Shadowbrook Part 26

Marni was waiting for him in the yard behind the house, rubbing a pinafore on a washboard. Thin whiffs of steam rose from the wash water. Nearby a black kettle was suspended above a fire made on the open ground. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the string of game. "You did well."

"Keep you from being hungry for a time," he said. It was cold enough so Corm could see his breath when he spoke. He reached over and stroked her hair. Lately, when they were alone like this, she had taken to ignoring her mobcap, letting her long straight hair fall free. It was the color of fresh wheat and reached halfway down her back. When they made love and she was on top the way she liked to be, her hair hung around them like a curtain, shutting away the outside world.

Marni ducked away from his touch and reached for the birds. She spent a few seconds examining his kill, then cooed with pleasure. "You didn't shoot them. You did it the Indian way."

Cormac slid the bow from his shoulder and released the quiver of arrows. "You prefer that, don't you? When I do things the Indian way."

"Some things I do," she agreed. Once, she'd made him show her how the Indians did it with squaws. He had her get down on all fours and he stood behind her and thrust himself into her. She'd hated it and they never did it again. "With bird killing, anyway," she said. "With a bow and arrow there are no pellets of lead to break your teeth when you least expect it."

"Shouldn't be any, no matter how the bird's killed. Not if it's cleaned proper."

She smiled again, her pink tongue darting forward to taunt him. "Clean them yourself if you do not like the way I do it."

"I like everything you do. Well enough, anyways." Again he reached out to stroke her hair and again she ducked away. "You're beautiful," he said. "That's why I want to touch you."

"But right now I'm busy."

"Leave off what you're doing."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to do something else."

"Later. When I finish the was.h.i.+ng."

Corm shrugged and began to remove his hunting s.h.i.+rt. "Then you might as well scrub this, too."

He'd been on the farm less than a week when she surprised him in the wash yard, though both of them knew the encounter was pure calculation. It was the first time she'd seen him s.h.i.+rtless and she had found his lack of chest hair startling. "So it's true that you're half Indian," she'd said.

"It's true. Anyway, I thought you knew everything about me."

"I had heard ... But the way you look ... I thought maybe it was a lie."

"It's no lie. So what do you think? Would my scalp be worth the full ten guineas in Halifax? That's the bounty Governor Lawrence has offered for an Indian scalp, isn't it?"

"There's a better price than that on your head," she'd told him. "The Abbe LeLoutre at Fort Beausejour, I hear he offers a hundred livres for the scalp of any English settler, and two hundred livres for yours. Twice that much if you are brought to him still breathing. So he can scalp you while you're alive, he says, and kill you after. But I do not go to Halifax. I have as little to do with the English as I can manage."

"But you're living on the English side of the line," he'd said.

Marni had shrugged. "My family's farm was here before the line was drawn. No one consulted us about where it would be."

For the Acadians, little had changed in the fifty years since most of l'Acadie had been ceded to the English. Seven months Corm had been here, and though as far as he could tell Marni never went near a church, most of her neighbors still practiced the Catholic faith, spoke French, not English, and swore only a limited allegiance to the English king. They said they would remain neutral if anyone took up arms against His Majesty, but they did not commit themselves to fighting on his behalf. Most important, they went on farming and being prosperous against all the odds. Those small sheds he'd seen when he came here were not for drying fish or storing apples as he thought. They were part of a remarkable system of earthen d.y.k.es that kept the seawater out and drained the rain from the wetlands, so eventually the salt marshes were washed clean and became sweet and were reclaimed for crops. The Acadians grew enough to amply feed themselves and had plenty left over to sell. And most of them secretly supplied the French forts before they traded with the English.

As for Marni and him, they were both outcasts. It was a fact that bound them to each other almost as strongly as the fire that had crackled between them the first time he accidentally touched her hand. She reached to take the s.h.i.+rt he'd suggested she wash. Corm tossed it aside and grabbed her and reeled her into his arms. Marni resisted for only a moment, then pressed herself to him.

Corm put his hand on her breast. "Inside," she said against his lips, pus.h.i.+ng her tongue into his mouth between the words. "Inside. I want to be naked."

Later he slept. After about an hour Marni woke him with a mug of warm milk and spruce beer. "Here, open your eyes. You are acting like someone possessed. Shouting and arguing with ghosts. There can be no rest in such sleep."

He came awake instantly. "What did I say?"

"I have no idea. You were talking Indian."

Corm took the mug and drank half of it in one long swallow. "It's good, thanks. Are you going to cook me one of-"

The shout from outside cut off his words. "Peace be to this house and all who dwell therein." A stranger, and not far away.

Marni jumped up from her place beside his sleeping mat. Corm as well, and he reached for his long gun. "No," she whispered, talking while she bent over at the waist and twisted her long hair into a single coil, then stood and hid it beneath a mobcap. "It's a priest. I'll go."

"How do you know-"

"It's what they always say. You stay here. Hide in case I have to bring him inside."

She had gone out the door and pulled it firmly shut behind her before he had a chance to protest.

"Good day to you, Monsieur le Cure."

"And to you, mademoiselle. I came because I have not seen you at Holy Ma.s.s in the three weeks since I've been here."

A black robe. She had heard that one had come to replace old Cure Vincent at the church of St. Gabrielle in the village. "Perhaps if you had been here a little more time, Monsieur le Cure, you would know that I never go to church."

"You will lose your immortal soul, mademoiselle."

"Perhaps I have done that already."

So, Phillippe Faucon thought, everything they said was true. She wasn't just a sinner, but a defiant one. He had little experience in the day-to-day care of souls, little idea of what to say in the face of such confirmed wrongheadedness. "Eternity is a very long time to spend in the fires of h.e.l.l, mademoiselle."

Marni shrugged. "Perhaps it is only spent in the ground, Monsieur le Cure. Perhaps when we die we have only the grave to look forward to. I think we must take our pleasures in this life while we can."

"They tell me you live here alone."

"I do. My mother died many years ago, my father not long after. And I have no brothers or sisters."

"And you are not married?"

Marni smiled. "I am sure there are any number of people around here who will be happy to tell you the story of my betrothal, Monsieur le Cure. In fact, you must have heard it by now."

"Yes. It is a sad tale, but-"

"But dead is dead. As I have said. Now, Monsieur le Cure, is there something more I can do for you?"

Philippe nodded toward the house. "Perhaps if we go inside-"

"No."

So she did have someone staying with her. But was it really Cormac Shea?

"Mademoiselle has asked you to leave, monsieur. I suggest it would be wise to do so."

Marni turned as soon as she heard his voice. "There is no need. I am able to-"

"Go inside," Corm said. "I will deal with monsieur le cure."

"He's not an ordinary priest," she said.

"I believe mademoiselle means that I am a Jesuit." Mon Dieu, it was true. It was the metis Cormac Shea.

"A priest nonetheless," Cormac said.

"Most a.s.suredly so. And I am concerned for the soul of Mademoiselle Benoit, here. And for yours, Monsieur Shea."

"You know me?"

"Everyone knows the most famous coureur de bois in Canada."

"Not quite everyone, Monsieur ... ? Do you have a name?"

"Of course, Philippe Faucon."

Ayi! Corm's heart beat against his ribs. Faucon. In English, Falcon. A falcon was a hawk. And all in black like this one was, with his soutane and his cloak flapping about in the wind like wings. "Go inside." He turned to Marni, surprised at how his voice didn't give away the excitement inside him, or the fear. "Go inside," he said again. "Prepare something for the priest to drink. He has come a long way to warn us of the fires of h.e.l.l."

"But-'

"Don't argue, just do it."

Marni's stone-gray eyes sent him a message of disapproval and resentment, but Corm's had become opaque.

To speak to her that way in front of the Jesuit ... He had no right to order her about on her own farm. But he had. When she spread her legs for him she had given him the authority every man has over a woman once he lies over her. Cormac might as well announce to the black robe that she was a wh.o.r.e. She could feel her cheeks coloring bright red.

"Go," Corm said again. "Please," he added more gently, seeing how she looked. "We will come inside in a moment." And after she'd left, to the priest, "Faucon. Is that really your name?"

"Yes, of course. In France my family have been falconers for many generations." He did not add that his uncle was master of the king's mews. Pride was a sin. Even for a Jesuit.

"I think," Cormac said very slowly, "I have been expecting you, Monsieur Faucon."

"And how is that?"

How much should he tell this Jesuit? They were known to be perpetual schemers, deeply involved in all the politics of war and peace. In the normal way of things he would avoid them like the plague. But what was normal about a man dressed all in black and bearing the name Falcon arriving at Port Mouton, at the edge of the world, after Kekomoson had dreamed that Cormac must go east, and after Cormac had dreamed that he was to follow a hawk along a river of blood to where a white bear stood beside a covey of little birds? "Will you think me mad if I tell you that I believe we have business together?"

Philippe looked at the metis. He was handsome in spite of his scar. And his eyes ... incroyable. He seemed to be seeing things that were not evident to others. The Jesuit made a hurried sign of the cross. "What business is that, monsieur?"

"I am not sure. And please call me Cormac."

"If you are not sure, then-"

"Wait. I said I wasn't sure, but I can tell you as much as I know."

"No man can do more," Philippe said softly. He had come to see if what they said was true, and if it was, to look with his own eyes on a man who was a legend. But now he was more than curious. He was enthralled.

"Some months ago," Corm said, "in the beginning of summer, I dreamed of a hawk following a river of blood. It came to a place where there were many little birds. A great white bear approached the birds and the hawk attacked the bear."

Philippe began to sweat beneath his cloak and his soutane. Despite the spring chill, rivulets of perspiration ran down his back. He was a priest, a Jesuit, but he had never sought out the mystical or attempted to probe the unknown. He had long ago resolved to do his duty, avoid sin, and hope for heaven after death. A quiet life, his sketchbooks, he had never asked for more ... He wanted to turn and run. He could not. Cormac Shea held him in place with the strength of his glance.

Mon Dieu, I am not a man meant for a fight. You did not make me so. Not even strong enough to pit my will against a falcon's and prevail. Come Philippe, she is hooded, and your gauntlet will protect you. She is only an eyas, a very young peregrine, and I have just begun to train her. The hens are best, you know, much better killers than the c.o.c.ks. This one will be special. I've named her Lady of Steel. Here, take the jess ... Remove the hood. Now, release the jess, launch her. The peregrine flew off, circling above Philippe's head, then, sensing his weakness, dived and began pecking at his neck and his shoulders while he crouched in terror, weeping using the hand covered with the gauntlest to protect his face. His father softly whistled the peregrine back to fist and the boy was sent away in disgrace. Ever after the mere smell of the Mews sickened him. "So," the priest asked softly, "in your dream, did the hawk overcome the bear?"

"I don't know. A white wolf ran out of the trees and charged the bear. Then I woke up."

"And this dream is significant?"

Cormac peered hard at the priest. The battle the man was fighting was evident. Why are you so terrified, Jesuit? What have I said that has frightened you? "Have you been long in Canada, Monsieur le Cure?"

"Five years. I go-I went frequently to visit the longhouses."

"Maybe you did not go frequently enough. The Indians, even the Huron, have much to teach the white men. Such as the fact that some dreams are very significant. Particularly if a man carries the name of a fighting hawk."

Philippe gestured toward the door of the cabin, desperate to end this talk of falcons. "I must speak more with Mademoiselle Benoit. She is-"

"You are the hawk of the dream. The black hawk that follows the river of blood."

"No. You're mistaken. I am not meant for such things. I do not-"

"Whether or not you are meant for it, you are the hawk. Now I must find out where the river of blood leads. And who is the bear."

Philippe clutched at his cloak, holding it together from the inside, and tried to stop s.h.i.+vering. "I cannot say, monsieur. You are mistaken in your a.s.sumptions. I am not a hawk and I cannot ..." The words stuck in his throat. Six thousand troops and a flotilla of English s.h.i.+ps deployed to intercept them. Surely enough firepower to turn the St. Lawrence into a river of blood.

Monsieur le Provincial had said Philippe must go to l'Acadie to strengthen the faith of the habitants. Had he come so far merely to chase after young women who had put their souls in peril by lifting their skirts? To become, though he was entirely unsuited to the task, the cure of L'Eglise du St. Michel, a backwoods parish in a forsaken part? What do you want of me, mon Dieu? Only make Your will known and I will do it.

"A river of blood," Philippe said softly.

"A flood," Corm said. "Blood that covered everything in its path."

The Jesuit felt the terror fall away. He let go of the cloak and withdrew one hand from the folds and made the sign of the cross. "Everything is for a purpose, monsieur."

That's what Xavier Walton had said before he left Quebec for Virginia. Remember, Philippe, Monsieur le Provincial does everything for a purpose. Nothing is an accident. Ever since, Philippe had wondered if he'd been meant to find the letter speaking of the troops. Surely it could not be a surprise that the secret springs and hinges in the paneling would be released by vigorous polis.h.i.+ng of the sort he'd been set to do. And would a man like Louis Roget forget that unlike the brothers, who usually did the cleaning, Philippe Faucon could read and write? No, not likely. "What is your place in all this, Monsieur Shea?"

"My name is Cormac. And I don't know my place. But I am the white wolf. It's my totem."

Old Geechkah the Huron had explained to the priest about totems. Philippe understood them to be not unlike the saints' names good Catholic parents gave to their children, and the amulets that sometimes went with the totems were like the medals or other symbols of devotion that Catholics often carried on their person. "And in your dream the white wolf attacked the bear?"

"The wolf was preparing to do so, yes. I think to protect the birds from the river of blood. But I can't be sure."

Nothing is an accident. "It is possible I have something to tell you, Cormac Shea." The Jesuit's mouth was so dry he could barely form the words, but once inside the cabin the story poured out; the promised troops from France, the presence of the English fleet, the way things were in Quebec. At least the way he believed them to be. "I cannot be sure of such a thing, perhaps it is a great calumny ... But Lantak, the renegade-"

"I know who Lantak is. What does he have to do with any of this?" Cormac was thinking of old Memetosia implying that Lantak was a metis, and of Memetosia's gift.

"The Franciscan," Philippe continued, "Pere Antoine, he's called. I cannot be sure ..."

"Yes, so you said. Tell me what it is you're not sure of."