quent’s face, near enough so he could see Lantak’s finger on the trigger. He rejected any thought of summoning his death song. An enemy this close was within range of attack “I’ve been looking for you, Lantak Over on the western shore where the scalps are. I didn’t think to find you prowling the ruins of old battles like scavenger vermin.”

  “I take the scalps I wish to take, Uko Nyakwai. Lantak is not to be used to fight a Cmokmanuk war.”

  “But like a squaw you come to where the battle is long ended to pick up what the braves have left behind.”

  “I do not mind your insults, bear dung. I will remember them when I am cutting out your tongue. Leave the gold where it is. Go over there.” Lantak jerked the long gun in the direction of the corner formed by the angled beam.

  Now. It was the best opportunity he would have. The beam was hip height where he must pass it. It would give way if he shoved, and the remains of the roof would come crashing down. Quent took a step, preparing himself to fall in the direction of the blackened beam. Then he saw the priest. Père Antoine sat on a stool in the corner formed by the angle of the ruined walls. He was bound and gagged and both his eyes had been gouged out; die empty sockets still bled. The flow nearly covered the wound where his nose had been cut away.

  “You see we have a brother at this feast,” Lantak said behind him. “I am glad he still lives to welcome a second guest.”

  If he brought down the chunk of masonry overhead the priest was a dead man. Quent barely managed to check his planned fall in time, praying that he hadn’t lost the advantage by allowing Lantak to read the motion of his body. Apparently not. The long gun prodded his back “Go!”

  Quent stumbled ahead, deliberately exaggerating his faltering movement to gain more time, speaking even as he repositioned himself. “You are truly a squaw, Lantak You torture like a squaw, delighting in screams rather than death.”

  “We will see soon who is the squaw, bear dung, and who screams. The brown robe at last pays for saving your life. My totem has brought you here to watch him die before you die yourself.”

  Quent waited a heartbeat more, long enough so that Lantak once again prodded him with the barrel of the long gun. At that instant, whüe his forward thrust took Lantak’s balance for the space of half a breath, Quent dropped to one knee and threw himself at the Huron’s legs. The long gun went off, whether involuntarily or by design was impossible to tell. The bullet whistled over Quent’s head and the gun’s recoil; threw the renegade backward toward the hearth.

  Quent hurled himself after Lantak, landing on top of him. The Indian stretched both hands for his face, clawing at his eyes and his hair. Quent shouted a Potawatomi war cry as he ignored the grasping fingers and wrapped both hands around Lantak’s neck. He’d managed to get only one knee on Lantak’s chest, not enough to bring his full weight to bear on his enemy. When the Huron grabbed his wrists his grip was like iron. Lantak arched upward with more strength than Quent would have believed him to have, and used the entire wiry length of his body to break Quent’s hold. When he rolled free he screamed a war cry of his own and staggered to his feet. Quent lunged for him again, but Lantak evaded him. Now both men had knives in their hands. Each of their next thrusts drew blood. They grappled and once more broke apart as each fought for a hold that would allow him to slit his opponent’s throat. Then, somehow, the Huron was behind Quent, wrapping him in a death hug strong enough to squeeze the life from his body. Quent reached up and got both hands behind Lantak’s neck, and with an effort so massive it seemed to stop his heart, swung the Indian over his head and hurled him forward.

  Lantak’s body hit the beam. There was a great rumbling sound, followed by the crack of breaking stone, and the corner of the roof that had been held aloft only with the beam’s support fell in a crash that shook the dirt floor.

  The blood pounding in Quent’s head blinded him for many seconds, and his ears were ringing as if he’d stood next to a firing cannon. He shook his head to clear it and the ringing subsided; he could see again as well. It was not only the last of the roof that had fallen when the beam was dislodged, the stone chimney breast had come crashing down as well. If he’d been even a step to his right he’d have been buried by the falling rock

  The collapse had opened much more of the little house to the sky. The starlight shone on the place where Lantak had been when he was crashed by the beam and the toppling roof. The only part of him that showed was one arm. Sweet Christ, what about the priest?

  Quent clambered over the debris, telling himself it was best if the Franciscan had been killed as well. No man would want to live in his condition, even a papist priest. Still he was sickened by the fact that the brown robe had saved his life, and he might have repaid him by causing his death.

  Père Antoine was only half buried by the rabble. His legs were entirely covered, but his torso was clear of the debris. He was alive. Quent managed to get close enough to release the gag that remained in place, and use the piece of soft leather to wipe the blood from the priest’s face. “Oh my God … I’m sorry … I never …”

  “Not your fault,” the priest murmured. “Mine. I came back to get my chalice and paten.”

  “I can dig them out of the rubble. Bring them wherever you—”

  “Not important now. Want … pray.” He murmured a string of Latin words Quent couldn’t understand, then smiled. “Oui, mon Jésus, oui …” he whispered. Then a few struggling gasps and a request Quent had to bend closer to hear. “My beads, bring them to the nuns.”

  Quent looked for the beads and found them attached to the priest’s belt, miraculously intact. By the time he’d freed them, Père Antoine was dead. He sat back on his heels for a moment, letting himself catch his breath, then crawled over to the corpse of the renegade Huron. When he pulled on Lantak’s extended arm it came free, attache
d to nothing. Quent flung it aside and began hefting the chunks of masonry until at last he could drag the Indian free of the rabble. He examined the body thoroughly, but didn’t discover what he wanted. Disappointment was a metallic taste in his mouth and a cramp in his belly. If he didn’t find the dirk now, it was gone forever. Either Lantak had carried it on his person or he had traded it long since for liquor or a woman or whatever else he wanted. But he remembered Corm saying that Lantak had sworn to take Uko Nyakwai’s scalp with the Red Bear’s own weapon.

  He kicked at more of the splintered wood and broken stone where the Indian had died, and unearthed the dirk on the third thrust, feeling its carved handle through the soft leather of his mocassin. Quent reached down and grabbed it, thrilled at the familiar feel of the weapon in his hand. Then, for Solomon the Barrel Maker and Sugar Wille and Lilac and Big Jacob, and for Père Antoine, he used it to take Lantak’s scalp.

  Louis Roget knelt in prayer in the ruins of the Retraite de Ste. Anne in the Collège des Jésuites in the Upper Town. Most of the roof was caved in and part of one wall, but unlike the main church the little chapel was still intact, including the stained glass windows depicting the life of the mother of the Virgin. So too was the exquisite statue of Anne that had been carved by the ébénistes of Reims and sent as a gift from the Jesuits of that city to their brother priests in Québec. The saint still stood high above the altar, looking down on the destruction.

  The Provincial was alone. His priests and brothers were out in the town, offering what help they could to the battered and half-starved habitants. There was a bed of sorts in what remained of Roget’s apartments, but he had resolved to spend the night guarding the Retraite. Tomorrow Bigot was to send skilled workmen to remove the stained glass and take the statue down from her place, and carefully pack the treasures for transport to Louisiana. An enormous pity if, having withstood so much, these gems were snatched by looters just before they could be salvaged.

  Mon Dieu, I do not believe it is a sin that I refrain from asking for a French victory here in Québec. This kingdom of snow, mon Dieu, I have looked at it with all the intelligence granted me, and I am convinced it is worthless.

  “Bon soir, Jésuite. Sorry to disturb you at your prayers.”

  There was a candle beside the tabernacle that contained the Most Holy Sacrament, and the glow of starlight entered through the smashed roof. Together they provided enough light for the Provincial to see the man who stood at the edge of the shadows. A woodsman in buckskins and a hunting shirt, but not just any coureur de bois. This one had a long scar that immobilized one side of his face. “This is a house of God, Monsieur Shea. To come here intending theft, or worse, violence … You imperil your immortal soul.”

  “My soul is my worry, Jésuite, not yours. But I have no interest in your treasure, and no intention of harming you unless you make it necessary. All I want is information. Since you know who I am, you won’t hesitate to give it to me.”

  “That depends. What sort of information?”

  “The Poor Clares. Where have they gone?”

  Roget made the sign of the cross, slowly and deliberately, then rose from the half-broken prie-dieu he had dragged out of the rubble. “You have said it yourself, Monsieur Shea. I am a Jésuite, a black robe. The Poor Clares are Franciscans. What would I know of—Mon Dieu! Are you mad?”

  Corm had turned to face the statue of Ste. Anne and he held his tomahawk over his head in throwing position. “I can cut her in two with ease from this distance, Jésuite. You Catholics place high value on your statues, don’t you? And this one is supposed to be especially valuable.”

  “She is the work of the finest ébénistes of Reims. You are well-informed for a métis, Monsieur Shea.”

  “Not as well-informed as I want to be. I promise, your statue will be nothing but splinters by the time I’m finished with her. You have until the count of five. Where are the Poor Clares?”

  “Will you tell me why you want to know?”

  “No.Two,three—”

  Roget shrugged. It was certainly not a secret worth protecting with the Reims Ste. Anne. “All the nuns of the city are in the Hôpital Général with the Augustinian nursing sisters, Monsieur Shea. At least, I know the Ursulines have been there since their convent was bombed out of existence. I presume the Poor Clares have gone to the same refuge. You may have noticed that there is little else standing in Québec.”

  Corm tucked the tomahawk into the belt at his waist “I’ve noticed. I saw your trunks outside as well, Jésuite. Care to tell me where you’re headed?”

  “That too is not a secret. If it becomes necessary, I and my community go to Louisiana as soon as we can find a ship.” He saw the métis stiffen. “That interests you, Monsieur Shea?”

  Corm shook his head. “No. Why should it?”

  Alors, something in the way he held his head, the eyes that did not look at him … The métis was lying. Perhaps this one was not the rough half-breed he appeared to be. Roget suppressed an unseemly smile. This was not a game he had expected to play, but possibly one worthy of engagement. He, of course, would be black. White had already opened. “Tell me why you are so concerned about the Poor Clares, Monsieur Shea. A few women who spend their lives doing penance, why should they interest you?”

  “A friend of mine’s with them. I just want to be sure she’s not hurt.”

  “Allow me to venture a guess, monsieur. Your friend, she is the one they call Soeur Stephane, non? The young one whose father was an English officer.” Black knight to Queen’s pawn four.

  “You are as well-informed as they say you are, Jésuite.”

  “Sometimes better.” You have given me an opening, métis. If I can maneuver into a position that allows me to take a pawn or two, your ranks will be open to attack. “Papankamwa,” Roget said softly, “eehsipana, ayaapia, anseepikwa, eeyeelia, pileewa.”

  Cormac listened to the names of the symbols on the Súki beads with no change of expression. “I already know you offered to pay the renegade Midè priest for the Suckáuhock, Jésuite, I took the scalp of the man you sent to kill me.”

  Alors, échec to the black king, but only a temporary setback. “I sent no one to kill you, Monsieur Shea. I had no idea that was the plan of the man who offered me the stones. But at least now I know they are truly as important as he said. Most of the Indians have deserted Onontio because of the stones. Is that not correct?”

  Corm shrugged. “Give me one good reason why Indians should fight and die in your white man’s wars, Jésuite. Maybe they’re just getting smarter.”

  “Indians fight and die for scalps and captives and loot, Monsieur Shea. Unless something more important has been offered them. It is that thing that interests me. Do you know what it might be?”

  “If I did, do you think I would tell you?”

  Roget’s fingers found the beads of the rosary that hung at his side. You have sent me a remarkable opportunity, Mère de Dieu. Grant that I make no error. “You might, monsieur. If in return I could offer you something of equal, perhaps greater, value.”

  “I don’t trust you, Jésuite.” Corm’s heart thundered in his chest. This was a white man’s game, he knew that. The only thing he didn’t know was if he were white enough to play it. “If there’s to be a trade, both sides have to see what’s being offered.”

  Endgame. To threaten white’s king, black must expose his own. “Your General Wolfe,” Roget began, “he must meet General Montcalm if—”

  “Wolfe’s not my general.”

  “Ah, but in this matter I believe he is. I have the feeling, Monsieur Shea, that like the Indians, you withhold your allegiance from Onontio in this contretemps. Is that not correct?”

  “I’m half Indian, Jésuite. A métis, as you continue to remind me.”

  “Indeed. So if your people do not on this occasion fight with their French allies, it must be because they wish the English to win. And if the English are to win, General Wolfe must meet the General Montcalm on the
field of battle. Is that not true, Monsieur Shea? The military men inform us Québec is a fortress, not a fort. It cannot be taken by the traditional siège en forme.”

  “Even if what you say is true, what does it have to do with our trade?”

  Roget felt a surge of triumph. The métis had committed himself. “It has everything to do with it. Let us speak plainly, monsieur. If Wolfe does not get his battle, he must leave when winter approaches. On the other hand, to force Vaudreuil and Montcalm to fight, the English must threaten the Upper Town in such manner that our two reluctant warriors are convinced a battle is the only choice. To achieve that, the English troops must be not at Pointe-Lévis or Ile d’Orléans, or wreaking havoc among the habitants in the countryside, or even swarming in the Lower Town. They must be up here where we are, massed at the city’s gates. Wolfe has already made a number of attempts to gain the heights, and been beaten back because he chose the wrong places to try his assault.”

  Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce. The beads slipped rapidly through Roget’s fingers. The prayer to the Virgin was a thing happening automatically somewhere in his being, like the beating of his heart, or the breath entering and leaving his body. “I can tell you the correct place. And you, Monsieur Shea, can tell General Wolfe.”

  “And in return, Jésuite? What do I give you?”

  The métis spoke very softly, but he had taken a step forward. Close enough now so Roget could see the vein that throbbed above Cormac Shea’s scar. It was the only clue, but on the strength of it black must commit everything, the queen and both rooks. “I already stated my request. I deal in knowledge. It is the only weapon I have with which to further the cause of God and His Holy Church. I wish, monsieur, to understand the power of the stones. What have the English promised the Indians in return for their staying out of this fight?”