B. Alexander Howerton (12 page)

“We have a guest, Claudette, and he has brought something I
wish to give you.”  He produced from his satchel the stone which the old man
had given him, and handed it to Claudette.  Light from the fire caught it,
sending warm rays out to bathe the cabin in a soft glow.  “It’s beautiful,” she
said, gazing into it.  Then she looked at Emil with confusion.  “But how are
you going to pay for it?”

Emil, who was already retrieving his neglected armor from a
dark corner of the small cabin, replied, “I am going to give him these.”

Concern crossed her brow.  “Are you sure you want to do
that?”

“I have no more need for them.  The only thing I value
anymore is your love, and that which you hold is a token of mine for you.” 
They exchanged warm smiles.  “Old fellow, I will load these on your cart for
you.  Sit and rest a bit, and have some food and drink to restore your strength
for your journey.”

Emil went outside, and Claudette set the stone on the
mantle, in a little niche she discovered which held it up perfectly.  “Let me
dish you up some stew, and draw you some ale, to warm you for your travels.”

“Thank you, milady.”  He barely was able to say through his
coughing fit.

“Are you ill, sir?  Do you wish to stay a day and rest?” She
asked, serving him and patting his back with concern.

He waved a hand dismissively.  “I am fine, young lady.  I
will thankfully partake of your generous hospitality, but then I must be off. 
I intend to make Carcassonne by nightfall.  I hear their midsummer tournament
is under way.”

“Yes, it must be,” Claudette replied distractedly, her mind
wandering back to her former life.

Emil burst back into the cabin.  “So, old one, what news of
the wider world?”

Between ravenous gulps of stew, hearty draughts of ale, and
racking coughs, he told of his travels and adventures as a peddler, through
northern Italy and southern France.  Most of it was idle gossip that Emil cared
little for, but he did prick up his ears at news of a strange disease that had
spread through parts of the peddler’s travel area.  It seems people would
sometimes die of it, racked in torment, within a week.  The peddler had not
seen any of this disease firsthand, but he heard it had just reached Narbonne
when he had left there three days since.

Emil shrugged.  “We ought to safe from it out here.  No one
ever passes this way.”

The peddler nodded, then coughed again.  “Well, I must thank
you for your kindness, but I must be off.  I plan to make my fortune at the
Carcassonne fair.”

Emil stiffened, but then said, “I wish you all of God’s luck
in your venture.  Here, let me help you to your cart.”

He stood and watched the old peddler’s cart creak away, then
grabbed his ax and headed in the other direction to finish his wood chopping. 
The peddler turned the bend, and was gone from sight.  The woods were so thick,
and Emil so intent on his work, that he could not hear the violent coughs, then
wretching, which emanated from the peddler a quarter-league further on.  He
certainly did not see the old pile of rags topple from his cart, to lie still
in the dirt, never to move again.  And he certainly did not hear the soft
coughs beginning to issue from Claudette.

Two mornings later he was awakened by the sharp cries of
anguish coming from Claudette.  She turned to cough, and Emil could see a dark,
blotchy growth on her neck under her ear.  She screamed in pain and reached to
hug Emil.

“What is it?  What is wrong?” He asked, returning the hug.

“I don’t know, but my whole body is on fire.”

“Let me tend to you,” he said in a panic as he wrapped her
tightly in blankets and pulled the small bed closer to the fire.

All that day and night, he tended to her, fixing her herbal
tea and rubbing her cold limbs.  He noticed the blotches spreading on her body,
especially under her arms and in her groin area.  She began to shiver
uncontrollably and mutter incoherently.  At one point he thought he could hear
“…save the baby.  Live for the baby, save the baby…” but then she descended
again into unintelligible rantings.”

Emil woke with a start.  He had not even realized he had
fallen asleep.  He rolled over to check on Claudette.  Grief struck deep as he
saw her.  Her flesh was gray and waxen, her mouth hung open, with a small
trickle of spittle leaked form the corner.  Her eyes were open and blankly
staring, it seemed, at the strange stone that rested on the mantle.  He burst
into sobs and held her close for many hours, never noticing the small coughs
that periodically punctuated his cries of sorrow.

“I got your message and hurried right over,” Alan said as
Julia let him into her apartment.  “What’s wrong?”

Julia’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, but she
composed herself enough to manage to say, “Sit down.  We need to talk.”

They both sat on the edge of the couch.  Alan took both of
her hands and gazed questioningly at her.  Flickers of light shot around the
room, reflected from the Wyrding Stone, sitting in its ornate iron stand on the
windowsill

Julia sniffed a couple of times, then looked at Alan.  “The
EPT was positive.”

“What?…The….wha?…No!”  Several conflicting emotions raced
across Alan’s face.

Julia nodded emphatically, breaking into a new round of
sobs.  She buried her face into Alan’s shoulder.  “What are we going to do?”

Alan, holding her, stared incredulously out the window.  The
gentle breeze of mid-summer gently rustled the thick green leaves, the
afternoon sun lining each leaf with a golden aura.

“I don’t understand.  We always use a condom.”

Julia’s muffled voice came from his shoulder.  “I know. I
thought we were being so careful.”

Alan stroked her back.  “How long?  Do you know?”

Julia sat back up, dabbing at her nose with a tissue.  Long
strands of her dark hair clung to her cheeks, affixed there by tears.  “I
missed my period three weeks ago.  I didn’t want to bring it up, because I
didn’t want you to worry for nothing.”

Alan held her shoulders and stared into her face.  “Aw,
honey, you don’t have to protect me from anything.  I don’t want you to have to
go through stuff like this alone.  You can count on me.  I’m with you.”

She smiled weakly, then broke into more sobs.  Alan hugged
her close, gently rocking.  He stared absently at the Wyrding Stone, watching
the light play around the room.

“You know,” he said, hoping he sounded soothing, “we’re
engaged now, anyway.  Why don’t we just move the date up?  I know you were
thinking about next June, but that doesn’t seem so practical anymore.”

Julia looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears and
hope.  “You mean it?”  You don’t want to….”

“Of course not!”  He hugged her tighter.  “It’s our child. 
I love you, and I know we’ll be a wonderful, happy family.  This just kind of
accelerates the schedule, that’s all.”

Julia gave out a small sobbing laugh of relief and returned
his hug.  “I love you so much, Alan.  I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I feel the same way.”

They held each other close for a few moments, gently
rocking.

“Still,” he pondered, “I can’t figure out how this could
have happened.  I mean, we’ve always been careful.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve been trying to figure out when it
happened.  I mean, my last period was about two weeks before we went to
Chicago….”

They both simultaneously jerked back and looked at each other
with extreme surprise and dawning realization.  They slowly turned and gazed at
the Wyrding Stone.  The shimmering afternoon sunlight seemed to be absorbed
into it, then was reemitted as dancing, laughing patterns of light all about
the room.

From the journal of Luc Le Trappeur, dated 1634, found
recently near Green Bay, Wisconsin.  Translation courtesy of the Wisconsin
Historical Society.

13 June 1634

My name is Luc.  Just Luc.  I do not know my last name.  Le
Trappeur is what I call myself.  I am a fur trapper.  People want to know my
last name, so that is what I tell them.

I am writing to practice.  I am traveling westward with
Monsieur Nicolet, seeking the route to China.  There is little to do as the
Algonquin braves paddle us along the lake they call Michigan, so Monsieur
Nicolet has offered to teach me how to write.  I want to make something of
myself when we return to Quebec.  I have spent many years voyaging into the
woods to get furs from the Algonquins.  I am tired.  I want to be the one who
stays in the town and barters with the ship captains for a better price, before
they take the load of furs back to France.  The only way I will be able to do
that is to learn to write.  So I write.

I am the only other white man traveling west, besides
Monsieur Nicolet.  He chose me because I have spent many years in the woods
with the Algonquin.  I know them, and they trust me.  Also, I fought well in
the war with the English for Quebec, back in ’29.  He knows me to be a brave
and honorable man.  So here I am.

I do not know how old I am.  I am an orphan.  I was raised
at the Abbaye de St. Crécy.  From what the monks there told me, I must now be
about twenty-seven.  But I do not know.  I left the Abbaye when I must have
been fifteen, walked to La Rochelle, and there embarked on a ship for New
France.  I have been a fur trapper ever since.  I know no other life.  Enough
for today.

14 June 1634

I guess at the date.  I do not know what day it is.  We have
been voyaging for several weeks.  We left Quebec back in early May, paddling up
the Ottawa River.  We made portage across to Lake Nipissing, then found
ourselves in the wide waters of the lake known as Huron.  I have seen nothing
like it.  It is as wide as a sea, but the water is sweet.  There is such
natural beauty here, maybe I do not want to live the rest of my life in a
cramped little town.  I do not know.  That is a decision for when I return. 
For now, we travel west along Lake Michigan.  There is land to our right, which
means north.  It is covered with a dense, green forest, and I have seen many
different types of animals, including huge moose with spreading antlers.  A
trapping expedition into those woods would produce many valuable furs.  We camp
on this land each night, wherever we can find a clearing.

Monsieur Nicolet is certain we will find the Northwest
Passage to China by following this route.  He has heard tales from other
Indians that there is a great, rich people not far from here, that do their
trade by sea.  This could only be the Chinese, he is convinced.  Me, I do not
know, nor do I care too much.  He brought me to help him communicate with the
Algonquin, and to help barter for any furs or other tradable goods we might run
across.  He tells me that if we are successful, I will be a rich man.  That
would be nice, but nothing I have seen yet has had any more value than the furs
we could get closer to Quebec.  My only concern is to return to Quebec alive.

15 June 1634

We see land on both sides now.  We are coming into a great
bay.  Monsieur Nicolet believes we will find the Great Khan any moment now.

16 June 1634

What a funny sight!  We found the end of the bay, and
Monsieur Nicolet was sure we had found the Chinese mainland.  He had brought a
silk Chinese robe along with him, so he would not appear too foreign to the
local inhabitants.  We landed, and he put his robe on.  We proceeded up the
beach, and, to announce his arrival, he shot two pistols into the air.  There
was no reply.  We had to scramble up some small cliffs, but when we got to the
top, all we found were cowering Indians that did not appear too different from
our Algonquin friends.  I have not laughed so hard in many years.  Monsieur
Nicolet, however, was furious.  He demanded I ask where the Great Khan resided,
but I could not stop laughing long enough to get a word out.  He stamped and
fumed, waiting for me to recover.  When I finally could speak, they could not
understand me, nor did the Algonquins speak there language.  This sent me into
another fit of laughter, and Monsieur Nicolet stormed off to the canoes to
sulk.

I finally recovered enough to attempt to discover, through
use of gestures and repetitions, if we might camp on the beach for the night. 
After many misunderstandings, I believe they understood me.  Still, we will
make sure that two Algonquins stand watch all night, just in case.

17 June 1634

Monsieur Nicolet has found himself again.  He is now
determined to salvage something from the encounter, even if it is not the gold
and spices he had hoped for.  We sat with the chieftain of the village and
smoked the calumet.  We shared food, and traded furs.  We do not understand
each other much better, but at least we are on friendly terms.  Monsieur
Nicolet already talks of returning to Quebec.

18 June 1634

I am livid!  Monsieur says he will return to Quebec, but
that I must stay here and develop a relationship with these savages.  He
refuses to allow me back into the canoes.  This will not happen!

19 June 1634

He had the Algonquin, my friends, threaten me with knives
and spears!  They are gone!  I cannot believe this!  I will walk back to
Quebec, if I have to.

20 June 1634

The natives, who call themselves Sauk, have been very kind
to me.  They have sensed my distress, and bring me food, but they leave me
alone on the beach, where I have been brooding since yesterday.  I am obviously
stuck here.  Perhaps tomorrow I will go make friends with them.

21 June 1634

I cannot believe my good fortune.  These people are so kind
and generous, they have already taken me in as if I am one of them.  They have
granted me a wigwam, and it seems as if they have assigned one young maiden to
look after my needs.  She pointed to herself and said, “Pawatea,” so I surmise
that is her name.  Perhaps I am not so unfortunate as I had previously thought.

22 June 1634

Pawatea took great care to teach me her language today.  We
walked on the beach, and she pointed to things and said their names.  I am
already making progress.

At night I attended a great feast.  Many young braves,
dressed in wolf skins, danced around the fire.  There was one in particular
that kept looking at Pawatea.  I wonder if he has a special interest in her.

23 June 1634

Why did I ever think I wanted to return to stinky old
Quebec?  I love it here!

Today Pawatea and I walked farther along the beach than
yesterday.  I actually said a full sentence, and she understood!  I started
pointing to everything, naming it, and she got more and more excited, seeing I
was learning.  I bent down and picked up a stone.  It was a strange stone,
somehow colorless, yet full of color.  I asked her what it was.  She did not
answer.  Instead, she pushed herself very close to me and rubbed her nose on
mine.  Oh, her eyes!  They are so dark and mysterious and inviting.  Her long,
fine, raven hair fell about my shoulders from the swiftness of her approach. 
She threw her arms around my neck.

I leaned forward to kiss her.  She jerked back, exhibiting a
mild look of fright on her beautiful face. My smile must have reassured her,
because she brought her face closer again.  This time, she let me kiss her, and
learned quickly how to kiss back.  I don’t remember a thing she taught me for
the rest of the day.  I made a present of the strange stone to her.

Wait!  What is that sound?  I think she is coming into my
wigwam.  I must stop writing now.

24 June 1634

What a glorious night!  I never want to go back to that
rotten hellhole Quebec ever again!

We are together now.  She is my woman.  I don’t know how the
rest of the village feels about it.  Sometimes I think I see signs of approval,
other times I am sure they are displaying their displeasure.  The one brave,
Pawatea tells me his name is Chayuta, seems especially disgusted with me.

Pawatea says my red hair is the most interesting thing she
has ever seen on a human being.  She wonders if my father was a fox.  Her lips
form so beautifully when she tries to say “Luc.”

25 June 1634

This may be the last time I write.  Chayuta has formally
challenged me to a duel, or whatever the Sauk do instead.  I do not even know
what is expected of me, much less if I will win or not.  He came up and
screamed at me and struck me on the shoulders several times.  I was afraid for
my life.  After he stormed off, Pawatea told me he thought of her as his woman. 
Pawatea says she never led him to think so, but the rest of the village had
already decided when they were babies, and there was nothing she could do.  She
begged me to run off into the woods with her, but I refused.  I am a man of
honor.

If I write again, I am the victor.  If I do not, I am
vanquished.  If so, then it is as God wills.  I told Pawatea that if I lose
tomorrow, she must keep the strange stone from the beach as a memento of me and
a token of my love for her.  She will not stop crying.  How like a French woman
she is.

Here ends the journal of Luc Le Trappeur.