Distant Fires (4 page)

I hope the child comes soon,
Tahne thought, in a rare expression of sympathy, doubtless the event would restore her. “If it will please you, sister,” she sighed in resignation, “I will see to her myself.” Gathering the sleeping infant to her shoulder, she carefully stepped between bodies, gradually retreating into the darkness.
 

A quiet descended around the fire; the murmuring of a few, young Huron slaves, adopted by the tribe some time before, lingered as the only human voices. In the distance an owl hooted, the crickets kept their steady chirp, and, now and again, the sound of a bat honing in on an insect broke the nocturnal peace.
 

Waiting...waiting...Ehta’s entire life amounted to one long wait—for the miracle of Salgan’s return...for the birth of her child...she reflected on what it might look like: a son, no
doubt, as handsome and gentle as her husband. She had no delusions about the knowledge that she would soon remarry; her children needed a provider, but she shuddered to think of the intimate physical duties imposed upon her, and the unrequited silence of her heart.
 

Time passed. Ehta gazed up at the stars, chiding herself for allowing logic to elude her. Surely, they would have been alerted to a problem by one of the female elders who chose to stay behind with the children, had anything been wrong...but...why was Tahne taking so long?  Had she been detained by the needs of her children, or was she so angered by Ehta’s behaviour that she couldn’t bring herself to return?
 

Guiltily, she struggled to her feet to put the matter right, stepping around bodies in the failing firelight; some curled up and silent, others outstretched and noisily snoring, as she worked her way to the area of thinning trees leading to the fortress.
 

The trees were a bower above, and somewhat sheltered from the breeze, creating a walkway noticeably dank, as evidenced by the sweat of garments which clung to her expectant frame, tempting her to return to the comfort of open air.  
 

A crackling sound in the bushes further along caused her to stop. Listening intently, she waited, and satisfied at hearing no untoward sign, continued on. Again, she stopped short. Hollow thuds, like that of an animal chasing over countless layers of compressed needles, caught her ear.
Likely a deer
, she thought, knowing the area was commonly used as a crossover in their nightly quest for water. Moonlight shone upon the entrance to the palisade. She felt a certain relief.  
 

A shadowy figure appeared ahead—Tahne. Had she found their mother in a condition too worrisome to relate?
 

“Is she alright?” Ehta whispered loudly, “I had to come.....Tahhhh...”
 

The name caught in her throat. A brutal hand flattened against her lips while her arm was yanked and twisted behind her back.
 

Fragments of clarity flashed within an overpowering panic, filling her with dread and disbelief. Who were these fiends?  Huron?  Abenaki?  But...why?
Why
?
 

The undergrowth tore at her arms and legs like jagged spikes, as she was half-dragged from the confines to the edge of the fallow field, away from the sleeping gatherers. Sinking to her attacker’s knees, breathless, she was ready to surrender, too dazed and vulnerable to overcome her capture, until the venomous words that he spoke hit her like a thunderbolt. The glint of his knife and the smear of war paint could not mask the identity of her assailant; she had been ambushed by a white man! They, whom had slain her husband, now meant to destroy all that remained…even that which she carried within. Fear was replaced by vengeance; reviving her like a bitter potion.
 

In a split second, using all of the strength she could muster, she lowered her chin to loosen her jaw, managing to open her mouth wide enough to clamp her teeth upon his fleshy palm. Her captor dropped the knife and flung back, cursing.
 

“Shanata! Mother!”  She screamed at the sudden stab of pain that ripped through her body.
 

The alarm she sounded signalled an immediate response. The echo of war cries filled the air.
 

Her assailant, grasping the wounded hand, fumbled for his weapon and, heedless of her, charged into the conflict.
 

The pain persisted, unabated, wrenching her insides. “I have been wounded,” she thought, resignedly. Then, a warm gush of fluid swept about her inner thighs, in a moment of horrifying knowledge.
 

“The baby...nooo...not here, not now!”
 

Her nostril caught wind of an acrid odour, alerting her to danger of another sort—Smoke!  They were setting fire to the village!
 

“Mother...Shanata!”
 

Her nightmare was complete.
 

Again she cried, cradling for a harsh contraction, and unable to lift her head to project into the din of confusion beyond. She had to discover the fate of her child, at any cost.
 

 Knowing that her legs would not support her, she endeavoured to inch her way along the ground, using her arms.
 

Everywhere, the wails of mothers and children tearing through trails accompanied the trampling of earth, in terrified abandon.
 

Spotting a young brave who looked to be Tahne’s son, Sumac, grappling with a much larger man in the distance, she was stung, in the briefest instant, by how many would indeed survive the attack, after being taken so abysmally unaware.
 

Each moment became an eternity, as she painstakingly dragged herself forward, hampered by rocks and scrub, which further scraped and tore at her tender skin. Now, the agony rapidly began to mount in intensity, with shorter lapses in between.
 

Pausing to wipe the sweat as it dripped from her brow, she stared at the blaze, too stupefied and spent to fully comprehend the horror. Sparks flew off to nearby bushes and trees, some already afire, threatening to engulf the entire forest.
 

Was her child at this moment being burned alive, in the house where she had been conceived and born, and by the hand of the very monsters that had killed her own husband?
 

Soon, the flames of the burning outer walls whipped perilously near, but the vice-like pressure in her body made her impervious to the rendering of its threat. The pain was excruciating now. Her vision blurred, and relentless though she was, the suffering appeared unendurable. Breathless, clawing at the earth, she was blinded by a final paroxysm, writhing through her blistering torment…
 

Someone was there, seemingly suspended over her…a soothing tone...mother...was it mother?  No...it was...Salgan. He had waited...waited long enough...she no longer had to resist, for the sake of their children...at long last...they would all be together…
 

“Put your arms about me,” he whispered, but she screamed as an intense release passed through her, lifting her higher and higher...away from the white light, and into the shadow of calm. But before she drifted, she thought she heard the far-off cry, of an infant.                           
 

Chapter 3
 

At the hour normally reserved for breakfast, Louise de Belaise sat openly despondent at her writing table, in an alcove off her bedchamber. Seemingly overnight, the soft, ethereal quality of her face had altered into strain and concern, as she fixed an eye to a small crucifix on the wall. Wavy, golden hair curled about her shoulders and down her back, teasing the lace of the filmy pink nightdress, which fell open at the side, revealing remarkably shapely limbs. With a sudden sense of purpose, she unlocked the drawer and withdrew a leather-bound journal. Leafing through the many blank pages, she again returned to the start, and in smooth, delicate strokes, began an entry:
 

June 28, 1739               Chateau Saint Louis           Quebec City
 

In truth, I feel neither the strength nor inclination to put pen to paper, but recognize any effort to subdue this wretched state is worth the bother. Failing a respondent with whom to advise, I find no other vent.
 

Upon heaven, I have made many mistakes in my life, some I managed to successfully amend, and others simply mellowed to unimportance with the passage of time. I have ever striven to maintain a communion with God, following his precepts most fervently.  
 

Why, then, must the direction, once taken, be wrenched from me by a power neither He nor I can as yet control? If only the past days had not resulted in such a tempest of emotion, causing me to both ache and rush madly into the fire.
 

Oh, Armand...
that
was the conflict in you from the beginning. Your impetuous nature has long been at variance with the needs of others. Yes, you have succeeded in proving your devotion to me...but at what cost? Surely you could leave what is past behind, release me from that burden of pain that began with our final parting and would have remained buried, like bittersweet memories, through our separate lives. Or is this some vile plot...an exercise in revenge? Surely not.  Perhaps God has seen fit to punish me
 

A low rap on the door caused her to swiftly blot the page, sliding the journal to her lap.
 

 “Marie,” she stammered icily, “I am not to be disturbed.”
 

 “My dear,” came the unexpected voice of her husband, in response, “is anything the matter? Are you unwell?”
 

 “Oh, it is you, Felippe...I am merely slow to rise.” She answered shakily, praying he would not persist, and angry that she had been forced to tell even the measure of a lie. “I shall join you momentarily if you wish.”
 

 “Do not trouble yourself,” Felippe replied, impassively. “I am to attend a meeting at the Palais de Justice within the hour, and shall return by late afternoon.  Perhaps, you would do best to stay abed the day.” His voice lowered to one of solicitude. “You may very well be ill. I did notice you were peaked, the evening last.”
 

The evening last. She froze at the very mention of it.
 

“Thank you for your concern,” she responded
correctly
, struggling to control her emotion.
 

The echoing of his footsteps into abject silence served to underscore her reprehensibility and despair. While the suns’ rays penetrated the window, she clasped a floral wrap about her slight frame, shivering.  
 

 “This is madness,” she lamented aloud, as her eyes took in the accoutrements of privilege.
 

 “I have been blessed with a fine and honourable husband, a loving son, a prominent place in society. Why then, must I be led into this duplicitous situation knowing it can only lead to catastrophe?”
 

She put her head into her hands, shedding bitter tears of self-reproach.
 

Papa was right
, she thought, angrily,
when he once called me a wilful and ungrateful child...if you were offered the moon, Louise, you would surely decline it in favour of the sun...how well did he know me!
 

Yet he was not aware that in nineteen years of wedlock, I have sought to suppress the ideals and dissatisfactions of my youth, in exchange for the responsibilities God has guided me toward...It has been a challenge, fraught with trials, and only now, resulting in the true test of my spiritual stamina.
 

Lifting the journal back up onto the desk, she reopened it, and took up her quill, through trembling fingers:
 

It all began but six short weeks ago...the day when the first of our mail ships arrived from France, carrying the king’s memorandum and recommendation for the newly vacated office of Intendant to the colony. Raymond de Gascon had
served his term most ineffectively in our estimation, for it was discovered that both his financial and judicial administrations ran contrary to his influence peddling and profiteering, which—during the second year of his four-year tenure as Governor of New France—proved unconscionable to Felippe, who pleaded with the king for his dismissal.
 

Having awaited word on his successor through a long and particularly bitter winter, I was eager to learn the choice and hoped would include a female companion, for due to my isolation and position, I longed for a confidant in the absence of my sister, Celeste.
 

Feeling somewhat under the weather, I declined to attend the welcoming ceremonies reserved for such debarkations, rising instead by late afternoon to await the return of Felippe.
 

Shortly after I took up my needlepoint in the parlour, my husband entered in a highly uncharacteristic manner, fairly brimming with excitement and sentiment. “My dear...I must say, you are looking ever so much better. I have marvellous news. An old classmate of mine, one Armand Leger, has arrived most unexpectedly with the ship, as our new Intendant.”
 

I was struck dumb with astonishment. No information could have arrested me with greater dread or confusion. It was impossible, some ghastly mistake! Could it be another man of the same name? Surely, the son of a bourgeois Parisian merchant had not the fortitude, to say nothing of the financial backing, to distinguish himself as a lawyer, and proceed from there to the attention of the king himself!  Armand had, most assuredly, hidden any hint of such aspiration when I had known him…
 

While reeling inwardly from this startling revelation, Felippe detailed his friend’s background - confirming his identity - and delightedly gave full account of his triumphs and accomplishments.