Distant Fires (28 page)

Here, she gestured to make his collection; an easier task given less accumulation within the wood and handing him a basket, tied him with a long length to the tree, proceeding to do her work till gradually, she moved from sight.
 

It crossed his mind to escape; he had pilfered a small piece of flint, which was in a hidden pouch in his legging, but it would take a lot more time and effort to break the bonds and, as he had argued endlessly, would be a pointless venture given his continued debilitation and the harshness of the season. However bad his conditions, at least he was assured some food and shelter… Besides, he had often pondered his present position in approximate relation to his fight with Benoit. He had a vague notion, but nothing in terms of where he truly was.
 

Time passed, she hadn’t returned. The cold that crept about his throat, ears and hands was starting to take its toll, and he wanted to get back to some shelter.
 

A sound stilled his commiseration, high-pitched, backed by low tones, like the wind roaring backwards, reaching a crescendo then trailing off. What if her whereabouts were not as innocently explained away? Was she in fact, in some kind of trouble?
 

Rather than work at untying the rope from his leg where it had frozen to his legging, he backtracked to the tree, diligently working icy fingers into the task of unknotting it, all the while staunchly motivated by the need to aid her. At last, it broke. Free.
 

“Ehta, Ehta!” he knew her name but he had never tried it. As he called to her now, it did not seem foreign to his tongue. A new kind of fear superseded his personal need. He felt far more frantic; wondering at every possibility. Moving his snowshoes as best he could through the thinning forest, and mindful not to snag the trailing tether, he imagined the kind of situation that might have befallen her. Had wolves or some other wild animal attacked her? A chance encounter with a member of an enemy tribe?
 

With a disquietude growing by the instant, he was rendered less prudent. Coupled with a maladroit effort to master his snowshoes, he could little save himself when his step took the edge of an opening which sent him toppling to the bottom of a dark hollow.
 

He opened his eyes. Where was he?  Were there broken bones? The customary pain and cold were intact, and other then a slight bruising, so were the limbs. Feeling around his body, he realized with relief, that he had instinctively bent the legs and the snowshoes helped to break the fall atop a cushion of leaves and snow.
 

Taking a few seconds to adjust to the dim shaft of light proceeding from the entrance, he removed them with cold and shaky hands and looking about, saw that he was in a protected cavern. He had little time to collect his addled thoughts, when a feminine voice rose from the darkness,
 

“So, you have found me”, adding with more relief than surprise, crawling from the shadows. “You broke your bonds. I am glad you chose to find rather than flee your captor.”
 

Though assuaged by her presence, it did not take long to assume a sardonic tone. “How do you know I was not fleeing when I fell?”
 

“I heard you…call my name…” She sounded strangely moved.
 

“Must have been the winds,” he responded cheekily. “They certainly have picked up.” He realized quickly that he had no wish to hide his relief and changed the tone. “Yes, I did look for you. Were you hurt?”
 

“No. The leaves broke my fall. I tried to climb, but I kept slipping.”
 

“Do you think the family will find us?”
 

“We are losing light. I think they will search in the morning.”
 

He had to agree that he was in no fit shape to tackle the climb without effort and it would be best to stay for the night. It appeared to be fairly deep and the absence of a hibernating animal was fortuitous indeed. The opening was a large enough to start a small fire with the kindling that toppled into the cave with her. After clearing an area of leaves, debris, and snow; they soon had enough heat to warm their frigid bodies and still their teeth from chattering.
 

Afterward, she became ruminant, and the awkwardness made him feel less guarded and the situation, sillier.
 

“Well,” he said with a cheerier air, stoking the flames “it seems you and I are on the same footing…” he added, with a feigned warning, “…for now”.
 

She sat opposite looking into the fire, and seemed to overlook the inference. Handing him a frozen piece of dried meat that hung from her belt, they gnawed in silence.
 

“You speak my language well,” she finally said. “This surprises me,”
 

In the failing light at the opening he could see the soft angle of her face, high cheekbones, and delicate neck looking skyward. He wanted to reach out and touch that face…
 

“I learned from your people before I came to live with the family.”
 

Her eyes became chillingly accusatory as she instantly met his, mirroring the fire’s blaze. “Do not talk of ‘before’!” she snapped, putting an end to magnanimity with a terse rebuttal.
 

He regretted his decision to speak.
 

Only the fire spoke with its whisper and crackle.  He cursed himself for letting down his guard, for thinking she was anything but a termagant.
 

“I know of ‘before.”  
 

Oh no
, he thought,
the floodgates are open
…
 

“I know what you were…where you came from...that you are one of ‘them’…”
 

“Them?” He responded, involuntarily.
 

“The others.” She drew back again into the shadows. “The plunderers, the assassins, destroyers of families…of dreams...” her voice broke.
 

Again, there was silence. When she spoke, it was less bitter than overwhelmingly sad.
 

“The hand … it knows. But as charred and twisted as it was by the cruelty of your people, nothing was left to ‘know” like the destruction of the heart.”
 

That was it! She had been injured by one of his kind…a soldier? What did she mean by “the destruction of the heart”?
 

So she wasn’t a witch. She had known suffering
 

Again, he was drawn to her, only now, it was tinged with pity.
 

He took the chance.
 

“Ehta, I know that a tragic event has taken place in your life, and that my people are to blame. Although I do not know how, I am sorry. But do not think that I am a part of those actions…that I might in any way, have harmed the family.”
 

She made a sound to suggest the futility of discussion, and said nothing more.
 

Feeding the fire in silence, the tedium began to show. The intimacy of their surroundings slowly brought them into contact again. As it melted along the opening, the snow began to drip inside. Without words, they took turns lapping the drops, but when it resulted in miscalculation—and often as not, a wet eyeball—it became more of a game, and lightened the mood considerably.
 

Hunger was a commonplace condition for him, as was cold and pain. He tried to overlook it in this temporary haven where they were safe from the elements and content for a night.
 

After a while, Ehta seemed to loosen a little more. He sensed that she found some comfort in the need to talk.
 

“I had a husband once,” she began. “And one…two children. A girl and a baby boy.”
 

 He listened, scarcely breathing at the candour in her telling. He could hear the quaking in her voice, but the need to speak was too great.
 

“He…we were married and were very happy. He would make things…some beautiful …some useful…very good. One day, we had a daughter. She was so like her father…then, he went to war with your people…and he was gone. I found I was to have another child, and I thought maybe the child would bring my life back to me, but your people struck again. They killed most of the village; my mother, my sister…set fire to everything …” She stopped here, stinging at the memory.
 

Nicholas was struck dumb. Her sufferings were deep. He was tempted to put his arms about her, but he held his touch.
 

“I looked for my daughter,” she continued sadly, “Then, the baby started to come…I tried to hold it back…but he had to come…I felt fire in my stomach...fire on my hands… I remember nothing …
 

“When I awoke, I thought, ‘I'm in the Spirit world.’ But I was not. I recognized friends of my mothers, who were coming to meet with her that morning. They must have found me and brought me to their village. I was alone…no daughter, no baby…no one…alone.”
 

She began rocking in a crouch position staring downward, tears streaming down her face. Nicholas did all he could to keep from consoling her.
 

“I waited with these people for a long time. Later, when the men came home from their meeting with the five nations, they rebuilt our village. But our families were broken. Our men, old, our children, few…
 

“Now you ask me, to forgive you, but you
are
your people.”
 

He lifted her chin with a trembling hand, grateful that she did not pull away.
 

“Ehta,” he said in all earnestness, looking straight into her injured eyes, “I am
not
my people, any more than you are
yours
. What has been done pains me, as it does you.”
 

Her vulnerability was disarming and made her more alluring. Her questioning eyes renewed his power as a man.
 

“But you are a warrior for your people…you could have killed my husband?” She continued, “Once, I sought the Rhu-ta-n-ya to help me see the face of my husband’s murderer,” she squinted her eyes, “I tried and I tried, but I only saw for an instant—”
 

“You did not see me. I have never been involved in such a war. I have only done in self-defence what your husband would have. I am not the enemy.”
 

She did not disclaim his words. He stated this so sincerely, and she looked so frail and beautiful with tears falling softly down her face, that he put his arms around her, brought his lips to hers and kissed her, at first, tentative, then long and deep. She did not resist. That he craved her
body was obvious, but what was not so understood was the deep well of feeling he had for her as an individual; a strong woman who had withstood far more than her share of misfortune. By comparison, his trials seemed weak indeed. Throughout it all, he felt there lurked a young and playful Spirit yearning to return, and he wished with all his heart that he could restore it to her. Much as he wished to run his hands and mouth all over her body, he realized that this was a very special relationship and he must woo her with restraint. He could tell by the ardent manner of her kiss that she accepted him, but she was unguarded now. He wanted her on terms of equal strength…
 

She burrowed into his cloak, resting on his shoulder and they fell asleep knowing the experiment of master and slave was at an end.
 

Chapter 18
 

Many times, during the course of her travels. Louise had removed the little deer necklace from its pouch, and stroked the fine detail, clutching it to her breast in remembrance of the missing child, ever in her heart, and hopeful of the moment when she would return it to its rightful owner.
 

She prayed that the marriage between Shanata and Eduard was as fulfilling as her daughter had hoped it would be, that she was safe and comfortable; perhaps, she herself were with child … At times like these, tears stung her with regret. She wanted confirmation that she had done the right thing, and that question extended back to removing her from her own kind. Whatever she had done, it had been in the best interests of her daughter.
 

As for her own, Gilbert was a patient and loving man. It would never be what it was with Armand; he touched something in her history, in her soul that could be claimed by no other. But neither did she see his face before her times of intimacy with Gilbert. Though the resemblance was clear, they were two separate men; each with a tangible, but definable, hold on her heart.
Notwithstanding her obvious preoccupation with uncovering the truth about Nicholas, he had held up remarkably well; giving much needed support while relegating his own wishes and needs to a time when they would be more readily encouraged and accepted. On the relatively few occasions when they had some privacy, he was a superb love-maker; lavishing attention on every inch of her, leaving her breathless and begging for more …
 

But always, always, her son, the mysteries surrounding his disappearance, Sophie’s alleged betrayal, the subsequent need to close the book on this chapter of her life, haunted her every waking hour.
 

She had been hopeful the day of the encounter with the Sergeante in Louisbourg. Was it based on conjecture, half-truths? Not even Madame Leger could help them with that. Would they ever know the full story? Sophie was no longer alive to account for her misdoings. Her heart ached in the knowledge that her son had not received a proper burial and that no evidence of his demise remained. To set his affairs in order and discover as much as humanly possible, would grant her some solace, however small.
 

The weather had changed so dramatically over the succeeding week that further travel was not permitted. The Captain of their ship, received word that ice had formed at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, effectively forcing an extended stay in Louisbourg, so an agreement was made with the
Tavern keeper to over winter in his rooms. The arrangement, while not altogether unexpected, was nonetheless, disappointing to Louise; but with Gilbert at her side, she was able to make the best of an anxious time. Though they tried to keep their presence, low-key, it was inevitable that knowledge of a fairly well-to-do couple, staying in town, was all the buzz. Soon, they were receiving dinner invitations from the more elite members of the community, but true to her intent, they kept their identities a secret, and luckily, her face no longer caused recognition among the inhabitants.