Métisse; she lay with her face in a puddle. A russet skirt with a pumpkin-coloured apron, torn, had been lifted to expose her bare legs and buttocks. Her long black hair had been pressed into the mud by somebody’s boot. Dad gently turned her over, wiped the dirt from her nose and mouth. She stirred.
Everyone was dangerously subdued. A boy of perhaps four years of age sat near by. Dad smoothed the woman’s skirt over her legs, but he was stopped by a hand with red hair sprouting between the knuckles, and he looked up directly into the hairy ears of the mutton-chopped surveyor. The fellow grinned a grin conspiratorial and obsequious. My father stood, straighteninghis hat. The child stood, mimicking. The surveyor said, “Looks like you’ve picked up a stray.”
Someone began to giggle. The haggard collection of soldiers were staggering drunk. A fat man laughed so hard he doubled over and then sat down, aiming for a fallen tree trunk, which he missed, and floundered in the mud with a bad fit of hiccups. Mutton chops winked at Dad.
The very drunk have flight patterns like swifts or swallows, abrupt and veering. Suddenly, the fat soldier stopped laughing and spoke to my father with elaborate care. “Are you a murderer?” he asked my dad. All the soldiers fell silent. The speaker rose and, with an injured expression, wiped his trousers. Two hiccups in succession, and then he said, louder, “Are you the one put the bullet to Brother Scott’s head?” Through the willows, Dad could see the wide, grey river. The Métis named Goulet had drowned not far from shore, a stone’s throw. Both my parents knew Goulet well. He’d been a member of the court martial that had condemned Thomas Scott to death. The soldiers had killed Goulet by throwing rocks at his head while he tried to swim across the river.
The little boy spotted a frog in the grass and began to chase it into the woods. He was only as tall as the milkweed. When he came to a fallen tree, he crept under it and disappeared into the bush. Dad made a move to go after him, but the soldiers cut him off.
My father knew we make the world by looking; we’re always making it up. So he wasn’t surprised to see my mother emerge from the woods with me in my sling and the boy’s hand in hers. He’d conjured her, wife and murderer. Mum was looking refreshed, wearing her capote and her wet hat, and looking for all the world like the boy’s aunt.
They saw my father’s inspiring glance and turned their attention to us. My mother, always happy to chat with strangers, gave them a winning smile. This was the final insult. These brave men had walked over fifteen hundred miles of bog carrying barrels of salt pork, expecting to free the Anglo pioneers from the rebel breeds, only to find themselves before a cheerful squaw flirting like she was their equal. The most coherent of the drunken soldiers shifted his weight, rubbed his nose with his hand and said, “And who the bloody hell might you be?”
“She is my wife,” my father said.
The soldier turned back to my father. “I picked you for a breed soon as I laid eyes on you.” Then he squinted, wiping rain from his brow.
“I know who you are.” It was mutton chops. He pointed at Dad. “You shot Thomas Scott.”
My mother and father looked across the drizzle directly at one another, a mated glance, serious and resolute. My mother’s hand calmly stroked my back. Dad yelled, “Run!” In opposite directions. My mother back to the woods, dragging the little boy, while Dad made for the river. “Lynch the bastard!” we heard the soldiers shouting. My mother looked behind and saw that they’d gone after Dad. She stopped, panting. In the quiet woods she crouched to catch her breath, studying the soaked red bark of a spruce and a moth, grey and dusty, closed up. Nobody was coming after her. It felt like hide-and-seek. She could hear the soldiers yelling near the river.
She went to the riverbank. Dad was swimming across. He
Everyone was dangerously subdued. A boy of perhaps four years of age sat near by. Dad smoothed the woman’s skirt over her legs, but he was stopped by a hand with red hair sprouting between the knuckles, and he looked up directly into the hairy ears of the mutton-chopped surveyor. The fellow grinned a grin conspiratorial and obsequious. My father stood, straighteninghis hat. The child stood, mimicking. The surveyor said, “Looks like you’ve picked up a stray.”
Someone began to giggle. The haggard collection of soldiers were staggering drunk. A fat man laughed so hard he doubled over and then sat down, aiming for a fallen tree trunk, which he missed, and floundered in the mud with a bad fit of hiccups. Mutton chops winked at Dad.
The very drunk have flight patterns like swifts or swallows, abrupt and veering. Suddenly, the fat soldier stopped laughing and spoke to my father with elaborate care. “Are you a murderer?” he asked my dad. All the soldiers fell silent. The speaker rose and, with an injured expression, wiped his trousers. Two hiccups in succession, and then he said, louder, “Are you the one put the bullet to Brother Scott’s head?” Through the willows, Dad could see the wide, grey river. The Métis named Goulet had drowned not far from shore, a stone’s throw. Both my parents knew Goulet well. He’d been a member of the court martial that had condemned Thomas Scott to death. The soldiers had killed Goulet by throwing rocks at his head while he tried to swim across the river.
The little boy spotted a frog in the grass and began to chase it into the woods. He was only as tall as the milkweed. When he came to a fallen tree, he crept under it and disappeared into the bush. Dad made a move to go after him, but the soldiers cut him off.
My father knew we make the world by looking; we’re always making it up. So he wasn’t surprised to see my mother emerge from the woods with me in my sling and the boy’s hand in hers. He’d conjured her, wife and murderer. Mum was looking refreshed, wearing her capote and her wet hat, and looking for all the world like the boy’s aunt.
They saw my father’s inspiring glance and turned their attention to us. My mother, always happy to chat with strangers, gave them a winning smile. This was the final insult. These brave men had walked over fifteen hundred miles of bog carrying barrels of salt pork, expecting to free the Anglo pioneers from the rebel breeds, only to find themselves before a cheerful squaw flirting like she was their equal. The most coherent of the drunken soldiers shifted his weight, rubbed his nose with his hand and said, “And who the bloody hell might you be?”
“She is my wife,” my father said.
The soldier turned back to my father. “I picked you for a breed soon as I laid eyes on you.” Then he squinted, wiping rain from his brow.
“I know who you are.” It was mutton chops. He pointed at Dad. “You shot Thomas Scott.”
My mother and father looked across the drizzle directly at one another, a mated glance, serious and resolute. My mother’s hand calmly stroked my back. Dad yelled, “Run!” In opposite directions. My mother back to the woods, dragging the little boy, while Dad made for the river. “Lynch the bastard!” we heard the soldiers shouting. My mother looked behind and saw that they’d gone after Dad. She stopped, panting. In the quiet woods she crouched to catch her breath, studying the soaked red bark of a spruce and a moth, grey and dusty, closed up. Nobody was coming after her. It felt like hide-and-seek. She could hear the soldiers yelling near the river.
She went to the riverbank. Dad was swimming across. He
Similar Books
