in a dark, comfortless shanty at the country’s edge. He glanced up to find Susette Morel regarding him impatiently.
Elisha clapped shut the notebook. “I was sent to find you! I would like to apologize for the confusion at the hotel yesterday evening. And for not offering you a proper supper, at least.”
The woman looked back to her mending. “I do not require any apology. I know how to cook a proper supper.”
“Still. I pray you’ll accept my regrets. It was a poor showing on our part, truly it was.”
Susette Morel said nothing. Elisha watched her work the frayed cords, running a shuttle between the split sections then drawing them tight with twine. Her fingers were as cracked and weathered as dried tobacco leaves. He attempted a smile then scratched his jaw. He could not formulate a clever comment.
“I also came to ask if you could depart as early as tomorrow morning—to act as the expedition’s guide, of course.”
Her fingers stopped moving. “He changed his decision?”
Elisha understood that she was referring to Silas Brush. “You don’t need to worry about Mr. Brush—I’m planning to discuss with him tonight. Or else Professor Tiffin and you and I will go on our own, just the three of us. I bear some influence on these men, you see. I am the assistant scientist and surveyor.”
Susette laid the seine at her feet and gazed warily at Elisha. “He said I was not strong enough to bear a pack in the forest. He was interested in engaging my husband only.”
“As far as I can see your husband’s not here. And we absolutely need a guide. So!”
Elisha cringed at the false jauntiness in his tone. He watched Susette Morel absently smooth her skirts, the wool as patched and mended as the fishing seine. A flicker of excitement seemed to pass through the woman. She said, “What about payment?”
“You’ll have to negotiate with Mr. Brush—I’m not in charge of matters financial. My job is to identify animal and mineral and plant specimens, form ideas and hypotheses.” Elisha was suddenly aware of his shabby bowry and worn trousers and shirt; then he wondered if such things mattered to the woman. “Where is your husband, anyway?”
“Montréal, or Rainy Lake. Or Detroit.”
“And why didn’t he join up with Professor Tiffin, like he promised?”
The question was impertinent but the woman merely shook her head. “My husband makes his own choices. I cannot explain the choices he makes.”
She set down the seine and rose, still fussing with her skirts as though to calm her nerves. Elisha could not decipher her expression: at once excited and wary, courteous and remote. She was nearly as tall as the boy. She stepped toward Elisha and despite himself he leaned toward her.
“What shall I tell Mr. Brush? If the terms are not acceptable I could try to negotiate—I could speak with Mr. Brush on your behalf.”
Susette Morel smiled, exposing small white teeth like kernels of corn. “Tell him I can depart tomorrow.”
Elisha nodded.
“I will need payment when we reach the image stones. Full payment.”
“That should be acceptable—it
will
be acceptable! I’ll speak with Mr. Brush tonight.”
“You will need pork and grease and rice and flour. Kegs of powder and shot. Plenty of salt and sugar and coffee. You have all this?”
“Mr. Brush has arranged it all, don’t you worry.” Elisha grinned. “Professor Tiffin aims to study Chippewa artifacts—he believes that Natives are descended from ancient Christians. That’s why he wants to study the image stones, to link them to the ancient Christians. He believes that Natives and white men and Negroes belong to the same equal race. He’s written pamphlets on the subject.”
Susette Morel was staring at Elisha as though he was a specimen in a cabinet of curiosities. A faint smile grew on her lips.
“I speak a little French, from school—bonjour, bonsoir. Je vous prie, madame.”
The woman laughed. “Je vous
en
prie.”
“Je vous
Elisha clapped shut the notebook. “I was sent to find you! I would like to apologize for the confusion at the hotel yesterday evening. And for not offering you a proper supper, at least.”
The woman looked back to her mending. “I do not require any apology. I know how to cook a proper supper.”
“Still. I pray you’ll accept my regrets. It was a poor showing on our part, truly it was.”
Susette Morel said nothing. Elisha watched her work the frayed cords, running a shuttle between the split sections then drawing them tight with twine. Her fingers were as cracked and weathered as dried tobacco leaves. He attempted a smile then scratched his jaw. He could not formulate a clever comment.
“I also came to ask if you could depart as early as tomorrow morning—to act as the expedition’s guide, of course.”
Her fingers stopped moving. “He changed his decision?”
Elisha understood that she was referring to Silas Brush. “You don’t need to worry about Mr. Brush—I’m planning to discuss with him tonight. Or else Professor Tiffin and you and I will go on our own, just the three of us. I bear some influence on these men, you see. I am the assistant scientist and surveyor.”
Susette laid the seine at her feet and gazed warily at Elisha. “He said I was not strong enough to bear a pack in the forest. He was interested in engaging my husband only.”
“As far as I can see your husband’s not here. And we absolutely need a guide. So!”
Elisha cringed at the false jauntiness in his tone. He watched Susette Morel absently smooth her skirts, the wool as patched and mended as the fishing seine. A flicker of excitement seemed to pass through the woman. She said, “What about payment?”
“You’ll have to negotiate with Mr. Brush—I’m not in charge of matters financial. My job is to identify animal and mineral and plant specimens, form ideas and hypotheses.” Elisha was suddenly aware of his shabby bowry and worn trousers and shirt; then he wondered if such things mattered to the woman. “Where is your husband, anyway?”
“Montréal, or Rainy Lake. Or Detroit.”
“And why didn’t he join up with Professor Tiffin, like he promised?”
The question was impertinent but the woman merely shook her head. “My husband makes his own choices. I cannot explain the choices he makes.”
She set down the seine and rose, still fussing with her skirts as though to calm her nerves. Elisha could not decipher her expression: at once excited and wary, courteous and remote. She was nearly as tall as the boy. She stepped toward Elisha and despite himself he leaned toward her.
“What shall I tell Mr. Brush? If the terms are not acceptable I could try to negotiate—I could speak with Mr. Brush on your behalf.”
Susette Morel smiled, exposing small white teeth like kernels of corn. “Tell him I can depart tomorrow.”
Elisha nodded.
“I will need payment when we reach the image stones. Full payment.”
“That should be acceptable—it
will
be acceptable! I’ll speak with Mr. Brush tonight.”
“You will need pork and grease and rice and flour. Kegs of powder and shot. Plenty of salt and sugar and coffee. You have all this?”
“Mr. Brush has arranged it all, don’t you worry.” Elisha grinned. “Professor Tiffin aims to study Chippewa artifacts—he believes that Natives are descended from ancient Christians. That’s why he wants to study the image stones, to link them to the ancient Christians. He believes that Natives and white men and Negroes belong to the same equal race. He’s written pamphlets on the subject.”
Susette Morel was staring at Elisha as though he was a specimen in a cabinet of curiosities. A faint smile grew on her lips.
“I speak a little French, from school—bonjour, bonsoir. Je vous prie, madame.”
The woman laughed. “Je vous
en
prie.”
“Je vous
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