The Lover, the Lake

by Virginia Pésémapéo Bordeleau

  She knew Gabriel would be called up to serve shortly and took it almost like another abandonment, as though re-living the loss of her fiancé and her son’s absence.

  17

  The Métis was standing in the general store’s firearms section when he heard Rose-Ange’s voice. “Has my wedding dress arrived yet?”

  Unnoticed, he drew closer and glanced over at the counter. The young woman had a smile on her face, her cheeks flushed from the heat. She was with her mother. He noticed they both had the same delicate complexion. But the mother’s featured pronounced rosacea, two blotchy wings down the length of her cheeks. Gabriel walked over to the mannequins and pretended to browse through the dresses. Silence reigned behind him; he had no idea what he was about to do but, instinctively, he gave himself over to his anger at the family’s rejection of him. He was bent on making a scene and casting a stone into the pond inhabited by Mrs. Morin, so attached to keeping up appearances and labelling others by social class.

  He moved onto the colourful cotton fabric, felt several. Choosing a pinkish-red swath dotted with yellow flowers, he said to Mrs. Pomerleau, “You have a seamstress who works for you, right?”

  She nodded.

  “See that mannequin in the blue and white dress? Good. Please have the seamstress make the same pattern in this red-flowered fabric, only one size bigger.”

  The woman jotted down a few notes. Then she waited for him to continue, a question in her eyes. Gabriel said, “When she’s done, set it aside and give it to the old Algonquin woman Zagkigan Ikwe for her granddaughter Wabougouni. I’m off to enlist as a soldier, my uncle Pierre-Arthur will pay you, he knows all about it.”

  Mrs. Pomerleau blushed, “You mean Mrs. McTavish? But she’s married!”

  He turned defiantly toward Rose-Ange and her mother, half-smiling at Mrs. Morin’s shocked expression, her cheeks scarlet. He said, “That may be, but she lives free, unlike others I know!”

  The poor young woman turned crimson. He kicked himself for a fool the minute he stepped out the door …

  18

  He fed the fire with dry twigs that flared in a staccato whoosh; flames crackled, exploded, danced wildly and swayed only to subside again and fall silent. The Métis had built his shelter on one of Lake Abitibi’s shores. He had no idea what awaited him and didn’t know if he would return to the village after his trip to Montreal to enlist. He’d felt an urgent need for solitude to reflect on his life, his future. England had declared war on Germany in September 1939, involving in one fell stroke all the Commonwealth countries including Canada in the same war. The conflict had been raging for three years now. He was subject to conscription just like all the other young, able-bodied single men in the country, including those from the First Nations who spoke French or English and the Métis people. His rashness and acute sense of justice incited him to fight. He looked up, telling himself that overhead was a torn canvas through which the radiance of angels shone. The constellations had embarked on their sidereal journey. The Milky Way — a spray arcing across the sky. The moon in all its fullness glided above the crowns of spruce and pine trees on the distant shore across the way. He could find no words to properly describe the broken line of the horizon beneath the shadow-crossed glimmer, dark with mystery.

  What a country! he thought.

  A land whose volcanic-rock belly surfaced in outcroppings bearing fossilized crustaceans in their vein. But where was the sea that used to flow here? And where had the saltwater disappeared to? How many millions of years had passed over this very spot, where bears dreamt of miraculous creek fishing, teeming anthills, sweet beehives or a profusion of blueberries in the humus-carpeted underbrush? A yapping pierced the silence, most likely a she-fox calling for her little one. A loon’s poignant, lonely cry rose from the lake.

  He was a son of these woods and of this water gently lapping the sand and bent on outdistancing the wind’s force, matching its pace to the breeze in which the larch and birch branches swayed in a rustling upward along the trees and downward through their trunks to the moss.

  Stretched out beneath the stars I hear

  A cascade flowing from the firmament

  That of leaves breathing

  If I were to lie below you

  O lake beneath your waters

  Anchored deep in your bed

  Would I hear the respire of foliage?

  Is your breath that of water or stars?

  Gabriel accepted the water’s invitation. He stripped and stood facing the moon turning on its axis across from the North Star. He swam on his back, then floated there, trying to sate his gaze with the sky whose beauty brought goosebumps to his flesh. He dove. Moonlight followed him beneath the surface while eddies along the sand on the lakebed became circles then broke into rippling lines. A school of tiny fish darted away in symbiosis beneath him, a single movement of silver sparks. He resurfaced to catch his breath. Cold, he stoked the flames with large spruce branches. He stretched out beneath the sleeping bag and drew and drew in the shadows by the light of the fire. He fell asleep, the memory of Wabougouni present in his hand lying on his sex.

  He slept little but deeply. His night was sweetened by the image of the Algonquin woman who, in his dream, walked across the lake — a serene vision. Then a clamour sounded from afar, birds announcing the barely born dawn; their song, faint at first, grew increasingly distinct as it approached, borne on the light flooding the world. When the sun’s rays touched Gabriel’s face, the concert surrounding him turned into a multi-voiced choir whose crescendo continued its journey west. The cawing of crows only stopped when he slipped out of his sleeping bag and broke twigs for the fire. He drank a cup of strong coffee. Then picked up his pencil and notebook.

  O woman of green and red

  You inhabit my nights like a heart its cage

  free you are free I see you again stripped bare what bliss to have crossed your path

  I carry you inside me like gold buried in quartz

  He wrote of the unknown on the blank page, thinking of his tomorrows which, for now, were nothing but black holes. They were nomads, he and she, who trod the earth and paddled rivers, wayfarers brimming with the force that kept them upright—life itself. Poems and sketches to remember her body, the curves enveloping the child she bore. Her features taut and so beautiful beneath her shock of hair. The nights were cold, his dreams hot. Flickering stars thronged round the earth as though listening to his couplings. Birds greeted each other at dusk, wind rustled through the leaves, a river flowing over his slumber. The lake he paddled to the home of the moose out by the muskeg, to the mouths of rivers, coves, bays. The caress of its waters against his skin, its touch, warm or cool, as he swam in its current.

  He drew his lover’s islands, behind which he sheltered from the gale and cresting waves that had the curve of her breasts. He ate wild cherries the colour of her lips. Other berries hid beneath the wildgrasses where the earth camouflaged them against its warm flank and the cold, in its blindness, could not sense them, tiny yet alive.

  July was dry and scorching, beating down on his skin. Birds quit singing by day. Storms didn’t break, the dark horizon imprisoned silent clouds. He imagined Wabougouni in the wavelets whenever he took a dip to cool off. When heat coated him in perspiration, he headed for the mossy rocks, green and brown, that formed a bluff above the lake. They bore the tundra’s steppe in their lichen — grey, ochre, Sienna orange. He dove from there, headfirst into the sparkling waters. The weather was fine, free of mosquitoes, still offering the good life.

  I open my mouth and take you inside you tumble grow warm I release you so you may swim with me mingling with my saliva

  a warm mouthful chokes me I hold on to you still

  you burst into a thousand droplets

  He had to learn to breathe without her, far from her.

  The rain held off. Wind travelled beneath the trees, caressing them from below. They quivered and lifted their leaves high like girls their skirts for their
lovers. They excited the wind that climbed higher, descending and ascending over and over again, blowing harder, tipping over leaves dripping with morning dew. The closest watch was kept by a song sparrow. The minute day broke above the hill, it began its trill from its perch on the branch of a jack pine behind the Métis’ tent.

  A gap overhead let light filter through and the bird sang full-throated a melody as transparent as crystal in the golden rays. It greeted the day, the evening too, turned to the lake when the west plunged into a red horizon. The lake’s waters took on a crimson hue, clouds became garnets floating along the darkened velvet of the sky. The colours of Wabougouni’s own intimate spaces, her damp, welcoming softness. The orange-tinged flash of the sun: scarcely a dot on the crowns of trees leaving a trail like that of her hair across her shoulders. She lived in all that surrounded him, breathing through him, even camouflaging herself in the warm sand beneath his bare feet.

  One afternoon, Gabriel tossed and turned as crows chased each other from tree to tree cawing in their cocky voices. They gathered in a birch tree and launched into a discordant song. Amused, he shouted, “Alright already! I’ll go back to work! I’ll mend the hole in the bottom of my canoe!”

  They stopped their racket and took wing as one. Different scents travelled on the wind, hovered motionless, then dropped slowly to the ground. A fragrance of clover wafted down from the hill. A field of mauve flowers perfumed the bay. An aroma reminiscent of jasmine radiated up from the soil. He closed his eyes and dreamt of those times when Wabougouni blossomed at the touch of his fingers.

  Rain came one night, suddenly. The waterworks began without a sound, no thunder, no lightning, just a gentle pattering on the canvas that drummed louder and louder. He heard the earth sigh with relief. It drank, rapturous, spread wide, lubricated once more and ready to be made to bear fruit.

  The time has come

  To write a surfeit of words of love

  You remain with me here unspeaking

  The velvet of your belly

  Your source, its red flesh

  Soft on my lips

  And on my dream body

  The source that quenched my thirst

  Yet soon I will board

  A train of blood and abomination

  19

  The train advanced slowly. Dozing, Gabriel let himself be rocked by its steady swaying. He dreamt of Wabougouni running toward him, the wind in her auburn hair; he could hear Lake Abitibi rumbling in anger. He opened his arms wide to the young woman but caught nothing but air. In the agitation of his slumber, he felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

  “Hey, Gab, wake up! Show me your ticket.”

  Dazed, the Métis stared at the man, a question in his eyes. Still caught up in his dream, he missed the request voiced by the ticket collector in his gold-buttoned blue uniform.

  “Your ticket, Gab, you so-and-so … Often have nightmares in broad daylight, do ya? So you’re off to enlist? You’re about to see what a real nightmare is!”

  He laughed at his own joke as Gabriel rummaged through his pockets for his ticket. Then he turned to face the window and crossed his arms, leaning his head against the back of the bench, staring obstinately at the spruce trees speeding past the coalsmoke-blackened glass, signalling to the man he’d had enough of his monologue.

  “Huh, the youngster’s out of sorts, is he!”

  Eyes half-closed, Gabriel relived his days and nights spent with the Algonquin woman.

  You bore light

  A haloed surround

  The sun shut its eyes

  Dropped its curtains of mist

  Every time you loosed your hair

  Like the flower of your name

  Wabougouni, my wound

  Where will all that splendour go?

  His summer holidays as a child and adolescent had been spent visiting his mother’s relatives not far from Quebec City. He enjoyed the company of his girl cousins and their friends and liked to tease them. One day, a forward young neighbour, Zoé, dragged him into his grandfather’s barn. She was a few years older, but he, tall and strong for his age, didn’t shy away from new experiences, he dreamed of escapades. The teenaged girl climbed the ladder to the building’s upper floor. Close behind, Gabriel admired her white slip that gave an occasional glimpse of the pink flesh of her thighs just above the elastic keeping her long stockings in place. An erection pushed against the fabric of his underwear.

  Turning to him, her back against the barn’s central post, Zoé raised her dress.

  “Want to see what’s underneath, Gabriel?”

  She spoke in an altered, almost imperceptible voice. The young boy said nothing, overwhelmed. Slowly, with one hand, she pulled down her white panties edged with lace while holding up her dress with the other till the jet-black triangle of her pubic hair showed. She had begun to pant, as had Gabriel. Fascinated, like a moth before light, he stared at her bush the colour of night. Dying to touch, he didn’t dare reach out for fear he’d shock her. Zoé came closer, asked him to get down on his knees. With trembling legs, he obeyed. His face level with his friend’s sex, he breathed in its musky odour, closed his eyes. Then, quite naturally, he leaned forward to gently run his tongue over the tuft of hair, at first taking his time, tasting her, then more insistently, carried away by his own desire. He released his penis, which banged against his belt. The young girl moaned at his tongue’s touch, took his head between her hands, guiding him to her clitoris. Gabriel kept one hand round her hips, stroking himself with his free hand. He climaxed quickly, murmuring Zoé’s name.

  “Don’t stop, Gabriel, please don’t stop …”

  The unfamiliar tone of voice she used to beg for more came from deep in her belly. Next she grasped Gabriel’s hair, her body arcing back, and stifled a cry that tapered off into an endless moan. She dropped to her knees before him as he remained entangled in their clothing, emotion squeezing his chest. He freed himself to wrap his arms round her slender waist, whispering, “Zoé, that was so good, so, so good, thank you … thank you!”

  The Métis sighed remembering. Even back then, he’d been haunted by females! His beloved Zoé was now on her fourth child since, not long after their encounter, she had married; she now owned the largest farm in the parish of Champlain. Gabriel rummaged through his backpack and pulled out two books, Jack London’s novel White Fang and an English textbook. The year before, he’d studied the language by candlelight over the long winter nights. Curious and avid for adventure, the young man loved to read and experience the world through books. London’s novels had fed his imagination, the author earning his utmost admiration. He opened the dog-eared pages and dove again into the twists and turns of the white wolfdog’s misfortunes.

  20

  Out of breath, Gabriel kept on tracking the moose through deep, heavy snow. Its hoofprints followed alongside the partially iced-over river. He’d been walking for a couple of hours, his pace slowed by the icicles forming under his snowshoes. He’d almost given up on catching up to his prey when he heard a cracking of branches. Heart pounding, he slid a bullet into his rifle. Hidden under cover of the forest, the animal snorted, exhausted from running. Rubbing its antlers against a tree trunk, it couldn’t hear the hunter as he approached from behind, leaned back against a tree and shouldered his weapon. The shot tore through the muffled silence, deafening the Métis who didn’t budge as he witnessed the creature’s soundless collapse.

  —Kitzi Megwich ni’ zimish! (Many thanks, little brother!)

  The words came back to him of their own accord. According to Algonquin custom, animals were brothers to men and must always be thanked for the offering of their flesh. He was drawn to the Algonquin worldview so in symbiosis with all that lived. Although he came from a white, Catholic background, the women of his childhood and early adolescence had been Abenaki, like his grandmother, or of mixed heritage like his cousins and aunts. They held onto an idealized image of their ancestors who’d entered into contact with the Europeans at an early s
tage in history and adopted their faith after losing their own traditions and language.

  Gabriel knew his untameable spirit had nothing to do with the blood coursing through his veins since white coureurs de bois experienced the same need for freedom and space far from civilization’s constraints around possession, domination and duty. He felt deeply grounded in these woods, their absolute quiet pierced by nothing more than the chirping of birds; genuine gratitude welled up in him toward the sacrificed beast. He thought of Wabougouni, her perfect beauty and bronzed body. Felt a stirring where she’d lay her hand in the throes of desire …

  He gave himself a shake and approached the massive creature lying on its side, his mouth watering at the prospect of a tenderloin dinner. He slit the animal’s jugular vein, which pissed red onto the snow, then made small slits in the belly, making sure not to nick its intestines or bladder. The heat of its entrails escaped in the form of steam above his head, their strong stench seizing his throat. Delighted, Gabriel thought of how happy his uncle would be, sure to make his famous spice stew. The old bachelor concocted dishes learned from his mother, earning himself the reputation of best camp cook in all of Abitibi.

  Intent on carving up the animal, Gabriel was oblivious to his surroundings. Heavy snow tumbled off a pine tree, making the wolf observing him from beneath it yelp. Forewarned, the Métis looked up to see the animal lope away, scarcely more than a shadow.

  “Hey, old fella! So there were two hunters after the moose!”

  The afternoon drew to a swift close, the setting sun casting red-hued ribbons over a stretch of turquoise sky above the river. He would have to return to the village to fetch a sled and the dog team belonging to his uncle’s neighbour. He rummaged through his backpack for a coiled rope to secure the moose quarters. Next, he felled a tall, good-sized spruce tree, cut off its crown and branches and inserted either end, using a larch pole, into the boughs of two birch trees standing side by side. Lastly, he threw the rope ends round the stripped stake to raise the meat out of reach of any carnivores and tied a knot round the two treetrunks.