Silence of Stone by Annamarie Beckel Page B

see myself rocking back and forth, wringing my hands, trying to hold securely between my palms the memories I dare not release to the Franciscan. If I do not keep my hands clutched tightly together, they might reach for histhroat, and then, I could not stop them.
    A thumb unclenches. A memory slips out through the tiny gap.
    While Marguerite and Damienne huddled together, Michel searched the shore and then assured them he’d seen no signs of wolves, monsters, or Indians. No signs of demons.
    But I have found a level grassy place at the bottom of an inlet, he said. There is a stream with sweet water. I can use the sails to build shelters there.
    When Marguerite bent to lift a basket of biscuit, Michel leapt forward and stayed her hands.
Non
,
non
, he said, this is not work for a lady. I will move everything.
    So while Marguerite and Damienne followed behind, holding their skirts high above the clear green water threatening to lap at their toes, Michel carried the basket of hard bread the short distance to the inlet. Damienne’s trembling fingers clung to Marguerite’s arm as they watched him make trip after trip, until everything had been moved. Michel grabbed the axe then and strode off. He returned with stout poles he’d cut from trees in a narrow valley farther inland. Using the poles and the hemp rope, he built two rough shelters from the torn sails. By the time he had finished, the sky behind them was a rosy pink.
    There is much sweet water, he said, everywhere, and I’ve seen the trails of rabbits. And foxes. No sign of
les sauvages
. We will be fine.
    Michel made a fire from driftwood and dryboughs, and they supped that evening on hard bread and salt beef.
    Beneath a cobalt sky and an iron sickle of moon, they retired to canvas shelters and make-shift beds. Giving his sabre to Damienne, Michel took with him his arquebus and dagger.
    He whispered assurances to Marguerite and tried to soothe her, but she was too frightened to find comfort in his caresses, too fretful to respond to his kisses.
    Eventually the rhythmic slap of wave on rock lulled them to sleep, an uneasy slumber soon disturbed by eerie warbling cries riding atop the wind’s soft breath. Damienne scrambled from her shelter into theirs. Michel readied one of the muskets, and Marguerite, fearing demons, grabbed her New Testament and prayed. Clutching the sabre, Damienne sat and moaned, her wails nearly as loud as the warbling cries.
    In the morning, Damienne could not be persuaded to venture outside. Despite both her and Michel’s protests, Marguerite insisted upon going with Michel to explore the island, to discover its inhabitants, hostile or otherwise. After a hasty breakfast of hard bread and water, they set out, armed with an arquebus, fusil, and dagger.
    Less than twenty-five fathoms from the shelters, they found a quiet pool where a pair of sleek black and white birds glided, low and silent upon the water. When one opened its pointed black bill and released a demonic warble, they realized that the birds werethe source of the night’s haunting calls. They laughed nervously to each other and spoke of Damienne’s relief when they told her.
    Laboriously loading the musket, Michel shot at one of the birds, but both dived, and neither he nor Marguerite could see where they surfaced again.
    Would you teach me? Marguerite asked.
    Michel shook his head.
Non
, it would not be proper.
    But it would be good if both of us to knew how to shoot, she protested, in case of wild animals or Indians or…
    Michel looked off in the distance, sighed, and then handed her the musket. Marguerite could hardly lift the heavy weapon. Thirteen steps to load and shoot, pouring and tamping powder, fire-steel at hand to light the fuse. And the same for the smaller gun, the fusil. They did not yet worry about conserving powder and shot.
    I hear the explosion of the long musket and feel the tremendous recoil against my shoulder, the jolt pulling me