Where the River Takes Me

by Julie Lawson

  There were always comings and goings at Fort Edmonton. People would stop there a while, before going down the Saskatchewan to the East, or making the portage to Fort Assiniboine — like I did! — on their way to the West. (Just writing those names is making me homesick.) There is no passing through Fort Victoria, not in the same way. It marks the beginning of a journey or the end of one.

  Comings and goings. That was Fort Edmonton. Whatever made me think that my life there was dull? I suppose it was because I did not always want to stay behind and wait for the brigades. I wanted to go with them and have my own Adventures. I never realized that leaving a place would also mean leaving something behind.

  Wednesday, October 2nd

  I think Lucy must have taken my camas. She said she had seen me put it in my cassette, but she could not have done so, for when I came back from the meadow that day, she was outside playing tag with the other girls. And she was the one who asked me to join them. So I was alone in the dormitory. And the night I told her about the death camas, I never said I had any, so how did she know? By snooping inside my cassette, that’s how.

  Did she take it? Has she been pilfering from the others as well? How do I approach her with such a question when I have no proof?

  I can’t, that’s all. It would be doing the same thing to her as she did to me.

  Thursday, October 3rd

  I have just come back from my Lookout. I did not see anyone except for Alec and Davy etc. hunting grouse. They were armed with their “new” musket, the one I saw them getting from Mr. Beauchamp, and I was afraid they might fire it the way they throw stones — with reckless abandon! I dared not twitch for fear they might mistake me for a grouse or a squirrel or something else worth shooting — a girl would be enough for Thomas.

  I suppose I need not have worried, as they have never succeeded in hitting a grouse, or any of the other game birds that abound in the meadows and oak groves. Lucky for us that the men are better stalkers, because fresh grouse — and once some pheasant — has been a welcome change from salmon or mutton.

  My biggest fear was that the boys would spot me and discover my Lookout. Fortunately they did not stay around long enough to discover anything.

  I must have a Spy in my Novel. He will discover things and keep them secret until they are needed — as proof of a crime, for instance, or as an act of revenge. Or unless he is captured and forced to reveal them. The Spy could be a Hero or a Villain, I haven’t decided.

  List of Spy possibilities:

  Radish — small, quick on his feet, tells lies with an air of innocence (at least to Rev. Staines) and he already has a “code name” (tho’ it is not serious enough for a Spy)

  Lucy — she is an experienced snoop

  Jenna — she has already discovered a Spy Hole

  Friday, October 4th

  Rev. Staines is taking the boys on an all-day expedition tomorrow, up the Arm and through the Gorge. He has hired a large canoe and a full crew from the village.

  I asked if the girls could join them.

  No, he said, the girls would not have the necessary stamina or courage, and when I assured him that I would, his answer was the same. So I pointed out that no one, not even the boys, would need stamina if the Indians were doing all the paddling. Whereupon he called me “an insufferable and bothersome young lady” who ought to know better than to question her elders.

  Damus Ignoramus Disappointus.

  Doesn’t Parson Puce know that I have travelled by horse and boat and canoe, and crossed the Athabasca Mountains on foot (except for a bit on horseback, at the beginning), and I have camped out for days and weeks on end? And that I have galloped over the prairie in pursuit of buffalo? (Well, that is not exactly true, not in the way I would have liked it, for I was with Father on his horse, and the buffalo were specks in the distance, but I imagined we were chasing them, and sometimes I would take aim with my imaginary bow and arrow.) It bothers me to be treated as a fragile lady creature, and that the other girls are contented to be so. If Suzanne were here, she would help convince Parson Puce of our worthiness in matters of stamina.

  I had not expected that school would force me to become a different sort of person. Even Aunt Grace allowed me to be myself outside of lessons — tho’ she did not always like it. And in her classes, of course we had to behave like proper young ladies.

  Saturday, October 5th

  Went to Laurel Point after Breakfast and was watching some land otters playing near the rocks when who should I see but Kwetlal and Jimmy paddling towards me. I told them about the boys’ outing to the Gorge by pointing in that direction, and Jimmy indicated that we could do the same. (He had a bruise under one eye but he did not mention the fight on the beach and nor did I.)

  I sat low in the canoe and turned my head as we passed the Fort, but caught a glimpse of Rev. Staines and the boys on the jetty, waiting for their canoe. We had a good head start.

  It was a fine sunny morning, with a nip in the air and the water as still as a looking glass. Perfect for paddling and, since there was an extra paddle in the canoe, I was able to practise. It wasn’t long before I was used to the weight of the paddle and could manage without creating too much of a splash. (Although the splashing was fun!)

  The Gorge is narrow, with steep rocks on either side. We paddled through without difficulty, as the tide had not yet turned, and continued to the head of the Arm. Save for the two fallen logs that serve as a footbridge across the Gorge, there was no sign of habitation or people, and no sounds but bird calls and the drips from our paddles. We floated lazily for a while, spotting herons, bald eagles, numerous ducks and several deer.

  We had almost reached the Gorge on the return trip when we heard singing. The boys were coming! We quickly turned to shore, and stayed hidden in the thick underbrush until they were out of sight.

  By then the tide was running swiftly and the Gorge was turbulent with rapids. Jimmy

  Time for Dinner.

  Saturday afternoon

  My blisters betrayed me and I am Confined.

  Why can they not send me to the Bastion? It would be much more Adventurous than being sent “to bed.” I must find out if there are any prisoners at the moment, and if I might visit them. My Novel must have a prisoner. A wrongfully accused prisoner would be best, because I know how he would feel.

  Tho’ I am yet again a prisoner (of sorts), I have not been punished unfairly and have no one to blame but myself. How was I to know that Mrs. Staines would be teaching “raising one’s hand to be kissed by a gentleman” and would notice my blisters?

  “What have we here?” she said, in her imperious manner. She was playing the role of a gentleman and had taken hold of my hand, causing me to wince with pain. Thinking something was amiss, she turned over my hand and discovered the swollen red sores, some broken and bleeding, at the base of each finger.

  “These must be painful,” she said. “What might have caused them?”

  I was trying to think of a reasonable excuse — hoeing the garden, shovelling manure, hammering nails — when Annie said that she’d gotten blisters like that from paddling a canoe and her mother had treated them with some kind of smelly ointment to take the pain away and maybe Mrs. Staines had some. Dear little Annie, she was only trying to be helpful.

  Of course Mrs. Staines asked if I had been paddling a canoe and if I had gone up the Arm like the boys.

  I told her the truth, except for mentioning Kwetlal or Jimmy, and here I am.

  So, to continue my account.

  Jimmy asked if I wanted to go ashore and make a portage, but I said I wanted to shoot the rapids. Oh, what an Adventure! I did not even mind the soaking — in fact I wanted to do it again!

  A short time later we heard the boys coming back. We watched in secret, to see how they would manage the rapids, but Rev. S made them go ashore, fortunately on the opposite side from us, and their paddlers did it alone.

  It was thrilling to watch them go through the Gorge. On their first at
tempt they were caught in a whirlpool, spun around and around and thrown back out, still above the footbridge! They tried again, with a great deal of whooping, and succeeded.

  The boys were watching from the bridge, but afterwards they headed into the forest. I now know that they were following a well-trodden trail, and that Rev. Staines was giving them a lesson in Natural History. James said later that Rev. Staines is a different person when he is rambling in the woods, and it’s true — the evening we took the Nature Walk to Laurel Point he was interesting! He pointed out plants and insects — whatever caught his attention — and made notes and sketches, and encouraged us to be observant and to ask questions. All the more reason that girls should have been allowed to go on the outing, for we enjoy a ramble in the woods, and is Natural History not a worthy subject?

  We made good speed on our return, eager to outrun the boys — oh, dim-witted me, I just remembered. There was no need to rush back (except for Dinner) for the boys are gone for the whole day.

  An Unexpected Discovery!

  I had finished my assigned schoolwork and was nodding off from boredom when I heard a commotion down below. Not down below in the Common Room, but in the empty room beneath my secret Spy Hole!

  In an instant I had pulled back Annie’s rug, removed the knot from the hole, and knelt down to spy. A newcomer was moving in! A Kanaka carrying a trunk came into view, followed by Mr. Durham and another man, each carrying a cassette and whatnot, and everything was set down and they were talking about Fort This and Fort That and at one point I heard Mr. Durham say, “Well, Cavendish?” So now I know the new man’s name!

  It was exceedingly difficult to stay still. I dared not stir as much as a finger, or sniff or clear my throat — thank Heaven I did not sneeze! And if I happened to lose sight of them — for they kept moving about — I could not squirm into a better position.

  I listened hard though, and learned a great deal about Mr. Cavendish — how he had arrived in Hudson’s Bay on the Home Ship in July (“wretchedly sick” the whole way), then travelled with the westbound brigade from York Factory to Fort Edmonton, then with a small party carrying leather goods to Fort Langley and finally, by canoe, to Fort Victoria. I also heard that he is to be the new Clerk.

  I was relieved when they went out, for I was anxious to stretch, and write everything down. At last, someone to spy on! And not an ordinary-looking Clerk, but a handsome, dashing one — if the little I saw is any indication. He has an English accent, but does not sound uppity-stuffy like Rev. Staines, and I did not hear him mention Cambridge or Latin or anything dull like that.

  I cannot wait until the girls come in so I can tell — but no, I will not be able to say a word.

  Not without revealing my Spy Hole.

  Sunday, October 6th

  At bedtime last night there was no end of talk about the new Clerk. It was Mr. Cavendish this, Mr. Cavendish that. The other girls have already decided he is a good prospect for a husband. As for me, he will be a perfect Hero in my Novel!

  It was a struggle for me to keep quiet, but I oohed and aahed with the others as they discussed his dark wavy hair, his deep brown eyes and the fetching dimple in his chin.

  He was at Service, of course, and we were hoping he might turn his attention on us as we were filing out of the Hall — we had led the hymn singing so he had to have noticed us — but he was conversing with other officers and did not even glance our way. I cannot wait until next Sunday!

  Monday, October 7th

  I have another reason for liking Mr. Cavendish. Besides being friendly and handsome, and having the good sense to move into the room below my Spy Hole, he brought a packet of letters from Fort Edmonton, and one of the letters was for me!

  He came to us at Breakfast and asked Mrs. Staines for Jenna Sinclair, and handed me the letter in person, saying, “It takes long enough for a letter to arrive, not to deliver it at the earliest opportunity.”

  I thanked him and he smiled — and for a few moments I was the envy of the other girls.

  My letter is from Suzanne. I am eager to read it — my first thought was to tear it open right then and there, but a second thought held me back. There could be bad news in the letter. For even though Suzanne promised to write, and I desperately hoped that she would, I never truly believed she would. Unless there was a very important reason, and possibly not a happy one. And I would not want to discover it with the others looking on.

  Tuesday, October 8th

  5 juli

  deer frend Jenna I hurt to say you that your grandmamma is died the 3 julli at the river they find her. and Evrybody love her. and my hart is ake for you.

  Suzanne

  I put Suzanne’s letter in my Journal so I do not have to write the words.

  Thursday, October 10th

  I haven’t had the heart to write until now, and still it is hard. When I opened Suzanne’s letter I feared the worst, knowing that one day I would hear that Nokum was gone — but the news still caught me off guard. It is so final. To think that I will never see her again …

  On Monday, after Dinner, I took the letter to my Lookout so I could read it without being disturbed.

  I cried and cried, the way I did when Father died, and I wanted to stay in the tree and never go back to School or see anyone again.

  Now it is evening. I came to bed without Supper and ate a bit of pemmican. Then I lay on my bed, clutching Nokum’s deerskin pouch and sobbing into my pillow.

  Suzanne did not say how Nokum died. I like to imagine her walking by the river, for one “last time,” and ending up on the prairie grass without even knowing she’d fallen.

  Friday, October 11th

  I have trouble understanding that Nokum has died. All this time I have been thinking about her as though she were still alive, yet she has been gone from the prairie for over three months.

  I was surprised that Suzanne wrote in English, knowing how she hated it and how she must have struggled. And she did it on her own. Perhaps it is her way of showing how much she cared — a special effort she could make for me, since we are so far apart.

  Later

  I had two thoughts today. Nokum has died, and I cannot go back to Fort Edmonton.

  Then it came to me that if I were there, I might feel the loss even more keenly than I do now, because everything I did or saw or heard would remind me of her. Or would that be a comfort?

  Oh, I cannot write about this any longer.

  Sunday, October 13th

  We had the best Deportment Class yesterday, and my stomach still aches from laughing. It felt good to come out of my sadness.

  The weather was mild, so Mrs. Staines decided to “walk us” around the yard, stressing the importance of doing so gracefully. Her outdoor lessons always attract attention, for we walk in her wake in single file, like ducklings, while she waddles (gracefully) at the head of the line.

  The boys were playing cricket in the yard and a few of the men had joined them, including Mr. Cavendish. Try as she might, Mrs. Staines could not keep us from turning our heads — most of us showing an interest in cricket we had never shown before! The older girls ahead of me went so far as to whisper behind their hands and flutter their eyelashes. “What flirts!” Lucy said.

  “Hold your skirts well out to the sides!” said Mrs. Staines, looking over her shoulder. “Eyes downcast! Do not turn your heads! Attention, Mademoiselles! No brazen stares!”

  We did as she instructed, but a moment later our eyes went back to Mr. Cavendish. Whereupon he removed his hat and made the sweeping bow of a cavalier, playing so much the gallant that Mrs. Staines stumbled, let go her skirts and flung out her arms to keep her balance! If Mr. Cavendish had not caught her she would have fallen face first into the dirt! Everyone found this hilarious — in truth, I have been hoping for some time that such a fall would “befall” her — but we managed to cluster around and look concerned until she had composed herself sufficiently. Only when we were back in line did we start to giggle, and we have been
giggling ever since — even this morning, as we were “following our leader” to Sunday Service.

  I was thinking of Nokum during the Service and suddenly felt her presence so strongly it was as if she were sitting beside me — like that time I was in the Lookout — and she was bringing me comfort and telling me I need not feel sad or alone.

  Wednesday, October 16th

  School has been better of late because Rev. Staines has been absent. A day here, two days there, three days last week — and it has been this way since the beginning of October. Everyone is in a happier mood when he is not flailing his switch and growling.

  Something else made us happy today — apples! One of the coast ships arrived from Fort Vancouver with a bushel of apples sent to Mrs. Douglas. We were given one each at Supper.

  Someone had taken apple seeds from England to Fort Vancouver and planted them there. After Supper Lucy and I planted our apple seeds at the edge of the farm.

  Thursday, October 17th

  A bitter cold morning — and a shock, when the past few days have been so fine. I was shivering long before the morning bell, and hastened to put on the capote that my mother had made. She must have trapped animals and traded their pelts to get the blanket to make it, and fashioned it after the ones the canadiens wear. I love the way she decorated the long fringes with beads, and the way they swing. Father told me that she was wearing the capote the day he decided to make her his wife. (Though I do not think he married her because of the coat!) He kept it after she died, knowing I would grow into it and might like to wear it.

  I belted it with my ceinture fléchée and went off to Breakfast with even more fringes swinging. The others teased me a little, but I didn’t mind, for the teasing was good-natured and open, not snickers behind my back. And after Breakfast when Radish said, “Vive la canadienne,” I could not resist, but started singing the paddling song I’d learned from Suzanne’s family, and those who knew it joined in.