The Survivor (20 page)

“Well, I learned to shoot with the bow and arrow with the Micmac. I’m not much good. But if I can practice a bit... See, Catherine, so much faster than a firearm. After one gunshot, it takes minutes before you’re ready to fire the second. The moose can come and finish you off while you’re loading.”

“Those were not there before. You went back to the Micmac while I was nursing Mariah.”

Well of course he went back. Had he not mentioned it? Oh, perhaps, to avoid that awful truth of his only son. Now, she did suspect something was up. But he was not up to any argument right now. “Yes, of course I did — but Catherine, dearest, can’t all that wait till I have something to eat?”

“Oh, James, I’m sorry. But you can see, I’m upset. To think of you running off to your Micmac women while I’m suckling your only child. You can hardly blame me.” So that was it! She was worried about other women. He almost smiled. Easily overcome. But just rambling on about liking Micmac people would do him no good at all. She smelled a rat, as the saying goes. Had the time finally arrived when he would have to tell all? But after her reaction to the bull calf, what would she say about another child? Before he even opened his mouth, he was doomed. He slumped.

Without speaking, she put the porridge down in front of him, and got him a hot mug. James sipped it. Tea! Saved for special occasions, being so expensive. Well, a spark of optimism. He ate in silence.

“May I have some more bread and molasses?”

“Of course.” Catherine rose again, hardly acknowledging the weight of Mariah on her back, asleep. She set the jug of molasses down before James; he poured some onto his plate and scooped at it with another slice of her bread.

Well, everything at once! How could he get her to accept the calf? And then, his son? His mind, weary though it was, groped for answers. He drank his tea and hungrily finished off the bread. “Another slice, please? I’m so worn out, Catherine, I’m sorry. Nothing to eat since yesterday morning.”

“I can see that, James, so you just sit, and get your strength back. You’ll tell me all about it, when you are able.” Good: the old Catherine, whom he loved and trusted, was beginning to reappear. And she asked him about his harrowing experience and he responded. Then he realized, the first thing he must do if this expedition were not to be wasted, was to save the calf. “That little bull calf...” he began. “Can we make some more gruel? Water down the porridge, put in some cornmeal, add molasses, stir it all up. And not too hot.” She fell into the wifely mode at once. He finished his tea, and held out his cup. “Another will make me feel better.”

Obediently she filled it, and cut another slab of bread, pouring him more molasses.

He looked around. The room was bright with afternoon sunlight. Perhaps all was not lost. Utterly worn out still, he sat and let a shaft of good feelings slide into his heart. The planks of his walls made the room cozy, the ceiling above had been nicely laid from boards ripped out of Hall’s mill logs. A lucky man... He might survive. Funny how he had let down all his guard when he reached home. Not at all prepared for her burst of anger. But then, that’s the way it was. He had come through such a long night.

Soon, Catherine had readied the gruel.

“We need a wider bowl.”

Catherine agreeably found one and stood waiting while he filled it with gruel, and out they went. He knelt at the inert form and lifted the head that lolled in his hands; no strength there, for sure. He daubed gruel onto its nose as Catherine watched. Nothing. He began to whisper gently: a crooning sound. He daubed some more. He waited. Then, surprisingly, a little pink tongue came out and licked. He glanced up at Catherine. She did seem caught up in this life-or-death drama.

He daubed some more. The little tongue appeared again.

“Help,” James murmured. “Hold its head above the bowl, like this.” He lifted the head and pointed the nose into the gruel.

Catherine knelt, picked up the wobbly head and pointed it down. James stuck his fingers in the gruel and gently pushed the nose onto them. After a time, the calf began to suck. James glanced at Catherine again. Was that a little smile forming? “Will it live?” she asked.

“We can but hope.”

After suckling a bit, the head lolled to one side. “We’ll give it a short rest.”

Catherine let the calf lie back, and with her fair white hand, began to stroke its cheek.

Later that morning, James carried the little fellow over to its new home in the barn. As he put it down among the stalks and stumps still erupting from the earth floor, Catherine appeared behind. “Shouldn’t we get him some straw or leaves to lie on?”

“Yes, definitely, make him comfortable. But first, would you mind bringing the bowl?”

“I have it here.” She held it out, but the baby woke up and began to cry.

“I’ve got to feed Mariah.” Catherine left him to deal with the calf.

Deal with the calf, but far more important, deal with his ominous future. When he went back in, he would have to face Catherine with it all: his wife and former family and his son, John.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Late that afternoon, James looked in on his prize, asleep on its fresh cedar boughs, an empty wooden bowl beside. What next? Oh yes, water. James went back to the house and checked the half-barrel’s water outside. Nearly empty. He got two buckets and set off down to the brook, feeling a momentary shiver of excitement. Next year, if his bull lived, it would be carrying up the water on its back. He’d have to rig a decent contraption. Talking of rigging, he thought, why not rig myself a simple yoke? A branch, shaped to carry comfortably across my shoulders, with a bucket hanging from each end.

He knelt at the brook, filled his containers, and set off with his burden, but also the bigger burden of how to tell Catherine about his son.

The previous day’s journey had taken its toll. His legs felt weak, the buckets of water heavy, whereas he used to carry them easily. But that had given him the idea of a neck yoke, he reflected, so things sent to try us often bring good.

As he gave his calf water, it looked up at him with big brown eyes. Did it know what he had gone through? “You’re going to grow into a big strong ox,” James said. “You’ll help haul water up from the brook. And maybe, by and by, you’ll even be pulling a few logs. This winter, I’ll feed you fine, don’t you worry.” Don’t worry? He surely did.

And now, what about a name? He found Catherine stirring a stew for their supper, Mariah asleep in her pine cradle.

“Catherine,” James began, “what shall we call it?”

“Call what?”

“The calf, of course.” Oh-oh, her mind is still on that Micmac trip of his. The new calf hadn’t even registered. He was in for it.

“Well, if you’re so determined and can figure out how we can manage our long winter ahead, then you can think of a name yourself.”

Not making this easy. Nothing would be easy, now. “Maybe we should decide on that when it gets older,” he grumbled. “If I don’t throw it over the bank first.” He was beginning to get angry.

“Why would you throw it over the bank?”

“Because you obviously hate it.”

“But I didn’t say I hate it. I just asked, how are we going to manage?”

“Once the calf gets its strength, it will be able to stand.” His dander was up. “Then, it will graze. Cattle, they eat all sorts of weeds and things. We can give it crushed roots, too, like we eat. Bit of molasses for energy, just for a month or so. I can tether it back to that swale the burn caused last year. Lots of fresh shoots there. No bears this time of year. No wildcats, neither. Anyway, before too long I’ll cut feed back there and haul it out on my shoulders. It’s a starved little bull now, but when it fattens up, it can last all winter without too much feed. When next spring comes, it’ll be out grazing and get back its strength. They’re tough animals born here, got to be, to survive.”

Catherine looked up. “Sounds reasonable.” James could see her relax somewhat. “So, my dearest Catherine, let’s please think up a name.”

She put the spider on the table and got a few utensils. “Your idea of what it will look like in a couple of years is good. Why not something like Big or Tall or Broad?”

“Broad. That’s a good name. I like it.” He straightened and pretended he had reins in one hand. “Broad,
gee
,” he yelled, which turned an ox right. “Broad, m’son,
haw!
” That turned an ox left. “Sounds good.”

Catherine paused by the table, and couldn’t prevent a smile. “I can just see you behind him, ploughing our new fields.” And then her expression hardened and a lost look came into her eyes. “If we ever see those days...” She turned back to the fireplace, her shoulders sagging. “Food’s ready.”

Still worried about my Indian concubine, he said to himself. Who doesn’t exist. He went out to wash his hands at the outside scrubbing bench. Then, making a decision, he came back and sat across the table. She sat looking at him while James said grace. He took a spoonful of stew.

For a few moments, neither spoke. “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been through?”

She shook her head. “You know what I want to hear, first all.” She spooned down some soup, waiting, not meeting his eyes.

“I do, I do, yes,” he said. Well, the moment had come. “You remember I told you I had a wife? She only lived with me for one year.”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “How could I forget?”

“I thought that was all behind you.”

“It was. Until I found the bow and arrow.” She dropped her eyes. And returned to her soup.

“I got the bow and arrow, and the spear, when I visited the tribe. We shall need red meat this winter. I shall have to kill a moose, or caribou, to fill our larder. We’re not spending another winter in New Carlisle. We’ve got to make this house work for us. And clearing land is best done in winter. I’ll cut like crazy, and next spring, Broad will have logs to skid across the snow.” She looked up. “You’re hiding something, James.”

True. Well, tell her. Out with it. No more secrets. “Catherine, I have been... well, afraid to tell you.” He took her hands. “I want more than anything to be open with you. I want more than all my heart —”

She pulled away her hands and placed them flat on the table as if to brace herself for the shock.

“Catherine...” He found his voice breaking. How he hated to do this. How much he longed to have her with him forever. And this would shatter that. How could he go on?

She was there, hands pressed hard on the smooth wood. And probably, her heart beating as hard as his.

“Catherine,” he began again, “I don’t know how to say this.”

“James, please, say it anyway. This is killing me.” James saw a tear run down her cheek and hit the table. Yes, he had better say it.

“Catherine, I didn’t tell you how Little Birch died.”

She remained still, listening.

“She died in childbirth.” As he said it, the tears started to well up in his own eyes. “I loved her, Catherine. I’m sorry. I did love her. And she died.”

Catherine had not moved but her body softened.

He gathered himself. This was so hard. He hated reliving it. He had been so very broken by the whole episode. He repeated, controlling himself. “In childbirth. She had a son.”

Catherine lifted her head and looked at him in wonder. They remained silent, while he got a grip on his emotions. “Did he live?”

“Yes.” James pressed his hand hard against his mouth. But the tears seeping out told it all. “His name is John. He’s a year old. Down there, with his grandmother, Full Moon.” He bowed his head and spoke the fateful words: “He is my son, Catherine.”

Catherine looked at him across the table, her blue eyes wide with wonder, and also understanding. But James did not see this. For he had placed his forehead on the table and let the sobs come.

She reached out a hand to her husband, who was lost in utter grief.

They stayed like that for a long time, until James could get himself under control. Head still on the table, he mumbled, “And now, there’s nothing more to say.”

A quick spasm of tears shook him, and he stood up abruptly, and strode out. He crossed his clearing and sat down overlooking the bay, head in hands. Everything was lost, his farm, his wife, his new darling daughter, and his new bull. He wanted to throw himself off the cliff.

Overhead, a few scattered cirro-stratus clouds hung in the falling dusk. Far across the bay, a palate of pink cloud with the most exquisite blue-grey shadings mixed together, their distant turbulence frozen while some magical artist tinted the whole with shades of pale crimson and white, so delicately contoured. And toward him came another floating mass with darker grey undertones, like a solid raft bearing warnings of a storm. Or a celestial omen. He breathed deeply.

Finally, blowing his nose on his handkerchief and clearing his throat, he wiped his eyes and his face and got up. He walked back and entered the open doorway. The table had been cleared, the dishes washed, and Catherine was lighting their whale-oil lamp. She turned as she heard his step.

He stood, awaiting the awful judgement. He had survived so much. Maybe he could even survive this: the loss of his new wife, daughter, everything. He raised his eyes to see her standing before him.