Trial by Winter

by Anne Patton

  Dorothy walked to Lydia’s chair to take away her empty mug.

  “The trials of Job may be over,” Lydia whispered, “but the trials of winter are not. You’ll have to do my share of the chores, Dodie, starting with chopping enough wood to survive the night.”

  Dorothy nodded solemnly. Then she said, “I’m starving Mam. May we have the stew now?”

  Whatever the shortcomings of the stew were, Dorothy didn’t notice. She gobbled down a bowlful, then went straight to work chopping wood, which she stacked beside the stove. Before bedtime she helped Mam change the dressing on Lydia’s wound. Mam doused it with more of the whisky and offered Lydia a sip to dull the pain.

  Mam shook the bottle gently. “Just enough left for tomorrow.”

  Lydia tested her weight on the injured leg long enough to get to the chamber pot. This necessary bodily function became an act of creative contortion. Dorothy held the pot steady on a chair while Mam helped Lydia settle on it, while pulling her skirt out of the way.

  Dorothy averted her eyes to give Lydia some privacy. Lydia had always been extremely modest and now Dorothy was inches away from one of the most private physical acts. She felt horribly uncomfortable and she was sure Lydia must be deeply embarrassed. No one said anything. Dorothy and Mam used the pot, then Mam returned it to its storage spot under her bed.

  Now the problem was how to make Lydia comfortable in bed. “There’s no way to do that,” Lydia said, pressing her lips tight. “I’ll just try to lie still so you two can sleep.”

  Dorothy crawled under the comforters into her cozy middle spot. “I’m so sorry it still hurts, Lydia,” she whispered.

  “Don’t fret about me,” Lydia muttered. “You’ll have to do my chores tomorrow as well as your own, so you need a sound sleep.”

  Oh Lord, that’s right. I have to be strong tomorrow. Dorothy took a deep breath and closed her eyes. On her other side Mam was murmuring softly, probably praying. Comforted by Mam’s faith and Lydia’s permission, Dorothy sank into a deep sleep.

  •••

  Dorothy felt a poke in her shoulder. Her eyes flickered open and she pulled the comforter down past her eyes. Dim light seeped into the room through the frosted windows. It was morning.

  “I hear something,” a voice hissed in her ear.

  Dorothy rolled over and found herself face-to-face with Lydia.

  “Listen, I think it’s horses.”

  Dorothy listened. It did sound like horses nickering and pawing the snow. “Is it Frank?”

  “No. He couldn’t get back from Battleford this quickly.”

  The door vibrated with repeated, loud rapping. Dorothy’s heart skittered and Lydia stiffened beside her. They pulled the comforter over their heads and lay still as corpses.

  A blast of wind whipped across the room as the door burst open. Immediately it slammed shut again.

  Dorothy held her breath and listened hard for a sound, any sound. Finally she eased the blanket down to her nose and peered into the murky room.

  A large figure stood motionless in the gloom. The head was half hidden in the shadow of the hood. The bulky frame was clothed in a striped coat tied with a sash.

  The figure stepped forward.

  “H’is dere anyone here in dah house?”

  A tradition Métis capote, made from a Hudson’s Bay Company blanket.

  15

  Mam’s Prayers Answered

  Dorothy scrambled across Lydia’s stomach to get out of bed and bolted across the frozen floor in her stocking feet. “Mr. Parenteau!”

  She didn’t notice if Mam was awake. She didn’t consider for an instant that a man should not see her in her nightgown. She threw her arms around Mr. Parenteau’s thick wool coat. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Mon D’jeu! Dis house h’is freezing. Did yous run outta firewood?”

  Before Dorothy could answer, Mam blustered, “Dorothy, put on your coat!”

  Dorothy glanced down at her blue-flowered flannel nightgown. “Sorry, Mam.” She yanked her coat off its peg and shrugged into it.

  “And bring mine,” Mam called. Mr. Parenteau looked away, while Dorothy helped her mother tug her long wool coat over her nightgown. Pulling her hair back, Mam tucked it inside the collar of her coat. She pushed her feet into her boots without lacing them and stepped forward.

  To Dorothy’s astonishment, her mother was smiling.

  Mam extended her hand. “Last night I was desperate. I didn’t think we could survive another day in this frozen hovel. I begged the Lord for help and He sent you.”

  Pushing back his hood, Mr. Parenteau clasped Mam’s hand. “Yes, Missus, dah Lord told Mr. Herbert to t’ink of yous and Mr. Herbert sent me to check.” His eyes surveyed the fire in the stove and the cramped bed under the table. “Why h’is it so cold here? Most times sod houses h’are warm.”

  Lydia struggled to sit up in bed. “Not this one,” she said bitterly.

  Dorothy nodded toward the rafters. “There’s a crack all around the edge of the roof.” Her toes were stinging now. She tugged on her moccasins and laced them up.

  Mr. Parenteau inspected all four sides of the small house. “Almighty Lord, a family o’ magpies could fly h’in and h’out anytime dey want! Dis house was built wrong!” As he studied the gap under the roof, Dorothy handed Lydia her coat and helped settle her on the two chairs they had arranged yesterday.

  Mam stoked the fire and set the kettle to boil. “Dodie, you’ll have to chop more wood soon.”

  Mr. Parenteau took the axe from Dorothy’s hand. “Let me do h’it. Where h’is dah wood?”

  Crawling under Mam’s bed frame, Dorothy rolled out the remaining bucked logs. She peered at Mr. Parenteau through the slats. “That’s the end of the sawed-up wood. We’ll have to bring in another pole soon.” She wiggled out and brushed the dirt off her coat.

  While Mr. Parenteau chopped the wood at hand, Dorothy and Mam dismantled their shared bed. They folded the groundsheet that hung over the table. They tugged the comforters and straw pallets from underneath and piled them to the side. Mr. Parenteau accepted Mam’s invitation to join her for tea.

  Dorothy noted that Mam was using the best teapot again. It looked so out of place on the rough plank table. As Mr. Parenteau sipped his tea, he glanced at Lydia with her leg stretched on the chairs. Lydia had bags under her eyes and her hair was unkempt.

  Dorothy inhaled sharply. She looks like she’s at death’s door!

  “Lydia has a large gash on her leg,” Mam explained. “We did our best to clean it last night.”

  “I chopped my leg with the axe,” Lydia admitted with some embarrassment.

  This was the opening Dorothy needed. She leapt from the stack of mattresses where she’d been perched. “Mr. Parenteau, remember the poplar-bark tea you gave me last summer when I was hurt?” She ignored Mam’s astonished expression. “Do you have any more?”

  Mr. Parenteau’s eyebrows pinched together as he turned to Lydia. “Yer leg hurts right now?”

  Lydia nodded, biting her lip. “It throbbed all night. I couldn’t sleep at all.”

  Mr. Parenteau untied the colourful sash around his coat and retrieved a deerskin pouch from an inner pocket. He placed it in front of Mam. “Two spoons in a cup o’ hot water.” Mam gaped at the small, drawstring bag.

  Dorothy snatched the pouch. “I’ll make it.” In the blink of an eye she measured two spoons of crushed bark into a tin mug and filled it with simmering water from the kettle.

  “Let it brew a bit,” said Lydia.

  Mam cleared her throat. “You’ve made this tea before, Lydia?”

  “Yes, after Dodie tore the muscle in her hip. I saw how it soothed her pain.”

  “Hmm,” said Mam, “it appears I have much to learn about living in the wilderness.” She smiled at Mr. Parenteau. “Would you care for another cup of English tea, sir?”

  “Please, Missus.” Mr. Parenteau was still gazing at Lydia. “How bad h’is dah injury? May I take a look
?”

  Lydia rolled up her skirt before Mam could object. Dried blood caked the gauze they had wrapped around the wound last night. Mr. Parenteau knelt beside Lydia and looked closely without touching her or the bandage. Then he returned to the table and sat there stroking his beard. Now that it had grown longer, Dorothy noticed streaks of silver through the bristly black hair.

  Finally he said, “Mr. Lloyd gots a big tent in town. Some peoples already live dere. I t’ink yous should move dere for dah rest o’ winter. Dere’s a big stove and lots o’ wood.”

  Mam gasped. “Live in a tent with people we don’t know? We won’t have any privacy.”

  Dorothy and Lydia looked at each other. Before Mam could launch her next round of objections, Lydia said, “That’s a good plan. I can’t take another day out here, fretting every minute about running out of firewood. And now that I’m injured…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Dr. Amos can check Lydia’s leg.” Dorothy handed Lydia her pain-relieving tea.

  Mam paced the floor. “I need some time to consider the idea.”

  “Mrs. Bolton, h’its dah best t’ing. Dis cold will stay fer weeks.”

  “Have we become vagabonds living in a tent?” Mam wrung her hands. “Have we lost everything?”

  Mr. Parenteau’s eyes flashed past Dorothy and Lydia, then fastened on Mam. “No Missus, yous still have yer family an’ dah land. Yous can build a better house next summer.”

  Lydia sipped her tea. “We will definitely lose everything if we die out here,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Her face looked tight with pain.

  Watching her mother pace, Dorothy wanted to shake her. “Mam, Lydia’s leg hurts a lot!”

  Lydia nodded. “My leg is throbbing so much, I think it’s infected. I NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR.” She articulated the final sentence word by word.

  Mam studied Lydia for a long moment. Then she sat and folded her hands on the table opposite Mr. Parenteau. “I must trust in the Lord. He sent you to save us. What should we bring?”

  “Yous will need yer blankets.” He nodded to the comforters and pillows now stacked up on Lydia’s bed-frame. “Yous was very smart, Mrs. Bolton, to sleep togedder in a little tent.”

  “That was Dodie’s idea.” Mam looked affectionately at Dorothy.

  “Good work, ma p’chite. You will do well in dah North-West.”

  Dorothy felt self-conscious with so much good will aimed in her direction. “Uh, shall we take the straw mattresses too, Mr. Parenteau?”

  “Yes, we put dem in dah bottom o’ my sleigh. Den yous lie on dem and cover up wit dah blankets.” Mr. Parenteau stroked his beard as he looked around the tiny soddie. “Pack a case wit dah clothes you need. Dah rest will be safe from animals inside dat trunk.”

  Dorothy and Mam scurried about filling their travel satchels with flannel underthings, changes of clothes and woollen stockings. Mam topped her bag with the half-finished socks she was knitting for Mr. Herbert. Dorothy crammed in the thick wool jumper Gram had knit for her. Under Lydia’s direction Dorothy stuffed her sister’s bag.

  Mam plucked the fancy hand mirror off its shelf. She shrieked when she glimpsed her image. “We can’t go into civilization looking like this.” She stared aghast at Dorothy. “We’re wearing nightclothes!”

  Mr. Parenteau sighed. “All right, Missus. I go check my horses, while yous get dressed.”

  “I’ll come too. I don’t mind wearing nightclothes into civilization.” Dorothy donned her tam and muffler and followed Mr. Parenteau to his weathered old wagon, now converted to a sleigh.

  Two grey horses waited in their harnesses, each draped with a buffalo robe. With every breath the animals puffed out a mist of ice crystals. They nickered expectantly when Mr. Parenteau approached. He patted their necks. “Dese horses wanna go,” he said. “Dey gettin’ cold.”

  Dorothy nodded. She was freezing already and she’d only been outside two minutes. Stomping to keep warm, she crammed her gloved hands into her coat pockets. Her right hand hit something and she pulled it out. “Look Mr. Parenteau, I still have the meadowlark.”

  Mr. Parenteau smiled. “Ah, liipyayr cok. Take care of dat carving. It bring you luck.”

  “I’ll treasure it always.” Dorothy tucked the bird back into her pocket. She looked up at the kindly man who had endured the frigid weather to rescue her family. There was something she really needed to say.

  “Mr. Herbert told me,” she started hesitantly, “about your granddaughter. I’m so sorry she passed away.” Dorothy bit her lip to keep from crying.

  Mr. Parenteau gazed at her for a long minute. Finally he said, “You remind me of her, Dor’ty.” He quickly turned away to adjust the blankets on the horses.

  Just then Mam knocked on the window, calling them inside. She even had her hair pinned up. While Mam lined up the travel bags at the door, Mr. Parenteau surveyed the remaining contents of the tiny house. “Mrs. Bolton, you pack some dishes and pots in dat wooden crate. Dor’ty, you help me carry dah mattresses to dah wagon.”

  Lydia had somehow dressed herself while reclining on the double chairs. She pushed herself up to a wobbly stand, leaning heavily on the table. “I can help, too.”

  “No,” cried Mam.

  “H’it’s all right, Missus. H’it’s good to use dah leg a bit. Miss Lydia can pack dat food in dah odder crate.” He pointed his chin toward the shelf holding sacks of oatmeal, flour, raisins and other staples. “After dah house is empty, animals will tear dose bags apart.”

  “There’s still a sack of beans in the root cellar,” said Lydia.

  “And deer meat in the stable,” added Dorothy.

  “Frank can look after dat when he gets back.” Mr. Parenteau picked up the end of a mattress. “Let’s go, Dor’ty.”

  Staggering behind Mr. Parenteau, Dorothy lugged each mattress out the door. Finally the straw pallets were in place, the travel bags stuffed in at the end and the wooden crates stacked on the front seat with barely room for the driver. After the flurry of activity Dorothy was out of breath. She waited inside the door while her mother and sister donned all their winter wear.

  Then Mam cradled her precious white-and-gold teapot in her arms. Lydia, Dorothy and Mr. Parenteau gathered the bedding. They hesitated at the door, looking at each other. Finally Mr. Parenteau said, “Dis is it, folks.” Mam stepped into the frozen winter world and Lydia limped behind her.

  Dorothy glanced around the tiny house that had been home for the last six months. Stripped of their possessions, it looked barren and pathetic. She was overcome with an ache so painful she wanted to howl. Biting her lip, she walked out. Mr. Parenteau patted her shoulder and latched the door.

  “Lie down on dah mattresses. I cover yous wit dah blankets,” directed Mr. Parenteau. Dorothy curled between her mother and sister as he layered the comforters over them. “Keep yer heads under dah covers.”

  Even three puffy eiderdowns were not enough to keep the air from chilling their bones. Suddenly a black weight was thrown over them and they were completely insulated from the biting cold. Dorothy realized Mr. Parenteau had topped their blankets with the horses’ buffalo robes.

  The sleigh eased forward, swaying and bumping as the snow bed changed underfoot. The vibrations soothed Dorothy like a cradle, and the swoosh of the runners sang in her ears. With Mr. Parenteau in charge she knew she was safe.

  Snug between her mother and sister, Dorothy cast her thoughts to other people she loved. Dad has Patrick to look after him. Frank can take care of himself.

  Suddenly her heart skittered. Mrs. Sutton and Victor! They’re alone on their homestead with no way to get help! Dorothy desperately looked for the bright side. Their cabin was built properly. Victor can snare rabbits. They have plenty of supplies…unless? No, don’t imagine any mishaps!!!

  Dorothy focussed on the comforting glide of the runners across the snow. Slowly she calmed her pounding pulse and promised herself to find help for the Suttons. Finally the swaying stopped. She heard men’s voic
es.

  “What did you find out, Baptiste?”

  “Dah Bolton family h’is h’in back. Der sod house no good. Dey better stay in dah marquee.”

  Someone peeled the blankets back from their heads. A man dressed in a heavy fur coat and fur hat with long ear flaps leaned into the sleigh.

  “Let me help you, Mrs. Bolton.” Dorothy recognized Mr. Pinder from the livery. He gestured to other men standing around. “Give Baptiste a hand carrying their bedding inside.” Mr. Pinder took Mam’s arm and led her through the canvas door flap into the large tent.

  Scrambling out of the sleigh, Dorothy gazed at her surroundings. The marquee was as large as the restaurant tent back in Saskatoon. Perhaps it was the same tent, doing new duty in Lloydminster. The walls were banked with straw to keep out the wind. Smoke slanted into the sky from two metal chimneys. Before she even stepped inside, Dorothy knew it would be warmer than their soddie.

  She lugged her travel bag and her sister hobbled behind. A man noticed Lydia’s limp and took her bag. Inside, several families shifted belongings to make room on the wooden floor. A long table filled the centre with a large cook stove at either end. Firewood was stacked behind each stove.