Heaven in His Arms

by Lisa Ann Verge

  He kissed her forehead. “We have to. It is the only way you’ll be freed.”

  “I’m free now.” She spread her arms, arching slightly away from him, smiling up into his face. “I’m as free as a bird. To the west of this settlement stretches a great, big country. We can fly somewhere where they will never find us. We can fly right back to Chequamegon Bay.”

  Shock reverberated through his arms. His hand rounded her back and rested on the swell of her abdomen. “But it’ll be dangerous… .”

  “I’m no fainting aristocrat … you know that by now. I’ve survived worse than what this world can give me.”

  “I can’t do that to you.” His voice was hoarse but ribboned with hope. “You deserve a midwife, clean linens, a soft mattress …”

  “The Indians can help me birth our child. They’ve done it enough in the wild.” She covered his hand with her own. “If we leave now, before I grow any bigger, and if we’re slow and careful, then we’ll be back on Lake Superior long before autumn.”

  He shook his head, more with disbelief than with denial, and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “All we’ll have in the wilderness is a temporary hut, a tent of bark, or an open fire. You want more, woman, you deserve more.”

  “I don’t want to live in your father’s house. It’s full of grief, it’s full of pain, and if I live there alone, I’ll just fill it with even more grief. Don’t you see?” Her breath caught on a sob of joy. “I can’t stay, you can’t stay; we must escape together. It’s the only way we’ll both be free.”

  He searched her face. Hope sparked new color into his amber gaze.

  “Let our roof be the open sky or a canopy of summer leaves—I don’t care anymore. My home isn’t between four walls. It took me a long time, but I understand that now.” She slipped her hands around his neck, closed her eyes, and whispered against his lips. “My home, love, is wherever you roam.”

  Epilogue

  Rainy Lake, May 1672

  The male beaver chewed industriously on a fresh poplar branch as he basked in the sun near his lodge. Another beaver, the female, waddled along the shore of the shallow lake, with two tiny kits following in her wake. The male beaver started and stretched up on his hind legs, showing the full length of his dumpy body. His brown eyes fixed upon Genevieve, where she sat in the shadow of a small copse of firs.

  “He sees us, Christian.”

  Genevieve glanced down at her breast. Her nine-month-old son was asleep, a trail of milk drying on his cheek. Easing him away from her, she lay him on the thick caribou pelt, making sure that the bright sun dappling the gray fur did not shine on his eyes. She was glad he was sleeping. Soon, she’d have to strap him into an Indian cradleboard and carry him on her back. He hated being confined on the flat, carved board, but it was the best way to carry him whenever she traveled. Today was the day they would leave Rainy Lake in order to set up another post on some other, more distant lake.

  Genevieve glanced back at the beaver. He had returned to his work on the poplar branch. Though she hadn’t held her pet in her arms for nearly a year, she knew that he still remembered her. If he had sensed any danger, he would have cried out a warning until the female and the kits were safe in the lodge.

  Her pet had disappeared into the woods last year, only a few days after she, Andre, and a small group of men had arrived at this lake after nearly two weeks of travel from Chequamegon Bay. Since her pregnancy was advanced and a village of Cree Indians was nearby, Andre had decided to settle here for the winter and build a new post. The beaver had threatened to eat through every log they cut, so Andre never regretted his disappearance, but Genevieve had worried. Only a few months ago did they find him again, when Andre and two of his voyageurs discovered a beaver lodge and a family of beavers in this stream. For the first time, they realized her pet was a male, who had found himself a mate.

  It was a testament to how far they had traveled into the wilderness, that a family of beavers could live unmolested within walking distance of a new fur trading post. Genevieve had taken them under her personal protection, spreading a rumor among the local Crees that these beaver were sacred and spoke to her in her dreams. She could only hope that after they left this lake, the Cree would remember her words and would leave her pet and his family unmolested.

  She supposed it would always be like this. She, Andre, and their contingent of voyageurs would stay in a place long enough for her to know the hills and valleys, long enough for her to understand the new dialects of the natives, long enough to form a bond with the land, and then they would move on again, always westward. Genevieve had come here today to say her own private goodbyes, not just to her old pet, but to the land where her son had been born, to the lake that had given them water and fish, to the land that had given them berries and corn, and to the creatures that had given them meat. There was a sadness in the farewell, but it was mingled with a sense of hope and excitement.

  “I knew I’d find you here.”

  Genevieve looked up and saw Andre striding through the trees. He had shaved his winter beard, and his teeth gleamed white and even. His tawny gaze slipped over her hair, then fell lower and clung. She realized she hadn’t laced up her dress after breastfeeding their son and it gaped open.

  She stood up, smiled, and made no move to hide her body from him. Her gaze fell upon the pouch at his waist. An idea struck her. “Do you have any tobacco?”

  “Deciding to take up the pipe, Taouistaouisse?”

  “No … this is for something else.”

  He opened the pouch, pulled out a twist, and cut off a hefty chunk for her. She curled her fingers over the leaves, then turned around and took two steps to the edge of the lake. She held the tobacco to her breast, then ceremoniously spread the leaves upon the waters.

  When she had finished, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’m glad there’s no Jesuit to see you do that. He’d think you’ve turned heathen.”

  “Perhaps I have. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a black robe.” She hugged his arms to her. “I suppose everyone is waiting for me.”

  “The men from Chequamegon Bay are anxious to leave. They’ve been too long without their Indian wives. They’re waiting in their canoes to wish you farewell before they return to that post with our furs.

  “And your men?”

  “They’re still packing up the merchandise brought up from Chequamegon Bay.” He glanced at the beaver lodge. “Your pet seems to be doing well.”

  “Yes.” She bit her lower lip. “I hope he doesn’t return to us as a pelt.”

  “You’ve convinced the Crees you’re some sort of medicine woman. No other tribe will hunt these grounds.”

  In silence, they watched the sun glitter on the shallow lake. They listened to the warblers singing in the boughs of the trees, and the nuzzling of squirrels and other rodents in the forest litter. In the distance, she heard the voices of the voyageurs as they worked by the wooden stockade. Genevieve glanced at their son, sleeping peacefully in the thick caribou pelt. She signed, breathing in the rich, fragrant air.

  “It won’t be so bad,” he murmured. “The lake the Indians call Winnipeg is said to be full of fish and have fertile ground. …”

  “I know.” She leaned back into his warmth. “That wasn’t a sad sigh, it was a contented one.”

  “You’ll miss this place.”

  “Of course I will. Christian was born here.”

  “Someday, he might return.”

  “It’s more likely he’ll follow his father, blazing trails westward.”

  “Yes,” he laughed. “He’ll do that. Maybe he’ll find what eludes me.”

  “The China Sea?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Perhaps he will.”

  She tightened her grip on his hands. He had taken several trips deep into the interior that winter and had discovered that the “Big Water” the Indians had told him about the winter before was nothing but a large lake. He wasn’t disap
pointed, however, for he had soon found a mighty river that poured into the lake from the west, a river the Indians called Saskatchewan. She knew that this time next year, they would head up that river in search of the sea.

  It was an enormous country. Still, she knew it could not be endless. Someday, they would find that sea. Someday, they would run out of land. She could only hope that she and Andre would be very old and very gray when that happened. She could no longer imagine a world where there were no more trails to blaze.

  He slid his hand beneath the open edge of her deerskin dress to cup her breast. Her eyes fluttered open as he teased the peak into attention. His warm lips settled on the sensitive skin behind her ear.

  She lifted her hand and buried her fingers in his hair. “The men are waiting for us… .”

  “There’s another ritual to perform before we go.” With his free hand, he swept her hair out of his way and gently attacked the nape of her neck. “It’s a way of christening a place and making it sacred.”

  Her laughter dissolved into a throaty moan as he picked her up and lay her against the caribou pelt, with their son sleeping fitfully nearby. Andre stripped her of her deerskin clothing and made long, leisurely love to her under the open sky.

  Much later, Genevieve rose from her husband’s side and dressed. She picked up her babe and held him against her breast, watching as Andre brushed the nettles from his hair and clothing.

  “Come, love,” he said, holding out his hand. “The world waits for us.”

  She took his hand. They walked westward, following a trail of sunshine.