Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ as the sun bested the tree-line far to their right, they were joined by Acorn and Sounder. The young men slipped behind Lily without a word. Only when they stopped much later for a drink from a shallow spring and a brief rest did she notice that they were not in hunting attire. Their red and blue sashes against the white calico of their capotswere dazzling, even amongst the maples and elms. Like Papa they carried haversacks stuffed with supplies. Sounder, as usual, grinned broadly at Lily, giving her a glimpse of the merriment that must have once quickened the eyes of Old Samuel himself. Acorn, according to his custom, nodded at her impassively, with no change of expression. Lily stared at the grimace of the black squirrel peering out of the fur on Acorn’s shoulder.

      To Papa they spoke in Pottawatomie, the language their parents had adopted when, according to Old Samuels, to utter a word in Attawandaron or Petun meant death. There was no one alive now who remembered those sweet, sharp sounds. Lily thought sadly of her mother’s forgotten lullaby tongue. While they rested, Sounder chattered away to Papa like a jay. Already Lily could pick out some words; the pitch of rising excitement was plain. She detected “presents,”“white soldier”, “big river” and “village”. Papa replied laconically, half listening as he did with Lily. But he was happy. His large hands cradled the back of his head, his eyes glowed with something remembered and anticipated. Lily found herself beside him and put her hand on his knee.

      Sounder switched to English. “Little-maiden-with-the-goldenrod-hair is a brave walker, no?”

      The ghost of a hand bent over hers…

      “Big white general only give presents to womans with black hair. White generals plenty fussy ’bout presents.”

      …brushed and settled.

      “Sounder like all womans; give presents to everybody.” His eyes danced at the thought. “Even Acorn,” he laughed, and did a little jig around his unimpressed cousin. “Ready to move?” Papa asked, in Acorn’s direction.

      Sometime after noon, they turned north-west, still following the blazed trail. To the west lay the River. Lily strained to hear its voice. The odd crow, unmated, cawed in complaint; a bear crumpled the dry brush nearby, seeking the late berries; a crab-apple dropped its sour fruit. Increasingly they passed through large natural clearings, beaver meadows or sandy patches where the hundred-foot oaks and pines had given way to clans of cherry, snow-apple, and sumac.

      Mostly, though, they heard their own footfalls. Sounder, impatient with Papa’s considered pace, scooted off into the semi-dark and popped up in front of them with a red squirrel in his hand, kicking out the last of its life.

      “For supper,” he explained, setting off again, guided by his own compass.

      They came not to the River but to a well-established road, a fifteen-foot swath cut through the bush, the stumps pulled and the surface smoothed over with sand. Across the myriad streams trickling west towards the River, bridges of demi-logs had been crudely constructed. Lily realized that a horse and cart could travel here, though no vehicle approached them. They followed the road due north until the sun began to tilt sharply to their left. It will sink soon, right into the River, Lily thought.

      “Are we near the water?” she asked, no longer able to contain her curiosity. How she wished she were Sounder, able to dance ahead and explore unfettered. Papa increased his pace; Acorn muttered his disapproval. After a while Sounder said quietly to Lily: “River of Light is just through the trees there. We been following it, but no path, even for a brave walker.” Lily looked longingly to her left but saw only the black silhouettes of trees, fluted by the sun behind them. Her disappointment was interrupted by Sounder’s cry, “Here’s the farms!”

      Before them was an immense expanse of open space unimpeded by trees. To the east of the road the bush had been denuded of all timber, all brush, in typical pioneer fashion, Not even a windbreak separated one farm from another. The stumps of the slain trees had been piled lengthwise to create makeshift fences, demarcating properties, fields, gardens, and dooryards. At first such angularity seemed alien to Lily, even painful to look at. But the sight of cabins, several of them larger than any in her settlement and ranged neatly back from the road in neighbourly view of one another, was overwhelming.

      The others were apparently impervious to grandeur, for they had moved well ahead and were stopped, waiting for her, in front of the third cabin. The smoke from its fieldstone chimney lingered in welcome in the still air. It was only when Lily joined them that she glanced away from the farms to the west again and discovered that the bush had been cleared for a stretch of two or three hundred yards, all the way down to what could only be the River. “This way,” Papa commanded, ushering her into the home of the Partridges.

      Mrs. Partridge was surprisingly kind. She bathed Lily’s blistered feet in soda water, rubbed them with ewe’s grease, and put into her moccasins little pads of the softest cotton. “Store-bought at Cameron’s,” she said with restrained pride, “up at Port Sarnia.” After a meal of quail roasted in a genuine iron stove, potatoes, squash, corn-bread with molasses, tart apple pie and mugs of warm goat’s milk, the men slouched together by the fire, lit up their pipes, and conversed partly in English and partly in Pottawatomie. They were soon joined by two sturdy neighbours with buff red cheeks and flaming hair. Mrs. Partridge and her two elder daughters sat near the stove in the kitchen, one carding wool, the other preparing to “full” several man-sized macintoshes. Lily had many questions to ask but no words with which to express them. She listened, though, her eye never leaving the printed calico dresses of the elder daughters and the rounded bodies so restless beneath them.

      The Partridges had a small shed that served as an outhouse. Lily left the door ajar, allowing the moon to pour its amber warmth through a wedge in the tree-line. She did not return to the cabin right away, instead walking past it and straight across the moon’s carpet. She heard the River just ahead in the darkness behind the beam of light. Strange sand-grasses caressed her bare legs. At last she came to the water’s edge and the voice of the River filled her ears. It roared with a hoarse breath, and in it, Lily thought she detected longing, anticipation, and the ache of seeking what always lay ahead, just out of sight. Under the circling stars, Lily listened for the language it used, but it was no tongue she had ever heard.

      Later, from her cot near the board wall that separated the sleeping area from the main room, Lily tried to catch the scattered words of the men.

      “Them surveyors was through here again last week, Michael.”

      “I heard,” said Papa’s voice. “Rumours floatin’ about, up an’ down the line. Talk of makin’ this territory a county.”

      “White fella draws lines in the bush,” said Sounder, making no attempt to disguise his disdain for the folly of the intruders.

      Lily dozed, dreaming of water bigger than counties, borderless and infinitely serene.

      “Went to the meetin’ down at Chatham. Things is gettin’ worse, we hear tell. Some new law comin’ in over there about returnin’ the poor devils. All legal-like, too.”

      “Sun-in-bitch Yankees,” Sounder added.

      “Over a hundred come across since August. We’re lookin’ for a new route, Harry. Them raiders is gettin’ smarter by the hour. Reckon things could get real bad by summer.”

      “The committee can count on us.”

      “Damn right. None of us forgets what it was like to be a Highlander under George’s boot. What do you want us to do?”

      “Sun-in-bitch English!”

      Lily was swimming, СКАЧАТЬ