The Forest Lover by Susan Vreeland Page A

painting later, it wouldn’t be the next day, when she had to teach the butterflies. She walked part way down the incline to a ledge above the skunk cabbage muskeg and set up her canvas stool.
    Midway into a sketch, she heard clamoring from the larger boat. “Mon Dieu! Porquoi tu me tourmentes?” —the words uttered with the vehemence of an oath. The man flung two skin bags into the skiff, lowered himself into it, and rowed ashore. He carried them to the creek that ran out of the woods, filled them with water, and was walking back toward the tent when he saw her. “ Attention, mademoiselle! You’re going to slide down that hill and land in the muck.”
    â€œWhat kind of a boat is the big one?”
    â€œShe’s une bateau sauvage. ”
    â€œShe? What does she do?”
    â€œFight. Always she wants to go one way, I want to go the other.”
    â€œWhy do you paint your boats?”
    â€œTo beat back the dark wilderness with something light.”
    He set his water bags on the ground and came over to the opposite side of the narrow bog. His cheeks above his beard were burnished by wind and sun. His thin nose and small ears gave him a refined look in spite of his beard and tousled brown curls. He wore buckskin trousers and shirt—a man out of James Fenimore Cooper’s Leather-stocking Tales. As a girl, she’d reread them until the pages were soft as tissue paper.
    He scowled in a playful way that wrinkled the skin around his eyes. “You draw that boat, mademoiselle, and she’ll put a curse on you.”
    Emily laughed. “What is it called?”
    â€œ La Renarde Rouge. She’s a vixen.”
    â€œWhere do you go in it?”
    â€œAs far north as she decides to take me.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œAlone.”
    â€œTo Alaska?”
    â€œSometimes. Or up rivers. Wherever they’ll trade for furs.”
    â€œWhat is it like in the north?”
    â€œWild. Forests so thick they can’t be logged.” He threw his arms wide. “Vast territory. Weeks to get anywhere. Tout le temps, rain. Rain like waterfalls. Always branches dripping on you. Make you crazy.” He made a funny face, upper lip going one way, lower lip the other way.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œWhat do you want? Glaciers crashing into the sea? Birds that shriek like demons or grumble like old men? Oui, that too.” His eyes opened wide and his voice became throaty. “It’s wilderness so formidable it can turn you inside out and leave your raw flesh quivering.” He made his hands tremble.
    Her mind reeled with painting subjects. “Sounds like one glorious adventure.”
    â€œWhat? Are you a child? It is merely mercantile.” His words were clipped.
    â€œAre there bighouses?”
    â€œVillages of them, some painted to look like animals.” He waved his arms upward. “And poles stacked with queer creatures.”
    â€œTotem poles?”
    â€œAnd potlatches.”
    â€œWhat are they really?”
    â€œWon’t tell you. Can’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œSecret. You want me to shout it up the hill at you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan’t. You have to come here, to my camp.”
    He turned and got into his skiff and rowed out of the cove. Was that it? He was going to leave her wondering?
    Well, she was here to draw, so she drew, one sketch after another, different distances, different angles. Bad, happy drawings, done recklessly. Her charcoal broke. No matter. She ripped off a page to start another sketch. Wind whipped it out of her hand and blew it onto the beach. She started another, and another, filling her drawing tablet.
    â€¢ • •
    At home, a letter was sticking out of the mail slot. She ripped it open.
Dear Miss Carr,
    At a meeting of our board, we have decided that your teaching is inadequate for our purposes and must inform you that we shall no longer need your services.
    Mrs.