Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  “Let’s clean ourselves off, then.”

  How long had it been since we’d been completely naked? She gave me the grin I remembered so fondly and accepted the challenge. We dropped our filthy clothing to the ground and waded into the water, shuddering with shock at the cold thrill of it, daring each other to dunk underneath. The dirt peeled away like stubborn birchbark, and when I eventually emerged, dripping wet, I felt lighter in every way. Giselle walked beside me, and I tried not to react to the dreadful boniness of her body, at the way her arms looked more like tree limbs than those of a young woman. We had been away from home for well over a year, and her fifteen-year-old body resembled that of a sick boy. Her blond curls had long since lost their lustre.

  She must have seen something similar, for she stepped closer and poked my ribs. “We need to fatten you up.”

  “It’ll be better here. We won’t have to rely on rotten meat or stale bread.”

  I shouldn’t have mentioned the bread, for her mouth curved down. “I miss fresh bread. Remember how it smelled? How we could practically taste it from the garden when Maman set it out to cool?”

  I wasn’t sure that I wanted to remember. With regret we pulled our clothes back on, and I told her we would wash them someday.

  “For now this will have to suffice,” I said, plunging my bonnet into the water and cleaning what I could from it. She did the same, then we set them on our wet hair.

  We filled the bucket and walked back to the cabin, picking up twigs and rotted chunks of wood for the fire as we walked. The cabin would never be our home, but we would do what we could with it until we could move somewhere better. In the first week we were there, Papa built another, wider bed, and we cut more branches for a mattress. Someday we would buy a real cot. We fished, we set snares, and when we felt safe enough, we made brief visits to the city to trade for what we could, including spare clothing. Autumn warmed the air and roused the mosquitoes, so we escaped them by going to the river or climbing a breezy hill nearby. When Papa went deeper into the forest, seeking larger game, we mended what clothing we had and tried to create new garments with the scraps of old ones. We were safe in our little home, and though we were much diminished in numbers, we were a family again. We did what we could, laughed when we could, and we breathed.

  Still, memories of what had passed plagued my sleep. One rainy afternoon we stayed inside, and Giselle fell uncommonly quiet. She had been returning to herself of late, smiling, searching for humour in small things, but not on this day.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, rubbing her cold hands in mine.

  “Just tired. I have a terrible headache.”

  “You didn’t eat. Maybe if you ate something your headache would go away.”

  “I’m not hungry. You should eat my share.”

  That night when she went to bed, she was so hot the air around her felt warm. In the morning she complained that the inside of her mouth hurt and swallowing was painful. I opened a window for light and peered in, and my heart sank.

  Two weeks before, we’d gone to the city for milk. While we were there I’d heard the women in the city whispering of smallpox. From what they had said, the red welts which now covered my sister’s tongue and gums were the first symptoms. Over the next few hours the inside of Giselle’s mouth swelled, then her throat, making it almost impossible for her to swallow. Blisters rose on her brow and burst, spreading the hideous disease. By the second day her face, hands, feet, and practically every other part of her feverish body was covered in small white blisters. Though tiny in comparison, they reminded me of the blisters which had afflicted my hands and wrists one summer. The women of our village had said I’d caught them from milking the cows, that I had something called cowpox. They assured me the blisters would soon fade, and they had. I’d forgotten all about them until now.

  As Giselle’s blisters hardened into bead-like pox, Papa and I did what we could to cool her torturous rash with balms, dipping her poor hands and feet into buckets of water I fetched from the stream, trying to reach her tortured mind with songs.

  Giselle hovered close to death, rose again with false, precarious health, then sank back into the fever’s clutches. Smallpox struck Papa next. After that, dullness enveloped him along with the fever, swelling his skin with the same horrible blisters and smoothing his once-strong features into a mask of resignation.

  The room became insufferable, and during the day I flung open the windows and gasped in clean forest air. I was not ill, had felt no effects at all, and I was determined to make use of my health by returning it to Giselle and Papa. When the nights came, I closed the shutters tightly to block out death and moved with determination through the dark house, my fingers sure over cups and pitcher as I poured what I could into my loved ones’ mouths.

  Papa rarely made a sound. I begged him to fight. He did not. Throughout his life he had fought too hard and for too long, and he hadn’t the strength to wage war for the sake of his own life. I wanted to shake him, demand he return to me, but the fever kept sweeping in and carrying him off, its waves cresting and crashing like those which had carried us from our beloved home.

  The women in the city had said the only cure could come from drinking water or praying hard, but they were wrong. Neither prayers nor water worked. Papa died first, and my little sister refused to let me move her from his side. Her confused wails melted into whimpers, and eventually into nothing at all. She lay helplessly beside Papa’s body, gasping like a fish on land until she breathed no more.

  Death had closed over the house like a fog over the sea, then evaporated as swiftly, taking the last two people I loved. Their eyes were closed, their faces serene after so much strife. Flies came alive with the day’s warmth, and their bouncing celebration vibrated off the walls. At last the illness came for me, and having spent every moment caring for the others, I was too tired to fight back. My knees trembled, threatening to drop me where I stood, so I flung out a hand and braced myself against the wall. I was afraid that if I fell, I might never rise again. Exhaustion had taken root deep in my bones, and I felt it sprouting, its hungry vines winding greedily through my bloodstream.

  I was so thirsty. I staggered outside, drawn by the song of the river, and cupped my hands in the water. It felt wonderful trickling down my throat, and I splashed it all over my face before gulping more down. Eventually I fell asleep. When I awoke, I felt the first of the blisters on my tongue.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I was alone. That was the first sensation. The acknowledgement of still, unmoving air, the lack of shared breathing.

  I could not recall stumbling back to the cabin, but that was where I had awoken. Somehow I had rolled myself in a blanket by the ashes of the fire, and I had succumbed again to sleep. Now my waking thoughts crept around the room in search of company but returned empty-handed. I could not look at the bed where the last of my family lay, but they watched over me. I heard them whisper, reminding me to breathe. To live.

  The fever had come upon me, and ugly red dots rose on my skin. I pushed away the suffocating blanket, and while I could still lift my head, I surveyed my body. I thought I did not look as thickly coated with illness as the others had. Nevertheless, the floor beneath me became soaked with my sweat, the air ripe with vomit and diarrhea, since I could not rise to go outside. My insatiable thirst was more than a discomfort; I was losing so much fluid, I was in danger of dying a very dry death. But no one was left to bring me water, to help me drink. When a window of sanity opened a crack, I forced myself to scoop what was left in the bucket and pour it down my throat.

  “God, if thou wouldst spare me . . . ,” I whispered through cracked lips but then stopped, realizing I no longer cared if he did.

  I couldn’t move. Where once I had been strong, now I felt helpless as a newborn. Even opening my eyes seemed a daunting task. A breeze blew through the open door, wet and cool from a sweet autumn rainstorm, and I opened my mouth to drink it in.

  Water. It dripped from
leaves outside the cabin and sank into the earth. So close, so far. The rain had stopped and the day was done, dropping me into a dusk rich with the noise of crickets. I lay still a few minutes more, summoning the strength to roll to my side. If I did not, I would die. It was as simple as that. I groped toward the bucket, and the bliss that came from touching the murky wet wood spread through my fingers and up my arm. I dragged the bucket closer and tilted what I could into my mouth, but the water stopped at the back of my throat, blocked by the swollen tissues. A weak sort of panic trembled through me, until I remembered how long it had taken for Papa and Giselle to swallow anything. All I had to do was wait what felt like an eternity, and eventually a few drops found their way. I reached for more, but nothing remained. The final drops of water had soaked into the bucket’s wood base just as my last hint of energy seeped away. I needed to rise and find life in the stream, but first I must sleep.

  When I awoke, I lay in complete darkness. Even the crickets slept.

  My thirst was too powerful to ignore. I visualized myself sitting up, then struggled to match the vision. My feet felt far away when they touched the floor, then completely foreign when I added my weight to them. Battling a weariness that had hardened deep within me, I rose and waited for balance. I dragged one foot ahead, then the other, my hand sliding along the wall. I forced my gaze forward as I shuffled toward the door, since I was unwilling to face what was left in the bed. I couldn’t save them now. No one could.

  The trees helped. They stood like a fence, catching the moonlight in their branches and using it to lead me through the night. Their sturdy trunks supported me, guided me to the water’s edge, but the effort required from me was immense. Exhaustion rolled over my entire body, bringing with it another wave of nausea. Every muscle shook. My teeth chattered uncontrollably behind frozen lips, though the skin of my face burned.

  What am I supposed to do now, Papa?

  Suddenly lost, I clutched at the sturdy reassurance of a maple. Using the tree as a crutch, I sank to my knees in the damp, crackling leaves, praying for mercy. I lay down, gathering leaves around me like a blanket, then curled my body into a ball. Sleep came and lay beside me. She curved her dark assurances over me, and she stayed a long time.

  At some point during my fevered slumber, a man appeared in my dream. He had no face, and he had no voice. He poured water through my lips and dripped it over my brow. I lay limply, offering no resistance as he wrapped me in a blanket and carried me to a small shelter cushioned with sweet balsam. I fell asleep, cradled within its branches.

  I awoke to a roar like I’d never heard before. My eyes cracked open, and I became aware that the sky glowed an eerie golden red. A long, drawn-out crack! sliced through the air, sounding like a house beam splintering, and my heart rose to my throat. I could not ignore the terrifying noise, snapping and whooshing, reminding me of the terrible storm on the night when Mathieu had been lost.

  I summoned what strength I could and rolled over to see through the open side of a lean-to. The sky, I found, was indeed on fire, the moon blocked from my view by towering black smoke. The raging source—my family’s small cabin—blurred through my tears.

  “Papa!” I whispered.

  They were in there. The impossible thought came to me that I should run to them, drag their bodies from the ravaged walls, but even in my feverish state I knew I could not. All I could do was stare in disbelief at the inferno, asking myself how this could have happened. I had not lit a fire, not with the terrible heat of our fevers still thick in the air, and it was not raining, so there could have been no lightning strike.

  My eyes caught movement between myself and the flames. The muscles in my arms shook when I pushed myself up, and the heat was such that I had to squint hard against it, but I could not peel my eyes from what I saw. The shadowy profile of a man stood before the fire, his arms raised toward the night sky, his face as well. His mouth opened and closed, but I heard no words, so I imagined they were swallowed by the terrible noise of the fire.

  After a while, he turned from the house and faced me, his arms slowly lowering, smears of black soot heavy on his face. The fire lit the night so I could see he appeared to be Mi’kmaq. There was no threat in his stance, but I didn’t move. For a moment, neither did he. Then he turned back toward the fire, and his arms lifted again as if in celebration or prayer.

  I watched him until I could no longer support myself, then I lay down and closed my eyes. In the back of my mind I saw the haze of orange light hovering over Grand Pré as we boarded the ships, the glow of the terrible fires which had burned in our wake. I saw too the Pembroke burning, its rigging and dark wood panels devoured by the ravenous fire we had set. I remembered the broken people standing around me on the sand, uncertain whether to cheer or weep at the destruction. My delirious, wandering thoughts returned to the fickle sea, quietly catching sparks and embers from that fire. I thought of how she had opened her wide arms and carried us from our homes, how she had swallowed up my brother and so many others in one awful moment. Yet I had spent my whole life thanking God for water, for the life it had always given us: filling our fields so we could eat, filling our buckets so we could drink, cooling our skin, cleaning our bodies. But as easily as water gave, it took. Nothing and no one could ever be completely trusted.

  Water rolled nearby. Too close. Panicked, I opened my eyes and found the reason. I lay on the floor of a birchbark canoe, wrapped in a blanket that stank of smoke. A few feet away, my saviour knelt on the floor, facing me as he paddled. His eyes, dark as the hair draped over the broad muscles of his chest, were trained on the shoreline, at ease one moment then alert as one of the forest creatures. His strength was a solid fact, powerful as the water he mastered, fluid as the river. He seemed unaware of me, as if he’d forgotten I lay curled at his feet.

  I could feel the slight hesitation and gentle pulse in the boat’s movements with each stroke of the paddle. The motion tempted me to fall back into that sweet slumber that had left me so unaware, but my mind had come awake. We had left the smoking ashes of the cabin and my family behind. And the illness had gone. My head felt clear, and my stomach no longer rolled. My body was drained from the battle, but I had won. I had survived the devil’s disease.

  Lying helplessly in the canoe of a stranger, I felt no fear, only gratitude. The stranger had nursed me back to health. I had only vague, hazy recollections of him feeding me and offering silent companionship, and I had no idea how long it had gone on.

  “What is your name?” I asked in Mi’kmawi’simk. My voice sounded raw. Hoarse from disuse.

  His lips drew tight, but he did not answer.

  “I am Amélie Belliveau, from Grand Pré.”

  A shadow passed behind the dark eyes. He blinked once and the shadow was gone.

  I tried to engage him in conversation again, but he wouldn’t answer. I was confused by his silence. The Mi’kmaq with whom I had grown up were outgoing and friendly. This man was a mystery. And yet I still felt no fear. I knew nothing of him, but he was all I knew now.

  A cross breeze blew by, not touching me on the floor of the canoe but plucking a few strands of the man’s hair and dropping them back onto one naked shoulder. I saw no clouds; the sky stretched above him in an endless slate of grey. A bird sang, but I didn’t recognize the melody. Where was I?

  I closed my eyes, searching my memory for clues, then pushed the impressions away as soon as they rushed in. I remembered the heat raging within me as well as roaring in from the outside as I watched the cabin burn, and I wished I had no recollection of the bodies I’d left inside. Would there ever come a day when the nightmare wouldn’t be the uppermost thought in my mind? It was difficult to imagine.

  I tried to focus instead on the ripples washing against the sides of the canoe, dancing cheerfully against the bow. I needed to remember something good, something separate from the horror. Connor’s smile came to me, the determined set of his jaw, the outline of his short beard after many days at sea. I ev
en let my mind dwell on the bruised mess of his face after we had taken the Pembroke and left the sailors on shore. I heard clearly his silent farewell, and I recalled the acceptance in his eyes. He had done what he’d set out to do. He had wanted me to be free, and I was. But I could never go back to what I’d been before. I’d seen too much, experienced horrors and sorrow I never could have imagined. I could not return to my home in Grand Pré. Even the dikes that had made our lives possible were most likely in ruins, meaning the ocean would have reclaimed the fields.

  Nothing was what it had been, including me.

  The pace of the Mi’kmaq’s paddle never slowed, but when I looked back up at him, he seemed to study my expression. I offered a tentative smile and his eyes lit with unexpected warmth. Just as quickly the moment passed, and he looked back into the distance, his thoughts as elusive as my own.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I awoke to a dramatic purple sunrise over open water. My travelling companion showed little sign of wear other than a slight sagging of his shoulders, but it was apparent he had paddled without sleep. Moving carefully, I sat up and waited for my light-headedness to pass so I could watch the approaching coastline. We floated silently into a small bay that looked like any other, and he steered us close to the rocky beach. Hopping into the water, he dragged the canoe onto the rocks and helped me out, supporting me as my legs got used to standing again. The ground swooped beneath me and I stumbled, but his grip on my arm tightened, keeping me upright. Looking up, I saw his calm expression had changed; he was tense, scouting the shoreline. Now that I stood close to him I could see he was not a young man. His hair was still thick, but hints of silver threaded among the black. Most likely he was in his forties, like Papa.