The Deserter (17 page)

A dream? Well, not too bad either. And then he slowly willed himself into a temporary consciousness, and was now definitely aware of a body on either side of him, naked as he was, holding him tightly, surrounding him. More dreaming, he told himself, and was about to sink back, when he remembered all at once, the ghastly nightmare. Could it be true? No, only a dream, but what was it? Find out, go back, face the horror, stay in the dream, stay half-dead, half-awake, and feel, surely, yes, was that not a slim leg across his stomach? And there, by his left side, another, large, fleshy, and warm, yes, what a lovely dream for sure!

Such a change from his shocking nightmare, conscious of struggle, and struggle without ending, it seemed. How nice that it was all over, and he came to be in this bizarre dream, clasped by bodies on either side. He allowed himself to sink back into the embrace of warmth, when the ghastly nightmare returned in full force. He’d fallen through the ice.

What a nightmare! So how on earth did he find himself here? Piece it together, he told himself. Don’t give a flicker of recognition, don’t open your eyes, don’t wake, rest here, eyes closed, breathing regular, and piece it together.

He now felt clearly on either side of him, two naked bodies, holding him tight under the beaver-skin blanket. He lay still, trying not to let his breathing show surprise while he figured it out. On the right, that inner thigh lying crooked on his stomach — Little Birch? And the heavier fleshly leg pressed against his left — her mother Full Moon? Nothing erotic in their postures. Again, the touch over his brow that he had dreamed being his mother — the hand of Little Birch caressing him tenderly from time to time. And then it came to him.

Little Birch had received a premonition, a kind of vision. She had insisted on Brightstar and her going out on the trail to look for Thomas. One hour from their wig-wam, they had come across his body. Together they had tried to wake him, lifting him with many exhortations. But he was not conscious. They half dragged, half carried him the desperate half-mile to the wigwam. But how? And then, in the time-honoured cure he had yet to learn about, they undressed him, placed him under skins and hides in the wigwam, and got their naked bodies next to his, in the only accepted way to bring a frozen person back to normal. Slowly, surely, this therapy had warmed him back to life.

He luxuriated in the feel of the hard body of Little Birch, her tender flesh, her small soft breasts pressing against his chest, and the larger breasts of her mother Full Moon, nestled to his left.

Their arms held him as if he were a baby, tightly but not too tightly, their breathing measured as his, and he once again fell asleep, as they were. And so, in this kind of treasured heaven with his two most favourite people, he drifted off again, wondering at the same time what would happen when he woke up.

The melting ice that Thomas had fallen through signalled the approach of spring. The days grew warmer. Thomas would sit, munching his smoked meat or cooked porcu pine in broths of bark or needles, all of which he’d finally learned to stomach and even enjoy. He’d watch the melting snow gather into drops and trickle down branches onto gnarled trunks, then glide on down the glistening bark to melt the soggy snow beneath. Small game had begun to emerge from hibernation, and their snares were often full.

Thanks to the intervention of Little Birch and Full Moon, Thomas had fully recovered from his brush with a frozen death and was functioning normally. The bond with Little Birch had grown stronger, now that she had been instrumental in saving his life. But at the same time, Thomas kept himself distant, though his whole body ached to know her.

One evening, One Arm said in Micmac, “Soon, we go back to sea.”

Thomas looked at him, askance. Over those many evenings around the fire when Thomas had worked so hard with Little Birch and Brightstar, exchanging words, surely One Arm should have picked up this simple expression.

“Whenever you say,” Thomas replied in Micmac.

And the sooner the better, he thought, much as he wanted to remain forever near Little Birch. This awful gulf between them was driving him crazy. Once back in his cabin, the pain might become endurable. But would she ever cease to occupy the central point of his being and thought?

He somehow perceived that she too might feel just as close to him, but he couldn’t be sure, even as that very fact disturbed him. Was this leading to some climax that neither of them anticipated? He longed to explain his detached demeanour, but then again, she was perceptive. And how else could they both behave?

Two nights later, One Arm announced, “After next trapline, we go.” He too seemed eager to leave for their summer base.

A cold snap coincided with their departure, which would make the trek back easier, firming up the slushy snow that had made their last tour of the trapline difficult. They’d been collecting all the snares and traps, to avoid harming animals after they left, and come back with moccasins and clothes sopping wet from the thaw. Little Birch hung their things to dry on a horizontal pole in the peak of the wigwam. These last days of preparation had been especially difficult: dismantling swatches of birchbark and bundling it for the trip home.

Fortunately for Thomas, plodding along the trail with his big load occupied his whole energy. Their ample supply of moose meat had been smoked in a structure he and Brightstar had built under One Arm’s instructions, digging a trench in the snow and constructing a makeshift smokehouse. So this meat overburdened them all, especially Little Birch, who had piled her
toboggan
high.

Leaner, more muscular, and accustomed to eating little, Thomas still found the long trip home almost unmanageable with his heavy load. He had to stop often between meal breaks to rest and catch his breath. At night they all fell exhausted under their hides with no thought for anything else.

At the main forks of the river, they greeted another family coming down the east fork, who proceeded to give them the bad news: One of the band’s finest hunters and his little son had stumbled upon the lair of a cougar with newborn kittens. When their bodies were finally found, not much remained.

“Mountain lions are rare,” Little Birch told Thomas.

“But not unusual. Very shy, they only attack in special cases, like this one.” “Do I know the family?”

“This family gave us their location this winter. That is why my mother is very upset.”

Thomas frowned. “That’s just awful. I don’t think I met them.”

“Oh yes. Little boy, he was one who waved bow and arrow,” she gestured, “when you make faces.” Oh no! He’d admired the little boy’s ferocity and his daring; he remem bered him clearly. What a shock. “Two daughters and mother, they go other family. She say both nearly starve. But they are safe now.”

They stayed at this base camp to perform a private farewell for the departed. For Thomas it was a lesson well learned: the quirks and hazards of this land brought forth inestimable bounties but so often claimed you before your allotted lifespan. Now more than ever he wanted to rescue Little Birch from this precarious, though enriching, life with the tribe. But how?

They set off once again and, at long last, legs almost giving out, Thomas staggered into the clearing of the band’s summer home. He let down his heavy sacks and, in a trance of exhaustion, sat on a stump to stare at the abandoned skeletons of wigwams. Hardly inviting. Most were denuded of their bark by families who took their coverings into the interior; normally clean interiors and round hearths were littered with the detritus of a receding winter. Piles of dirty snow lay in hollows where previously, sprightly paths had borne witness to the pitter-patter of moccasins.

But as so often in the Gaspé, spring had turned its hand to providing a splendid day for their homecoming, billowing cumulus hovering high over the river mouth. Some of the band had arrived, as evidenced by one wig-wam in perfect shape and another being finished by a woman sewing the birchbark seams with a bone awl and thin roots of spruce.

Little Birch came up and let her
toboggan
lines fall. She sat beside him, as worn out and depressed as he was by the amount of work facing them. He smiled at her and she gave him one of those looks he loved, wiping sweat from her brow, though the air was chill.

They turned to see Full Moon arrive, drop her
toboggan
lines, and just sit on the ground, staring. Worn out. “Wigwam first, I think,” Little Birch murmured. Thomas shook his head. “Tomorrow, Magwés.Today we rest.” A couple, facing the future, exhausted but determined.

“Lucky, no rain tonight.”

“Yes.” She knew a lot of English after the winter of lessons and practice. And he knew Micmac, although when alone they spoke English. Thomas had an idea she might become the second translator to the band, when Tongue was out hunting or otherwise busy.

“Now we have a nice moose skin for our beds,” she murmured, congratulating him.

“A moose skin, yes.” He remembered that battle. Just the sort of excitement he’d prefer to avoid in the future. The future... yes, what of that? Should he leave at once? No, better wait and help them get sorted out. Well then, why not just stay and live all summer with Little Birch and the band? No, if he stayed he’d only be participating at the one event he had a horror of ever seeing through: her wedding. How he wanted to get Little Birch away. Life with him would be hard too, yes, but dreams, he had dreams of what it could become. Dreams he wanted to share with her. No, stop thinking like that!

At the same moment, they both looked up to see Burn appear in the opening of his completed wigwam. He froze.

Little Birch drew away from Thomas and tried to regain her composure. Their positions had been so natural. But now Thomas felt covered in confusion. What should he do next? He took a second to gather his thoughts.

He rose and walked — well, staggered, really — over to Burn as his legs refused to respond to his brain’s commands. He greeted Burn warmly, and said in impeccable Micmac (which might help, he thought), “I have brought her back safe. Now she is all yours.”

He put out his hand to touch Burn’s shoulder, and then turned away. He didn’t want Burn to see the pain start into his eyes, although on reflection, he knew that Burn must have seen it and sympathized.

That decided it. Go quickly. Stay tonight, perhaps, but then leave first thing in the morning.

***

The walk back to his cabin took Thomas a whole long day, with no awareness of where he was. He walked by rote, stepping around windfalls, threading through the trunks of maple and fir and over swampy ground, for the snow had not yet melted. He didn’t even think ahead to his cabin. He was just lost in darkening thoughts. Forget her, he told himself, just use every ounce of willpower, concentrate on what is before you. And a whole lot did lie ahead.

When he arrived at the cabin, he found his new home had lost much of its appeal. The birchbark roof had blown off. Winter had strewn soggy leaves and blown dead branches all around, and a tree had fallen across his path to the brook. He sat on a stump, put his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a long time.

Forcing himself at last to get up, he circled the twelve-foot-square cabin. A well-worn hole in the back indicated that an animal family, perhaps a skunk, had wintered there. No cleaning for him tonight. All he could do was pull the bedcover from its peg and spread it out. He walked down to the brook, got a long drink of water, and filled a saucepan in case he woke up. Without eating, he lay down and fell into a tormented sleep.

The morning after, hardly refreshed, he opened his eyes. First day back in his precious cabin. Alone. That word, which had enlivened his former days, now sounded like a knell, promising only a long, lonely summer. But then the sun rose, the ever-present brook clucked and chuckled its way down its nobbled stream-bed, and one or two birds called from up the brook. Thomas began to take heart.

He gave himself a real talking to. Look what a lucky man you are! Freedom to do exactly what you want — bounded only by the confines of an unpredictable world that can surprise you at every turn. What more could he ask for?

Over the next three weeks he rediscovered some energy and even the will to set about making everything shipshape. He fixed the roof, built shelves, fashioned a chair and makeshift table. He travelled the brook, drawing maps and testing for the best trout pools. After months under the expert eye of One Arm, he now was able to spot more game runs, possibly a muskrat hole or two, certainly a mink run — and even a thicket whose brambles heralded a family of hares. No snares now, let them raise their young, he thought. He could feed on trout, which were ravenous in spring and rose to his fishing line with comforting regularity. Time once again for fiddlehead ferns, and he now knew how to select and boil bark for tea; so for the moment he managed to function.

But the image of Little Birch kept thrusting itself into his thoughts. Whenever he forced himself to consider his own survival and to prepare for the summer ahead, concern for her stifled his plans. Yes, the summer. What should he do?

Work in Paspébiac? He liked caulking hulls with oakum, but that was not getting him ahead. Stay here and begin clearing his land? But alone? How long would it take to get Little Birch out of his mind? This being his first encounter with someone like her, he had no idea. What about never? He shuddered at that thought.

Just then a distant crack of a branch rescued him from spiralling thoughts.

Who could it be? He carefully loaded his flintlock and cautiously left his cabin, making his way in a roundabout fashion to the edge of the brook where he could observe without being seen.

Scrambling down the hillside, came a familiar figure. “Tongue!”

Tongue was delighted to see him, as was Thomas. The translator had not arrived back from the wintering grounds before Thomas had left. Thomas took him round the site, and finally they sat with a cup of bark tea.

“How are they all?” Thomas asked. “Did the Chief get back all right?”

“Very good. Much caribou meat.”

“Little Birch is fine?”

Tongue merely gave him a significant look. “And Burn?”

Another significant look.

“So did you come by canoe? When are they taking furs to Paspébiac?”

“Now, I think. Canoe leave from Port Daniel.”

“Really? They want me back there?” Made sense, he supposed. Ice still floating on the bay might make landing with furs at his brook dangerous.

Tongue seemed itchy to get back, so Thomas gathered up whatever he might need for the summer. He’d come back later for anything he’d forgotten.

It being noon, he set off with Tongue, but not without misgivings. Did he really want to face Little Birch again? Had she accepted Burn’s proposal?

They made good time, Thomas by now being accomplished at trotting through the woods for hours on end. About halfway along, they stopped to drink some water and have a chew on the dried moose meat Tongue had brought. Shall I bring all that up? Thomas asked himself. He glanced over at Tongue, only to see the older man looking back at him somewhat quizzically.

“So Little Birch got the visit from Burn?” he burst out, at last.

Tongue nodded.

“Burn gave her a stone?” Tongue nodded.

Thomas remembered Burn’s account of how couples got married or rather, pledged their troth. The young man visited the family of the girl, and then at one point tossed into her lap a polished brook stone.

“So they are together?” Thomas didn’t want to meet the eyes of Tongue and feigned disinterest.

Tongue waited, not saying a thing, until in desperation, Thomas raised his eyes. Tongue seemed to be enjoying all this, much to Thomas’s irritation. Finally, he spoke.

“For a long time, she stay looking at stone.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” He gave another maddening pause. “She turn over and over in fingers.”

The old beggar is playing with me, Thomas thought, getting annoyed. “Go on.” This was certainly no joking matter.