Silence of Stone (11 page)

“
Non
,” I say, pulling my hand from hers. “Go back to your darning.”

“But could we sing?” she persists, her lisp more pronounced.
Could we thing?

“If you wish to
thing
, you must do so at home. Your papa can teach you. He seems to know everything.”

Isabelle does not hear the acid in my voice. She looks toward the ceiling and sighs. “He never sings. He's always reading.”

Her beautiful lips pout, and I think of Michel's lips, his gay voice, and the music of the citre. When I was taken from the island, the ship's captain took the instrument in exchange for my passage, but even then was reluctant to take me aboard. He could not be convinced I was human. It was only his greed for the citre, with its precious metals and inlaid ivory, that saved me – or condemned me.

Isabelle has returned to her bench. She pushes dark curls away from her face, steals a sidelong glance at me, and then reaches for a chunk of chalk and a roof-slate instead of her yarn and stocking. I leave her alone. I have scolded enough.

Turning away, I allow myself a small smile. This morning the cheese was gone. When I opened the
window upstairs, a gust of wind blew ashes into my face, and I tasted grit on my tongue, but not before I saw tracks on the ledge: four rounded toes and a pad, a cat's paws, not a rat's.

What does Monsieur Lafrenière think he knows? What does he want to know? I walk to the narrow window and crack it open so I can breathe.

How long, O Lord? How long? Days vanished like smoke. Grievous sin. La culpabilité.

Memories explode within my skull. My head aches from the reverberations. Hands to my forehead, I stare out on the muddy road. And now I am floating, outside, above the mud, and looking back at the scrivener's shop. I see through the walls, to the girls inside the classroom, heads bent over their darning. All except Isabelle. She works at the slate, the chalk tapping, grating, scraping.

Lines on the granite wall. Scrape of stone upon stone.

Before she knew how to make sinew, Marguerite used twine to sew rabbit skins together. When Michel saw her using his dagger to poke holes in the stiff skins, he carved a bone awl. Without a word, he tossed it into her lap. She had learned when she was a child how to preserve the skins of sheep and rabbits, but the furs she had now – some entirely white, others still tawny but mottled with white – had not been properly tanned. She did not have the tools to work them, to stretch and soften them, and the skins were stiff and her sewing clumsy, but they made a warm cloak. Marguerite also fashioned hoods and
crude mitts, and tried not to worry that the rabbits were becoming harder and harder to catch.

Now and again Michel snared a fox or weasel or mink, its fur thick and lustrous, but he refused to wear anything made from the animals' skins.

We are not
les sauvages
, he said, his face bitter. Not yet.

The ducks and gulls were becoming as scarce as the rabbits. Michel baited hooks with bits of their entrails to catch fish from the sea and from the lower pools and streams. He carved a spear that he and Marguerite used to stab flatfish in the shallows and a few salmon in the cold brooks. Damienne, who refused to put a foot in the water, any water, because of her terrible fear of drowning and of monsters, gathered whatever berries and roots she could find without venturing too far from the cave. All three of them were growing thin, even the corpulent Damienne. Their ragged clothes hung loose from their shoulders.

Marguerite's belly had barely begun to round when she finally told the old woman. Damienne's hands fluttered about her gaunt face. She pretended gladness – and a knowledge of birthing she did not have. She struggled to make herself smile, then she fussed and fretted over Marguerite as if this were a joyous event. She chirped and chattered, suggesting that they begin making blankets and bunting from rabbit skins.

Marguerite willed her to be silent. She could not think about the baby. She could think only of how
she had lost Michel's love. Her body craved food, but even more the comfort of his touch. She could only dimly recall his dazzling smile, and her ears hungered for the sound of his voice, light and gay and confident once again. At night, when they lay side by side on flat pink stone, feet toward the fire, they could have fed their love. Instead she starved for the feel of his mouth on hers, for the embrace of his arms and the warmth of his body pressed against her.

Michel left her empty and ravenous.

She felt betrayed by her body, and then ashamed. Once, not so long ago, though it now seemed like years, she had wanted this baby. She had thought that her uncle would marry them if she were carrying Michel's child. How foolish she had been.

Marguerite prayed for God's mercy. She prayed for their rescue, and she prayed that Michel's love would return when the ship finally came.

She prayed that he would not scorn her forever.

Continuously, without pause, her lips murmured prayers: Have mercy on me, O Lord…My God is my helper, and in him will I put my trust…They wandered in a wilderness in a place without water. They found not the way of a city for their habitation. They were hungry and thirsty. Their soul fainted in them. And they cried to the Lord in their tribulation, and he delivered them out of their distresses…

How long, O Lord? How long?
Whispers. Growls. Taunts.
Out of the depths I have cried to thee. Km-mm-mm. Saved by our grace, not God's.

I am back in the classroom. I hear giggling behind
me, the girls this time, not the voices, but when I turn from the window, they concentrate on their needles and stockings, their faces solemn. The tip of Isabelle's pink tongue covers her upper lip, and she works quietly with the chalk. She does not raise her head, afraid that I will make her pick up her wool and needle.

I turn back to the window. The air is balmy, but I see snow falling and feel sleet and icy pellets strike my face, freezing my eyes.

The days grew short and bitter cold, the winds more fierce, driving ice onto the shore. The ice became so thick they could have walked to nearby islands, but they had neither reason nor will nor energy to do so. Marguerite and Damienne hauled water and driftwood to the cave. They cut spindly dry trees and gathered all the frozen berries they could find, no longer caring that the berries might be poisonous.

Michel left the cave only to check and re-set the snares. He said little, and even then Marguerite and Damienne did not welcome his words, for he could only curse Roberval and mutter about cold, hunger, death, and murder. The weight of his bitterness was worse than the thick smoke-laden air.

Marguerite tried to answer his gruffness with tenderness, but he brushed aside her hands, and her words. They still lay side by side at night, but he denied her even the warmth of his body lying close to hers.

Damienne, her face now deeply lined, her grey hair thin, and her skin dark and scaly, no longer
troubled herself to give the lovers privacy. There was no need.

One day, outside the cave, she pulled Marguerite aside. You cannot keep thinking of
him
, she said, not even willing to speak Michel's name. You must think of the baby, and you must not be so sad. Your sadness will hurt the baby.

The baby. Michel would not speak of the baby. Michel did not want the baby. Marguerite tried to convince herself that she did, that the baby was a gift from God, a blessing. She continued to read her New Testament and to pray: Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak…From my mother's womb thou art my God. Depart not from me. For tribulation is very near, and there is none to help me.

Marguerite prayed and she fretted, for she had begun to see the sense of what Michel had said: it would be fortunate to lose the baby, as early as possible. It would be a sin to pray, or even to wish, for such a fate, an even greater sin to act to bring it about. Yet Marguerite, as if dwelling in a body not entirely her own and driven by a will outside of her soul, watched her hands gather roots, seeds, and dried leaves from every plant she could find. She ground and chopped as best she could, then boiled her concoctions in the black pot. Hands shaking, she would bring the dark brews to her lips. There was no sugar or honey to make the draughts less bitter.

Nor should they be less bitter, she thought. It was only right and good that they should make her retch and bring a griping to her bowels.

Pretending that she had been only searching for and preparing food, she offered the foul-tasting mixtures to Michel and Damienne. Michel answered with a low grumble, Damienne with a disapproving scowl, and Marguerite worried that God would know her real intention, her wickedness.

She would drop to her knees then and pray for forgiveness: O Lord, rebuke me not in thy indignation, nor chastise me in thy wrath. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak.

Mercy upon me, O Lord. Weak, weak, weak. Kmmm-mm.

Marguerite would not compound her sin by holding God accountable.

But I will.

I clasp my hands together to keep them from reaching out and sweeping the lamp to the floor. I would hear it crash and see it shatter. I would use a shard to slice my wrist. Blood. There should be blood.

Was it not a sin for God to have visited such a fate upon her? In the face of her faith, her love and petitions, was it not a sin for him to remain silent?

Out of the depths I have cried to thee…How long, O Lord? How long? Saved by our grace, not God's. Km-mm-mm.

Isabelle looks up from her slate to my tightly folded hands. Her tongue darts over her half-teeth, the ivory squares just coming in. “Madame de Roberval.” Her words are soft and hesitant. “Papa says you lived on an island with wolves and
bears…and demons.”

“
Non
.”

“Papa is wrong?” Her small chin juts out, a challenge.

“Your father is correct in most things,” I say carefully. “In this he has simply mistaken me for someone else.”

“But he has books,” she says with authority. “He reads about wild places. And demons. He says that you were on the Isle of Demons.”

“
Non
, that was not me.”

Isabelle beckons me closer, cups her small hands around her mouth, and lisps into my ear. “Papa says it was Monsieur de Roberval who was the demon.”

I draw back. How does Lafrenière know these stories?

Isabelle draws a small finger across her throat, an imaginary slice. “Papa says it is good that someone killed him. In Paris.” She tilts her head, coy now. “I've never been to Paris. Have you?”

“Your papa has mistaken me for someone else,” I repeat, my heart beating so hard I fear she will hear it.

“Papa is smart,” she retorts. “He reads books about alchemy and geography. He says the king's cosmographer is a fool.”

I am startled, and distressed, that Lafrenière knows anything about André Thevet, that he has been talking to Isabelle about Marguerite, about me. Of what interest can the Franciscan be to him?

Of what interest am I?

Isabelle continues to chatter. “Papa tells me that
the men who write books about geography say the king's cosmographer has never been to New France. Or Terre Neuve.” She looks from side to side, as if one of the other girls might be listening. She lowers her voice. “They say the monk is a liar who makes up stories about Indians.”

“Wipe the slate. Now. You must work on your darning.”

Isabelle's face falls, as if she had expected me to welcome her confidences, had expected I would want to hear more. On her slate she has drawn a wolf with huge jagged teeth and a woman stabbing it with a spear. Isabelle pouts even more as she wipes a rag over her drawing. She wipes away the pointed teeth last.

Wolves came to the island after the sea had frozen, after the deer had come across the ice. One morning late in December, Michel found a long trail of huge rounded hoofprints in the snow, several animals by his reckoning. Damienne worried that the prints were the tracks of monsters and retreated to the cave.

Although the muskets had ceased to fire reliably, Michel was able to stalk and kill one of the deer. Returning to the cave with the animal draped across his shoulders, he grinned for the first time in months. Without a word, he laid it before them. Marguerite wept, her tears falling on the buff-coloured neck. She wept again when her teeth bit into the dark-red liver, still running with the animal's warm blood.

Michel dressed the deer, throwing only what was putrid in the bowels to the gulls and ravens. They
roasted the meat over the fire and devoured the thick fat on the haunches. Grease dripped from their chins, and their bellies felt full at last.

That night Michel and Marguerite loved. On the pink rock, warmed by the fire, they loved, and Marguerite slept within Michel's embrace.

They saved every part of the deer: hide, antlers, bones, even the contents of its stomach. What meat they could not eat right away, Marguerite and Damienne sliced into thin strips and dried near the fire in the cave.

The deer gave them hope.

Then came the eerie howls in the night, four-toed tracks in the snow as big as Michel's hand, competitors for deer and for the few rabbits and partridge – predators who looked upon them as prey. Michel fortified the entrances to the cave with more stout poles, then he and Marguerite took turns standing guard, watching for copper eyes in the night and the flash of long white teeth.

I hear an explosion reverberate off stone walls. I cringe and my ears ring.