Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl

by Leigh Statham

  Within seconds, her body tore through the woods at full speed, snagging on every branch and limb until she hit the massive trunk of a pine tree and slid straight for the ground. Her harness jerked her to a stop as her chute finally caught on a limb, leaving her dangling a good ten feet off the ground. “Isn’t this lovely,” she said out loud. “I am fairly certain that every landing I make is going to be a complete disaster.”

  “Outil!” Marguerite hissed through the darkness. “Outil, where are you?” After what seemed like an eternity of hanging, the bushes below rustled, and Outil stumbled free of their tightly woven branches. “Oh good, I was afraid I’d have to start screaming for help or some such. I can’t quite reach a limb for leverage, and I can’t unbuckle the straps. It’s too tight with me hanging on it.”

  “I’m not entirely sure I know how to help you, m’lady,” Outil called out. “Well, just climb up here and, I don’t know, pull me to safety or something.” Marguerite gestured with her hands in exasperation. “And keep your voice down. We aren’t that far from the outskirts of Montreal. There’s no telling who could be lurking out here.”

  “My ability to climb trees is not as refined as it should be, m’lady. I can try, but I think we’d be better suited with another plan,” the bot whispered as best she could. “Have you decided what we are going to attempt to do next, m’lady?”

  “I thought that would be obvious, Outil. We are going to go see Claude.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Marguerite kicked her legs and tried harder to swing herself to the closest branch, but it was no use. She couldn’t get enough momentum, and the branches were too far away on either side of her. “As much as I would enjoy seeing my creator again, I’m not sure how visiting Master Claude can help us in our predicament,” Outil answered.

  “Who else do we know in this wild place who has access to weapons, ships, and owes me a favor?” Marguerite tried squirming out of her harness once more.

  “Forgive me, m’lady, but why does he owe you a favor?” Outil asked, hands on hips, gazing up.

  “Well, because we grew up together. You are always in debt to your childhood friends, aren’t you? And because he will owe me favors for the rest of his life for not making his feelings clear before he left France and ran off to marry someone else,” she barked.

  “But, m’lady, you don’t want to get married.” Outil sounded genuinely confused.

  “That is beside the point. He is an old friend, and I can trust him. If we can find our way to his new home, we can use his supplies and communication devices and put together a plan.”

  “I suppose that makes sense.” Outil picked up a formidable branch from the forest floor. “Maybe if I push you with this branch you will be able to reach the limb nearest you?”

  “Did you happen to pack any weapons in these packs, Outil?” Marguerite asked as she suddenly stilled. “Yes, m’lady, a pistol each, why do you ask?” Outil carried her piece of wood to the base of the tree and lifted it up.

  “Because you might want to get yours out. There is a man watching us from the bushes just in front of me.”

  Outil dropped the limb and had her pistol out in lightening speed. She stood between Marguerite’s dangling form and the man who was now stepping out into the clearing to face them. He was very tall, and as best as Marguerite could tell in the dark, he appeared to be dressed in simple leather breeches and coat. She guessed they were homemade by the looks of them. He had a dark complexion and long black hair that fell at his shoulders. He also had a very large, very modern looking rifle strapped over his shoulder and a pair of goggles around his neck.

  He held up one hand, indicating peace, but kept the other hand on the gun at his side. He stayed at the edge of the clearing around Marguerite’s tree. She couldn’t speak; she was so afraid. Two shots from the weapon at his side and both she and Outil would be dead. Actually, it would probably take four or five shots to get Outil, and she might get a shot off at him in the meantime, but Marguerite was a dangling duck, ready for the killing.

  Outil was the first to break the silence. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  The man replied with a strange accent Marguerite had never heard before, “I should be the one asking who you are and what you are doing on my land.”

  “Your land?” Marguerite couldn’t help but spit the words out. “This property belongs to King Louis.”

  “Oh no, it doesn’t. Not as of four days ago. Your King of France signed a treaty with my nation, and this land belongs to the Iroquois.”

  “Iroquois? Are you a native then?” Marguerite couldn’t hide her excitement at meeting a real, live native person. She’d spent countless hours poring over books about indigenous peoples discovered in all the new worlds around the globe. Her favorite, by far, were in New France. And now here she was, dangling above a heavily armed man, stepped right from the pages of one of her books. Except, he didn’t seem backward at all. Other than his simple dress and uncut hair, he was altogether very modern. And handsome—she couldn’t help noticing that, too. He cut an amazing figure by the moonlight; broad shoulders, bulging arms, a perfectly square jaw, and aquiline nose.

  “I am Iroquois, and my people are native to this land, but we are not native in the way you suggest.” His voice was proud and sharp. He glowered at them and repeated his question. “What are you doing on our land?”

  “I’m ever so glad they signed a treaty. This is wonderful news. However, does that mean you are in league with the French officials? Or, rather, are you going to turn us in for trespassing? Because, I’d really prefer that you not. Maybe you could help me get down from this tree, and then we’d be happy to leave your land as quickly as possible.”

  “We have our own officials and our own laws. We do not need the usurpers of Montreal to handle our affairs for us,” he sneered.

  Outil uncocked her pistol and let the barrel shift to the ground. “We did not mean to land in this particular location, sir. We were disembarking the ship over there and caught an unexpected current.”

  Brilliant! Marguerite silently cheered Outil on.

  “Would you be so kind as to help me cut my mistress down?” she asked.

  “I could do that,” he replied. “But I also want you to tell me what you want with Monsieur Claude.”

  “You know Claude?” Marguerite practically squealed. “This is wonderful!” The man lifted his gun a bit and widened his stance.

  “Lady Vadnay, I’m not sure this is good news.” Outil lifted her pistol once again. “It might not be the same Claude.”

  “Of course, it is the same Claude,” Marguerite snapped.” He’s a famous inventor, the best in this part of the world. Everyone knows him because he can build anything. Also, because he has a horrible wife.” Outil shot a quick look at Marguerite.

  “What? I’m sure she is horrible. I mean, I hope she’s not, but anyone who’d snatch a man up that quickly has to be horrible.”

  “I know Monsieur Claude of whom you speak. He is a great engineer and a friend to my people. We have made many trades with him in the past year, and he has taken care of our needs. It is in part because of him that we have our land back. If your intentions are not of the purest good, I will shoot you before I take you anywhere near his home.” Marguerite was stunned. She knew none of this about her friend. They had exchanged a few letters over the past few months, but the post wasn’t reliable by air or land, and he’d never mentioned anything about native relations.

  “The last thing in the world I want to do is harm Claude. He is a dear friend of mine. We grew up together. I’ve found myself in a bit of a pickle, and I need his help is all. I know he’s not far from here. Can you please just help me down and point us in the right direction?” A bird called from somewhere off to the left. The tall man cupped one hand over his mouth and repeated the cry perfectly; then she heard someone running from that direction toward them. Marguerite’s heart almost burst with excitement.<
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  More natives! I mean, Iroquois! If only they don’t kill us, this will be the best day of my life! Another man, slightly shorter than the first, appeared in the clearing. After staring for a moment, he raised his eyebrows at the first man. Marguerite could only imagine what it must look like to see a woman in a man’s uniform hanging from a tree and a bot with a tiny pistol pointed at them. The two men exchanged a few words in their language. The second man, also carrying a very modern gun, took a battle stance and pointed his own gun at Outil, then motioned for her to lower her own.

  The first man swung his gun to his back and walked toward the tree, climbing the trunk like he did it every day of his life. As he reached the branch above Marguerite where her chute was tangled, he spoke. “I will help you down, and I will take you to Monsieur Claude, and he will decide what to do with you.” He pulled a huge knife out of his belt and sliced through the harness with one swift movement. Marguerite fell into Outil’s waiting arms, and the man scaled back down the tree without a sound, her chute in hand. He said something to his companion and then motioned for Outil and Marguerite to follow the smaller man through the woods.

  Outil set Marguerite down carefully, and they did as they were told. The man behind them reached over his shoulder and grabbed the gun from his back, then used it to poke Marguerite from behind. She turned on him, surprised and angry at the rough treatment. “Is that really necessary? I am walking as you said.”

  “Give me your packs, and that gun.” He poked Marguerite again.

  “You really needn’t do that.” She gladly peeled off the heavy pack and handed it to him. Outil did the same with hers.

  “That was for what you said about Madame Claude. She is a lovely woman with many gifts. He is lucky to have her.”

  Marguerite scowled. Suddenly the man didn’t look as handsome as before, now that he was looking down on her with such disapproval. “I’m sure she is just wonderful,” she replied.

  “She is. And she doesn’t get stuck in trees either.” He poked her side with his gun, indicating it was time to move on. Marguerite swatted the barrel away and stomped after Outil and the other stranger. It hurt to stomp, but she did it anyway. Her whole body hurt. She needed a hot bath and a real bed. Also, real food would be very, very nice. Whatever kind of woman Claude had married, Marguerite hoped she was, at least, a good cook.

  Eventually, they came to a clearing and a trail of sorts. Two strange contraptions sat off to one side, almost concealed by bushes, but the chrome and brass work sparkled, giving away their position. The first man pulled on a handle and rolled one machine out into the clearing. Now that Marguerite could see it more clearly, she realized it was like a mini autocart, but with only two wheels and a long seat connecting them. The smaller man swung a leg over the seat and straddled it like a horse. He pushed a few levers and slid his goggles into place as a small motor came to life, coughing steam.

  “What is that?” Marguerite admired the fine workmanship and brass details.

  It’s a steamcycle. Get on,” the first man said as he pointed Outil toward the machine. “Ride quietly and we’ll get there quickly.” Outil looked a bit taken aback. She turned to Marguerite, who nodded. They really didn’t have any choice but to do as the men said and hope that they were telling the truth. The bot climbed on behind the first man, awkward and unsure of the movements. Marguerite had never considered that her bot hadn’t been programmed to ride anything but an autocart or carriage. She’d have to talk to Claude about some sort of equine programming. It would be handy should they ever wish to ride horses, or these amazing machines again. The first man pulled his own matching machine from the bushes and pointed for Marguerite to get on first. “I’m sorry; I have no idea how to operate this thing,” she said.

  “You’re not going to drive. I just want to keep my eye on you.” His face was stone cold serious. Marguerite was suddenly grateful for her flight suit as she threw a leg over the contraption and looked for a place to hold on. The Iroquois man did the same, one hand on the steering handles and one wrapped around her waist.

  “Oh!” she cried as he pressed close to her back. He was so warm, it felt so good, but it was so improper. “This isn’t exactly …” she started. But he flipped a few switches, and the machine roared to life. He pulled his goggles down, and they took off, moving faster than Marguerite had ever traveled over land in her life.

  The trail before them was narrow enough that she could have reached out and struck a tree on either side of them, but they flew by so quickly she didn’t dare for fear of losing an arm altogether. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about the strong hand holding her ribs, or the fact that the only thing she had to hold onto was that arm, or the fact that his clothes were handmade leather and so soft she didn’t want to let them go. She also tried not to think about how warm the man was or the fact that he smelled amazing—an earthy smell mixed with strong spices and herbs she couldn’t identify.

  Jacques. Must think about Jacques, she chided herself. The night wore on for quite awhile. Eventually, the trail opened up onto a road, and as best she could tell, they were heading farther away from the city and deeper into the northwestern wilds of New France. If she remembered correctly from his letters, this was the general direction to Claude’s settlement. She had never been there, so she didn’t know for certain. Eventually, she got brave and turned her head to ask, “How far is it?”

  Unfortunately, when he leaned down to hear her over the engine noise, his ear and goggle strap brushed Marguerite’s lips. His thick hair, flying in the wind, wrapped around her head and she was engulfed in his amazing smell. Marguerite’s heart fluttered and swelled in her chest. She tried to stop from thoroughly enjoying herself, but she couldn’t help it. Luckily the wind blew cold and fast in her face, keeping her from completely forgetting herself. His reply did not help her at all.

  “We will arrive before the moon is set. You should rest your eyes. I will not let you fall.”

  Marguerite’s heart fluttered. It had been so long since she and Jacques had been this close. And even then, they were never this close for so long. She reminded herself that she did not know this stranger at all. He could be one of those horrid scalp stealers she’d read about on the open plains or a mercenary with no conscience. What she really wished right now, more than anything, was that he was Jacques. That they were safe together on this amazing machine, flying away to explore some remote area of New France. She squeezed her eyes shut and sent up a prayer for his safety. He had to be alive; he just had to. And she would find him, no matter what it took. She turned back to the man’s ear, her lips ready for the close contact this time; her heart steeled against unfaithful thoughts. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Otetiani,” he answered.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Her manners kicked in out of habit.

  “We shall see,” his voice rumbled low through the noise of the steamcycle. Marguerite closed her eyes, pretended like it was Jacques holding her, and let exhaustion have its way. The steamcycle came to a sudden stop. Marguerite’s eyes burst open, and she sat up, instantly aware of her proximity to Otetiani. The Iroquois man sat back and released her waist, then climbed off the cycle, balancing it with one hand. They were at a settlement. A modest single story home sat in front of a modest barn, and a rickety fence held a goat and a horse in the side yard. The door to the home opened, and an autolight appeared to illuminate the night. Outil climbed off the back of the other cycle immediately and walked up to the light. A familiar voice called out.

  “Outil, what are you doing here?”

  Marguerite jumped from the cycle as delicately as she could and ran to the light. “Claude!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Claude gathered Outil into one arm and Marguerite into the other. “Marguerite! How do you know Otetiani, and what are you doing here in the middle of the night? Is everything alright?” Marguerite was so tired and travel weary; she almost began
to sob, but she remembered herself and took a deep breath.

  “I only just met Monsieur Otetiani. Thanks to your reputation, he was kind enough to cut me out of a tree and give me a ride here.” She nodded to the tall, dark man.

  “These women were trespassing on the north shore. They claimed to be looking for you and seemed to be in a bit of trouble,” Otetiani said. “I see it is true that you know them.”

  “Yes, thank you so much for bringing them here. Outil is my first sentient autobot, and Marguerite is my oldest friend. But, what has happened to your face? And your hair?” He held the light up to Marguerite and gazed at her rough red skin and matted hair with wonder. Marguerite touched her cheek in embarrassment and then tried to smooth back her wild tresses.

  “It is a very long story. Suffice it to say, Outil and I can’t stay very long, but we need a great favor.”

  Claude nodded, his face furrowed with concern. “Let’s get you inside out of the cold and we can talk there.” Marguerite realized he was right. It was freezing. She’d been cold for a week straight now, and the thought of a warm fire in a snug little home was very welcome.

  “Make yourself at home. Louisa is sleeping, but I’ll be in shortly. Let me take care of these gentlemen.” She looked at the two natives and tried to match them with the word gentlemen. It was a stretch, but Claude using the word to describe them brought them up a few pegs in her mind. If he called them gentlemen, then there was no way they were scalp stealers or mercenaries. She wondered what her father, or any of the upper classes of France, would say if she walked into a ball with Otetiani on her arm. My, but he was handsome.