The Lover, the Lake

by Virginia Pésémapéo Bordeleau

  Doubled over, arms clutching her belly, wet hair hiding her face, mouth wide, eyes staring at the flat, calm water, she screamed. A cry so wild and heart-wrenching the entire forest grew still. The birds’ silence encompassed the forest spirits’ stupefaction at seeing Waseshkun’s magic metamorphize into the art of darkness. Headwinds gathered round her, threw themselves across the lake’s surface, hailed clouds that showed up in clusters from the four directions. Waseshkun screamed still.

  The two men’s canoe pitched and tossed, a tiny dot in the vast space. The surge grew, swelled, striking the young girl full on, but she held firm on legs gone rigid from the monumental scale of her pain, rage and sorrow. Waves rolled over her, ever stronger, and when they swallowed her whole, her screams stopped. They nudged her toward the shore, patted her back, returned her against her wishes to terra firma; even when she willed herself to go under again, she bobbed back to the surface like a piece of driftwood.

  Beneath the berry-red sun, the curate’s bloated body rose from Lake Abitibi, his face eaten away by fish.

  The Algonquin man’s body was never found. Fear entered the hearts of the Christian men and women of Waseshkun’s band. What had taken place that day? The guide was known for his caution and knowledge of Lake Abitibi and the dangers linked to its expanse and depths.

  The extent of the tragedy became apparent to all when the young girl stopped visiting the moon lodge with the other women during their time of the month. At first, only her parents knew. The minute her pregnancy began to show, her fiancé cast her aside. The child was born in the month of kakewidgikisis when marmots come out of their burrows to catch the scent of winter’s end, a tiny red-headed girl she called Wabun, Dawn, since the baby arrived with morning’s tenuous light.

  Then the echo took up the rumours colliding into the surrounding hills. Conjecture was that the Indigenous man, no longer able to bear the knowledge of the priest’s predatory actions even as he wore his God’s cross, had deliberately drowned him. Or that the lake, in love with Waseshkun, had exacted revenge. Or that Waseshkun herself had placed a curse on her rapist. A mystically-inspired aura of fear settled round her at the proud, rebellious attitude she assumed at any jeering remark concerning her daughter. She refused to have the child baptized when the new missionary arrived by boat to christen all the babies born that year.

  This is how legends are born, in the heart of stories told to speak of what should not exist. Acts whose very origins should be erased.

  Waseshkun became Zagkikan Ikwe, the Woman of the Lake. She agreed to marry a man from another clan who had lost an arm during a hunting accident. She followed the one-armed man, her silent husband who loved her to the end.

  “We’ll make it work with our three arms!” he’d say.

  However, life hadn’t finished wracking Zagkigan Ikwe’s body or heart with sorrow. Her grown daughter, the beautiful Wabun, died of a fever brought back to the village by trappers when Wabougouni was only two. Many people succumbed, both white and Anishinaabeg. Wabun’s husband lost no time in finding himself another wife. His new woman wanted nothing to do with the child who repelled her with her red hair and obscure origins. The woman wore a cross round her neck and believed the devil had taken possession of the grandmother to mislead the poor missionary who had raped her … and that it was only just that she should lose her daughter.

  The one-armed man transferred to Wabougouni the deep, protective love he had held for his late stepdaughter; no one was allowed to say a word or raise a hand against the child whose hair shone with a thousand fires.

  When he too died, old Zagkigan Ikwe’s prickly nature transformed into a constant rage. He had been the only person able to pacify her with his affection, enveloping her in tenderness and unremitting solicitude. He never alluded to the rape, only sang the praises of the solar beauty of the women in his life.

  “Such luck for the one-armed man!” he’d often exclaim.

  4

  Wabougouni couldn’t sleep. She listened to her grandmother, whose breathing grew ragged as she dreamed, her thin body draped in a thick cotton blanket, her aged fists striking the bed. Another nightmare she’d forget on waking. Had she been the one to commandeer the lake’s waters to help the young man? Did the stranger have a role to play in Wabougouni’s life? Did this woman, her grandmother Zagkigan Ikwe, know? If not, why had she used the name of her lake, Appittippi, for him? Yet Wabougouni had a husband and was pregnant with her first child. Her man still had what it took despite the years separating them. In her culture, one married the man who was the best provider. She certainly lacked for nothing. Her husband’s ancestor was a Scotsman who’d run a fur-trading post here in Pointe-aux-Pins and had been an excellent go-between for the English and Algonquin. He had married one of their own. Frank McTavish had asked for Wabougouni’s hand in marriage after the death of Zagkigan Ikwe’s husband so as to take care of them. But his absence left her indifferent. All the trappers had set out two days ago to take their furs to the village trading station, the Pointe’s station having closed down long ago. They’d take advantage of the trip to drop in to see the bootlegger, who sold them liquor under the counter since Canada’s Indian Act prohibited them, as “wards” of the State, from consuming alcohol. Missionaries were already threatening them with the fires of damnation for the imagined debauchery of their flock’s drinking binges. The men just laughed since the priest himself drank wine during mass. The Anishinaabeg sense of humour could be ruthless, especially when it came to mocking the “cannibalism” practised by the Black Robes, who ate the body and drank the blood of their Saviour, even if only symbolically! What a raw deal their poor God got from his worshippers! Wasn’t it enough that they’d tortured and crucified Him! So the trappers would drink every year, sometimes over a two-week stretch, far from their families. They believed that intoxication helped them see more clearly. Alcohol replaced the effect fasting had had during a vision quest, a practice they’d been forced to abandon once the missionaries deemed it the devil’s work.

  Beyond the bay, the lake boomed. The wind’s constant sibilance and the languorous moan of the woods penetrated by its roaring gusts exacerbated Wabougouni’s condition. Her belly had been burning with fierce desire ever since she’d first laid eyes on the Métis. It hammered through her veins, clambered up her legs, palpitated in the flesh of her thighs only to cling to her sex like a honey-drenched hand.

  Without a sound, she left the old woman, now snoring after her battle with the latest nightmare. Barefoot, she stepped outside wearing a plaid robe that reached to her ankles. Free of clouds, the sky shimmered with stars as the crescent moon slashed at the dark with its sharp claws. Her tent stood not far from her grandmother’s. As she opened the front flap, the man’s scent crept up her nostrils, mixed with that of pine boughs and a confusion of sweetgrass, salt, moss and animal fur. She could hear him breathing despite the flapping of the canvas whipped by the wind that had kept on unabated even once the rain stopped. Wabougouni was home and knew where to find everything; she lit a candle. She sat by her guest’s head. She watched him, listened to the untroubled breath lifting his belly and chest, inhaled his faint fragrance of undergrowth. The longing to taste his skin tormented her, shook that damp, vibrant part of her. Her flesh was inexorably drawn to his, which seemed to quiver in the flickering flame. The pale glow traced his contours, highlighted his hollows, revealed the intimate spaces left bare by the sheet. He was naked. His long curls lay round his broad brow. Two furrows leading down from between his eyebrows spoke of frequent frustration or intense reflection. Along his cheeks, just below his cheekbones, grew a beard whose shadow circled his mouth, its well-defined lips half-open. She sighed.

  —If I wasn’t already pregnant, he’d make me such a beautiful child …

  The Métis opened his eyes. A glimmer of joy and surprise flashed there. He smiled at the young woman, took her hand and laid it on his chest, just below his nipple, in line with his heart. He shivered, goosebumps surfa
cing at her warm, gentle touch. It had been so long since he’d felt a woman’s body, that molten heat engulfing his sex. He closed his eyes, guided her palm to caress him gently, first his torso, next up to his neck and across to his shoulder, then over his ribs, protruding despite his vigour, and to the smooth flatness of his belly. He stopped, opened his eyes to watch Wabougouni. Her features were contorted with desire, her breathing ragged like that of a trapped animal. Her swollen lips glistened, her tongue running over them again and again, moistening flesh dry with the fever of passion. Finally, he led her hand to his crotch, so slowly the woman bit down on her fist, repressing an eager, impatient cry. When at last she touched him, her grip tight, she encountered a silkiness that throbbed in the same unbridled cadence as the Métis heart.

  Wabougouni slid her hand from his and shed her nightdress, her back to the candle. She straddled the man’s body. Her first orgasm shook her like the trees quaking in the wind outside. He ran his hand over her chest, admiring the smoothness of its texture, then felt the curve of her breasts, weighed them. He had trouble making sense of their encounter, but accepted the moment — an interlude granted by life on the heels of his brush with death. His lover was beautiful, magnificent with curves and hollows above her pelvis rippling like a spring round a rock. She was tall, as tall as he, with slim ankles and wrists and a delicate frame. She flowed over him, tender and intense, sinuous, an aquatic plant swaying on the lake’s bed; she absorbed his ardour patiently, with single-minded fervour. Her features remained in shadow, her hair dancing with each undulation. She rolled her hips forward then back; at times she leaned on her lover, at others she raised her arms to lift her hair off her neck. He breathed in her fresh scent, one of morning raindrops on wildgrasses as the sun’s rays draw up their moisture to cleanse the earth. She was a horsewoman astride thundering water that masked the lovers’ sighs till a surge of blood hit her full force in a clamour that fused with the forest’s screech, a chorus of owls driven wild, overcome.

  In her tent, the old woman smiled.

  —Egoudeh, n’skoumiss! Egoudeh! (Just so, my granddaughter. Just so.)

  5

  When Wabougouni wakened, dawn barely sketched the contours of the objects belonging to her. The unfamiliar turmoil in her heart catapulted her into a deeply agitated state of both worry and joy. Something had changed, she had trouble drawing a calm breath, a hole had been bored into her very core. A softness, an unfamiliar warmth, a weight disappeared beneath this man’s body. She shivered remembering their night together. He was gone, but his clothing still lay strewn round the bed. She slipped on a dress and a wool sweater and set out to find him.

  The cool of the grass beneath her feet travelled upward, making the hair at the nape of her neck bristle. Passing in front of the sacred stone, a huge rock deposited by glaciers on three tiny chunks of granite, she said a prayer to the Great Spirit. Birdsong rose from beyond the hills, climbing timidly toward the treetops only to be lost in the diaphanous mist that frayed and dispersed in the light breeze. A splashing came from the lake. The Métis swam in the morning’s cold waves. His arms plunged in and out at regular intervals, his feet propelling him out to the depths. From time to time, he dove and she watched his legs vanish, leaving the faintest ripple on the surface. He loved this water and the water loved the man. For now, he made love to the lake with his whole being, gliding deep inside while the expectant mistress remained silent, holding in check all lapping, all gurgling. His body parted his liquid lover, cleaving through to better delve inside. He held his breath, only thrusting from his hips to resurface when he began to see red, his head emerging from the waters, which then quivered, rippled toward the shore and gently licked the sand. Wabougouni returned to her tent to prepare their meal. She cut a bannock in two, laid it on a plate with slices of beaver meat from the previous day. Her friend must be starving after his dip in the glacial waters. The ice had only broken up a few weeks ago. He entered shivering, his cock shrivelled inside his pubic hair. She threw a wool blanket over his shoulders and rubbed vigorously. His skin, paler from the neck down, took on a pinkish hue. She lit a small iron stove set up in a corner by the tent flap. Put water on to boil. He pointed at the teabag pronouncing a word that sounded like tay to the young woman’s ears. She understood he wanted to learn her language.

  —Nibishabou …

  She stepped outside and came back with tender green, barely unfurled alder leaves.

  —Nibish, she repeated, holding them out to him.

  Then, dipping her fingers into a bucket of water, she added, “Wabou …”

  He nodded and said,

  —Pigi n’kishkatoun … (I know a little.)

  Afterward, he pointed at the beaver meat, the bannock, the fir boughs beneath her, the blanket, the fire. He made a mental note of all the words: amik wiass, poukashagan, mitik, iskoude. Then, signalling game’s end, he pointed at the woman’s chest, a question in his eyes.

  —Wabougouni, she said.

  She stepped outside again, bringing back a dandelion and a wild cherry branch in flower.

  —Flower, your name is Flower. And you’re so beautiful. Me, I’m Gabriel. Gabriel, he repeated.

  He grew hard, his cock seeking out his companion. He slid one hand, icy cold from his swim, along her brown thigh. Wabougouni shivered. His fingers lingered on the soft texture of her skin. Golden velvet. They explored beneath her dress, groping under the fabric. The grey day softened Wabougouni’s expression, eyelids closed. He touched the down of her Venus mound, slid his hand lower and inserted his thumb, delicately, between her moist, warm labia. She moaned and fell back onto the pine boughs, legs spread wide. The Métis leaned in, inhaled her spicy aroma, licked and sucked on the dark-red nearly black flesh. She gave a start and jerked away.

  —Egunen ka nustomin? she cried.

  Startled, his gaze probed hers. He assumed that this way of loving was unknown to her. A mischievous glint shone in his eye. Wabougouni was afraid of missing out on an orgasm like last night’s. In one quick move, she pulled off her dress, revealing the slight bump of her pregnancy. The Métis’ penis drooped, limp. He stared at her round belly.

  He hadn’t realized she was with child, had never made love to a pregnant woman before. She wondered whether, in his culture, intercourse with a woman carrying another man’s child was taboo … Her need for Gabriel was so intense that she guided his hand toward her soft bulge murmuring Apinoudish … He ran a finger along a blue vein beneath her transparent skin.

  —Apinoudish …

  He repeated the word after her. Then stroked her face, her cheeks carved out under high bones, the straight line of her nose above lips so dark they reminded him of the ripe wild cherries birds loved so much. She had a strong, square chin that gave her face a certain severity tempered by wide-set velvet-black eyes that shone with keen intelligence. The thought crossed his mind that, had she known how to read, her thirst for knowledge would have been great. He wondered whether he could spend his life with this woman, a stranger to his world and culture. Gabriel was unnerved by the attraction binding his body to hers. Their hands expressed so much more than their paltry vocabulary, enriched by gestures and knowing glances. Once again, she entered into the game, listing off strange words as she touched her different body parts: head, eyes, mouth, nose, breasts, shoulders, arms, legs, buttocks, sex. Occasionally, she made fun of his attempts, but he didn’t give up until he mastered their pronunciation.

  They kept teasing each other, she laughing with unfeigned charm. Then she dared a gesture deemed unseemly in her culture: she bent over his penis and placed it between her lips. Its silky texture surprised her. He grasped her head and guided her up and down, moaning with pleasure, and his semen filled Wabougouni’s mouth. Almost immediately, Gabriel pushed her onto her back, purring words of affection.

  I harvested you but you remain whole

  Untouched

  Swathed in beauty unbroken

  I would surrender to sand to live on in
you

  I cannot …

  A child nests inside grows forces me back

  You my Flower humus of blood, flesh and fire

  Blissful, she welcomed his mouth on her fingertips, her palm so sensitive to his caress. Slowly, he carried on up her arm, lingering at the crook in her elbow and beneath her arm devoid of hair. He loved her long graceful neck as she leaned over to urge him on. Her splendid head of hair, fanning its soft waves across the blue of the blanket, was a subtle match for her copper complexion. Gabriel ran his hand up and down her back, then licked and kissed her, dwelling on the erogenous zone behind her knees. She was no longer Wabougouni but the goddess of joy. With her body on full offer, she discovered there sun-bathed strands whose existence she had never before imagined. When he applied his lips to the wild of her moss, Wabougouni cried out, oblivious to daybreak and her fellow villagers now awake. General laughter erupted outside, jolting her back to reality.

  6

  The old woman was up before dawn gathering medicinal herbs. They had to be harvested still fresh with dew, pure water from the realm of the sacred eagle above.

  She had crouched to relieve herself when she sensed the stranger passing nearby, his tread like a hunter’s on his way to meet an animal offering itself up in sacrifice, a footfall full of silence and wisdom. She saw that he was naked. That he was as she’d imagined him beneath his sodden clothes. She watched him approach the lake without fear, without hesitation, dive in head first, arms stretched overhead, then vanish.

  She waited for him to resurface before returning home to continue her day’s work. The wan light was enough for her to repeat gestures thousands of years old: her mother’s, her grandmother’s, those of all the women in her line of healers. Sprays of Labrador tea hung above her, tied to the tent’s central pole. The calming properties of her leaves helped women during childbirth. Colourful cotton and rawhide clothing spilled from the bark baskets that lined the tent’s walls. The smell of smoke was everywhere, and a moose hide had been laid to tan beneath a log fire. It had taken on a rust colour, like the aspens’ leaves in autumn as they prepare to drop from the tree, flutter in the breeze and fall to the ground as nourishment.