The Deserter (12 page)

Thomas grinned and shook his head.
“Non non, merci, j’apporte avec moi.”
He shouldered his bags firmly.

The trader grunted, and turned to see his goods plunked down rather too heavily on the uneven boards. He walked over to supervise.

“
Merci, hein?”
Thomas called and hefted the double bag onto his shoulder so it hung front and back, swinging the third over his shoulder. He set off up the jetty and turned right onto the beach. So far, so good...

Waving farewell at the boat, he kept heading for the group of houses at the east end where the English traveller had emerged.

He glanced back. The trading post man stood watching. Well why not? Any newcomer would be a matter of interest. This place was so small, he’d want to know everyone’s business. Thomas felt his heart sink. Trust in the Lord, he said firmly to himself, He’s done pretty well by you so far.

Reaching the last shack, he headed around it to appear to go in the back door, as did most owners here. Once hidden, he stopped and leaned again the wall. Dare he sneak a glance back now? Better not. Quick, just take off.

He found a trail back near the river. Making the best time he could with his unwieldy and heavy bags, he soon found himself panting heavily. He stopped to listen. So far, no sound of pursuit. The trail circled the eastern side of the river estuary before turning northward into the interior. His mind began to whir. Would he ever find his gold guinea? How would the band respond to seeing him again? Would Fury be there, waiting? And Little Birch? The answers all lay ahead up the wooded trail.

Thomas kept moving as fast as he could along the trail upriver toward the Micmac encampment. He made sure to stop every so often and listen. Doubts still plagued him. Were the trader and his friends gathering at this very moment to set out after him? He wished that it were not so late in the season: he could well do with a screen of leaves. With his heavy bags, he pushed himself hard. He’d be safe once he got to the band.

Or would he? Would they be of the same mind as before? Had Fury altered their perception? Adverse sentiments spread easily in one’s absence, especially among a tight little group. And he’d only been with them two days.

All at once he tripped and his bags went flying. Damn! He lay, winded. What had possessed him to be so careless, messing up once again? As he picked himself up, he glanced over to see a line stretched across the trail. Aha! A signal. A sapling had sprung up, clacking against a trunk, making a racket. Good, he thought, no one will surprise my Micmacs.

He started to gather up his things when he saw a form sprinting down the trail, bow and arrow at the ready. Thomas waved cheerfully.

The Micmac stopped, lifted his bow, arrow fixed to the bowstring.

“Wait!” Thomas shouted. “It’s me, Thomas.” In Micmac he called, “Friend.”

The man lowered his bow slightly.

Thomas rose, and spread out his arms. Was this a member of the band? He didn’t recognize him. But he felt sure the man would remember him.

“Last year...” What was Micmac for that? He went on in their language, “me come, live at brook.”

A slight recognition flashed across the usually stoic face.
“Epchilàsi!”

Welcome, Thomas knew, and smiled. He nodded. “Thank you,” he said in Micmac as the man came forward and, in spite of Thomas’s protestations, shouldered two packs.

“How is everyone? Lots of fish?” Thomas asked, in what little Micmac he had picked up.

“Gdúlg.”
Good, Thomas remembered, and they set off together up the trail. He noticed that the snow, all but melted in Paspébiac, could still be seen here melting; the ground he had fallen on was damp, and the trail moist beneath his feet. On the back of his pack, Thomas had hung two saucepans and a large kettle for Little Birch, with a smaller one for himself. But when should he give it to her? Would it be appropriate, or against Mic-mac etiquette? Indians were decidedly strong in their protocols. He wished he’d stayed longer on his earlier visit to learn more. Maybe just give it to her family, he decided.

Coming into camp, he had the strange feeling of, well, arriving at a familiar and welcome site. Everything was nicely worn in. On a kind of rack made of sticks held up by horizontal poles twenty feet off the ground,

waterproof baskets of meat sat, drying.

Clever, he thought, animals that climbed trees could not reach them. Smoke drifted up from a couple of the oblong huts; he suspected haunches of game were being smoked for the long winter ahead. The pathways were now swept clear, worn smooth by many feet, the wig-wams cared for, their birchbark nicely trimmed and sewn. No longer did the camp seem so haphazard, disorganized, and yes, even dirty. He now understood the reason for things being where they were, and felt at ease with these living arrangements, so alien to him at first. He was surprised that he remembered so much, and how the intervening months had brought him a kindlier, and more appropriate, view of how they all lived. The Chief rose from his conference logs at his arrival and, with courteous nod, retired to his wigwam. Thomas found himself peering at the home of Little Birch. Out she came, carrying dishes to wash. She stopped, struck motionless.

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Thomas felt his pulse race. Then she hurried off.

Burn had suddenly appeared and taken in their look. Animosity flashed in his eyes, which shook Thomas. Quickly it disappeared and Burn came across to welcome him.

“Burn, how are you?” Thomas asked and reached out to shake his hand, heart pounding from the sight of Magwés.But a villager came over from the Chief’s wigwam and indicated that the Chief was now ready.

Thomas got down on to all fours to enter the wigwam for the obligatory ceremony. He crawled in to sit before the Chief as he had done previously in very different circumstances. At least now, he knew the procedure. Tongue come in to translate.

The Chief took up the decorated pipe, and Thomas produced the tin box of tobacco purchased from Robin’s general store. He handed it to the Chief.

Once the tobacco had been inspected, smelt, fingered, and inserted into the hollowed stone of the bowl, the Chief solemnly lit the pipe and inhaled. Slowly, he blew out a cloud. Thomas watched. Then he spoke to Tongue. “Good tobacco,” Tongue translated. “Chief thank you.” So far, not bad, thought Thomas. He accepted the pipe and this time made a point of pulling in the smoke. Tongue and the Chief watched carefully, hoping, Thomas supposed, for another outburst of choking and spluttering. But the incident passed.

Thomas let silence fall as he gave back the pipe. How on earth do I bring up the subject of the guinea? he wondered. The Indians were not given to small talk, he knew. No time for “How’s the wife” sort of blather.

Tongue spoke a phrase, and then told Thomas, “I say him: you work Paspébiac.”

Thomas nodded. “Tell him I helped build a boat. Very big. Eighty feet long.”

Tongue did so. The Chief nodded.

Now what? thought Thomas. How soon can I ask him? In the ensuing silence, the Chief reached back into his own possessions.

Thomas waited. He was burning to find out about his main source of wealth.

The Chief turned back with something cupped in his hands, as if they imprisoned a young bird. Thomas frowned. What could this mean?

The Chief opened them to reveal — his golden guinea!

The Chief spoke a phrase. “He keep this for you,”

Tongue translated.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” breathed Thomas, delighted and relieved. “However did he find that?”

“Young Longbow find in jacket. Give to Chief.” Tongue seemed as pleased as Thomas. “Big value?” “Oh yes,” said Thomas, “very big value. Thank you.” That was easy, almost too easy. Then he realized that all Micmac lived by a strong code of honour, and would easily recognize the importance of the coin. And now, his mind turned to the other presents — how to properly present them to Little Birch and her family. Having experienced life not only in Paspébiac but also in the Garrett home in New Carlisle, he saw how desperately the band needed even basic necessities. His own few gifts would hardly make up for what really he now saw as their extreme poverty.

He looked up to see the Chief staring soberly at him.

He tried to smile. What was coming?

The Chief spoke to Tongue.

Thomas waited.

Tongue reached out and touched him. “Chief ask, you stay winter with us?”

What? Stay with the band? It had never crossed his mind. No, of course not, he could never stay with the band.

Then he thought, with the Micmac he’d be more likely to survive. Within range of civilization and near the trading post, if the worst came to the worst, he’d be able to get supplies and so not starve. So this offer perhaps he should actively consider. It might even turn out to be an interesting challenge. He began to warm to the idea. Look how much he’d learn: of the woods and herbs and medicines, of the deep snow and how to travel through it, how to snare animals and find the great game on which everyone’s livelihood depended. From them, he’d borrow the heavy clothes that he now realized were so desperately important in this ever-increasing cold. So much to grasp and conquer! So much to learn. Who better to teach him than these people who had done it for millennia?

Although he suspected other motives, he was torn. Now the Indians were used to long pauses, but finally he told himself: get on with it!

He threw caution to the winds. “Yes,” he said, looking into the Chief’s wise eyes. “Yes! I will stay.”

The Chief spoke again, and Tongue translated. “You go back to cabin, get things, come back, stay winter.”

***

Once outside, he resumed a halting conversation with Burn. The time had come to give his presents. Now? Or this evening round the fire in each wigwam? But how would he be invited in? Some chatter alerted him to women coming down the trail. Behind them trotted Little Birch.

She stopped short, an involuntary hand at her mouth. Then she bowed her head, put her eyes before her feet, and hurried on to her wigwam.

He glanced up to see Burn studying him. Oh-oh! Had he been so maladroit as to break the Micmac code of behaviour? And then a ghastly thought struck him, could Burn be interested in her too?

He motioned for Burn to come over. “Burn,” he said rummaging in his backpack, “I have brought you something.” Heavens, he went on, I’d hate to have him angry; I hope this will make it right. He pulled out a cloth, unwrapped it, and handed Burn a gleaming steel knife in its leather sheath.

From the look on Burn’s face, yes, it did wipe everything else off his mind. He positively glowed. Thank heaven, Thomas said to himself.

Next Tongue. He asked Burn where he’d gone. Burn, knowing a gift might be forthcoming, hastened to find him. When they returned, Thomas huddled with Tongue, while Burn and others gathered to look. Thomas pulled out a quill pen, ink, and paper. Tongue looked perplexed. Oh-oh, thought Thomas, I presumed too much. He may be a great translator, but he may not even know how to write. So he put down the paper, slowly took the bottle of ink, unscrewed the cap, and then, dipping the pen in the ink, wrote a sentence in English.

What a reaction! Tongue took the pen himself, dipped it in the ink, and began to write too, but with symbols that Thomas did not understand. He nodded to himself, as Thomas explained, “You can learn words in English, Tongue. And in French too. Then you will be able to send notes to everyone.”

Tongue beamed, and nodded. “You will learn me your language writing.” “I certainly will, Tongue!” Next of course came Little Birch.

It was not until that evening, after other formalities, that Thomas got a chance to ask Little Birch if he might meet her mother, who had been the one to feed him first. Magwéswent to find her, and soon she came out of her home and motioned for Thomas to join them. He sat down in front of their entranceway, as the family gathered: Little Birch’s mother, whom he nicknamed Full Moon because of her round face and sad eyes, her uncle with one arm, and her little brother, Brightstar, Thomas nicknamed him.

Now try your best not to look at Little Birch, he warned himself, and focus on her mother and her uncle. The gleaming copper kettle came out first, and did cause even more of a stir than Thomas had first imagined. They’d had another, but it had been repaired so many times as to be almost useless. All the same, Thomas noticed a heaviness about the family, which his presents did not lighten.

***

The next morning early, Tongue asked the Chief if he could go along with Thomas to his cabin, to practise his English. And of course, Thomas would better his Mic-mac. With the coming winter, a splendid idea, Thomas thought.

Tongue, carrying a couple of the packs, led Thomas through the heavy forest, threading through open stands of first-growth timber, and then across clearings, around dead falls, avoiding swampy land. Here close to the coast, the land was mostly undulating and flat with a few gullies made by ancient brooks. Tongue followed the paths laid down by deer and other animals, the same hardly discernible trail that Burn had followed the previous spring.

At long last they reached the lip of the bank above the camp. Instinctively, Thomas paused, listening. No intruders. Thomas led the way down. He found his heart beating as they crossed the brook, and he could see, through the leafless trees, his half-finished cabin.

Tongue stood silently, taking it all in. “Very good,” he said at last.

“You think so?” Thomas hurried to his door and opened it: signs of activity from his little furry friends and some dead leaves were all that greeted him; no one had visited during the summer, that much seemed clear. Quickly, he trotted up the trail to where he had buried his tools. Also intact.

Could the woods be more friendly than he had surmised? Not a little pleased, he showed Tongue around. The stocky linguist nodded his approval, more than usually impressed by these endeavours. His tribe never built cabins.

They quenched their thirst from cool brook water in a cup Tongue fashioned out of birchbark he folded ingeniously, and then shared a simple evening meal, eating at first in silence.

After a time, Tongue said, “Band make ready now, for go.”

“Go?” Wonder what that meant? thought Thomas . “Go where?”

Tongue lifted his arm and pointed north. “North? You mean right into the interior?”

Tongue frowned. He must not have understood “interior.” “Into the deep woods? Far north?” Tongue nodded. “Many days’ walk.”

“But what for? I thought you stayed at the mouth of the river.”

“No. Sea freeze, river freeze. Must follow game.
Diàmugweyek.
Hunt moose.
Matues
,” which Thomas knew was porcupine. “Sometimes caribou. Trap animals.” “Oh. Furs? For trading?”