A Dark and Promised Land (19 page)

Alexander walks over to a boat and removes a blanket. He drapes it over her shoulders. Without acknowledging him, she clutches at the cloth, pulling it tight around her. She appears so small and diminished that if one were to wrap the blanket but a little tighter, she would vanish from the world. No doubt, that is just what she wants. He aches to cover those small red hands with his own.

Yet for all her misery, the worst is yet to come, for when the brigade departs this little beach she will have to leave her father to the river. He turns away from her. “Ho, get those boats loaded,” he shouts. “Mr. Ramsay, Mr. Farquhar, as quickly as you may, please.”

At that command, the men rouse themselves from the fire, tapping out pipes against their boots, and throwing the remains of their tea into the fire. They drop the mugs into a crate as they line past the cook's station. Gear is gathered and oilcloths and bedding are rolled up.

As Alexander watches them, he suddenly realizes that the Indians are absent.

“Mr. Thompson, I do not see Iskoyaskweyau or his people. Do you know of their whereabouts?” Keith Thompson is a short, broad Highlander who barely meets the chin of most men, and he knows it. He compensates for this lack of growth by drinking more and fighting more than most of his peers, and by growing a tall, matted cap of red hair that he refuses to comb down, the result being that from a distance his head appears as if capped by a red skep. He seemed to believe that in any intercourse with a man, he would invariably come out the worst of it, and so he avoided contact when possible and whenever not, carried himself as if ready to lunge. One never felt comfortable approaching the strange little man.

He does not look up from stuffing his bag. “Gone,” he says.

Alexander raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, gone?”

Thompson turns and spits. “Like I said, mon. They's gone.”

“Indeed? And where have they gone to?”

“Ah canna say. The heathen left in the night.”

Alexander looks around. “Who else knows about this?” They all stop working and stare at him.

“There was a private discussion o' sorts last night. Seems they dinna like the topic. Left in a right bloody hurry.”

“What kind of
discussion
was this, Mr. Thompson?”

“We dinna like at happened to Mr. Cromarty. We thought we would bring it to the murdering Savage's attention. Seemed he dinna want to hear what we had to say.”

“So you ran him out? Mr. Turr, are you aware of what occurred last night?”

Turr shakes his head. “First I've heard of it, although I cannot say as I am surprised. And I shall not mourn his absence. The Savage has been little use, and source of much grief since we left York Factory.”

“The Devil take it! Every hand is needed and now we are short. Did any of you fools consider why the Indians were engaged in the first place?”

“We dinna see them providing aught,” Thompson says, reaching for the knife at his belt. “And I'll no' have a Half-caste bastard calling me a fool, by Christ.” The men begin gathering.

“Do not chafe with them, young Alexander,” Turr says in a low voice. “There is mischief afoot, and naught to do at the moment. You dare not rouse them against you.”

“It is beyond the pale, Mr. Turr. Mr. Cromarty did not die from the wound he received from the Indian.”

“Perhaps not, but you must be shy of their tempers. Let Macdonell deal with them when we reach the settlement. To harrow up further ill feelings can only lead to disaster for us all.”

They are aware that the brigade has split yet further, this time between those who carry the authority of the Company, and her sullen employees and charges. There are two against a dozen or so unhappy men, and they have few illusions as to how things would pan out if it came to it. “Unity, sir, I beg you to seek unity.”

“I am sensible to your plea,” Alexander replies slowly, as if deciding as he speaks. “Although I have no idea how it might be achieved. I would gladly leave this rabble to Macdonell, but what of it? We have lost men, and those who were to provision us. As you know our foodstuffs are very low, and there has been no game.”

“I am aware of these things, but I have no doubt you will find a way. You have shown yourself of remarkable wit so far, and in the most trying of circumstances.”

“I thank you for your praise, as ill-befitting as it seems to me.”

At that moment, Declan walks up, and, before Alexander can intervene, whacks Thompson across the head with an enormous pine branch. Bag, knife, and the little man fly across the beach, landing in a heap at the water's edge. His long red hair flags in the water like garish seaweed. Declan turns and faces the others with legs spread, his cudgel slowly circling in their faces.

“Anyone else have aught to say?”

“My word!” says Turr. They all stand in shocked silence.

“I thought not,” Declan says.

Alexander puts a hand on his shoulder. “Enough. Come, you men. I meant no offence to Mr. Thompson or any of you. I retract my comment. Why do you all stand gaping? Mr. Ramsey, will you please ensure that Mr. Thompson is still alive? The rest of you, get those boats loaded, and make haste!”

Slowly, the men turn away and begin ordering the brigade for departure.

“Thank you, Declan,” Alexander says. “Although likely not necessary, I'm glad you have my back, friend.”

“Perhaps thee is right, but I am quite finished with this traitorous lot. The Devil can take them. Besides which, there are times when authority needs a little muscle to assert itself, is this not true?” He winks at Alexander. On the beach, Ramsey props up Thompson. He looks at Declan with a scowl, holding a rag to his wound. Alexander shakes his head.

They push the boats back into the channel of the river and the current sweeps them away from the beach. Alexander takes his place in the stern and the men begin pulling at the sweeps. A bite of foam appears at their prow as they continue their relentless journey into the heart of the land.

When they reach the first turn in the river, Alexander watches Rose closely; a tear appears on her cheek, but she says nothing, just sits with her hands gripping one another on her lap. Declan sits beside her, lost in thought. He reaches out to places an awkward hand on her shoulder, hesitates, and drops his arm helplessly. They turn the bend and the abandoned camp is lost to sight.

Back on the beach, the coals of the fire burns down. The snow has abated and only a few flakes vanish with a hiss into the embers. A thin and grey swirl of smoke drifts away, hovering over the cold grave a moment before lifting out of the river valley. Carried by the breeze, it weaves through the thick stand of dark timber, passing the stiff and bloodied body of a naked man swaying beneath a giant cottonwood. A raven calls in the forest.

Aside from the night noises of the brigade, the faint snores and wheezing, all about them is silent — no sigh of wind, nor call of night-birds. Not an insect stirs in the cold.

She had never known such depth of silence before, a brooding weight and presence, and as the darkness and night deepens, her mood changes, and, within that void, she wonders if she has at last comprehended the voice of God. It seems to her fitting, one that the Almighty would choose. The Savage may run and scatter at a thunderclap, but this silence is immeasurably deeper, and you could easily lose yourself in it, walk naked into its emptiness.

The feeling is on the periphery of her senses, and, as an experience, it is hard to hold. For the silence lies over a vast wilderness, and the teeth of the land always draws attention to itself, blinding the viewer to the profundity behind the threatening mask.

She knows of no grand myth of the land to grab hold of, to steady her, to give her direction. All she can claim is an inchoate yet growing fear of the unknown. Primitive and corrupt, these routes of trade seem to her threads of spider silk traversing the unlit, empty space of a stone crypt.

Declan had accompanied Alexander on a hunt, and they had not returned. She feels their absence, as well as that of her father, and the silence grows still further, her ears pounding. She struggles to hold back her tears; in her solitude, she can ill afford any weakening of her will. She knows that if she were to let go, if only for a moment, she would plummet into a hole from which she might never ascend.

She yearns to sink into someone, to be able to let go knowing there is soul keeping a strong line on her, allowing her to trace her return when her grief is spent. And if she has not the strength to find her way out of her labyrinth, he will enter in and retrieve her. But all she has is the silence.

She shares an oilcloth tarp with an Orkney family and although they have comforted her as best they might, they had fallen asleep long ago, and she is alone. Alone in the wilderness and it is her own doing. It is chiefly because of this that she bites down so on her grief. Her heart had been against the journey from the very beginning, but seeing her father's joy at the prospect, she had withheld her reservations, not wishing to bring ill luck upon them or dampen their spirits. There was a part of her that indeed rejoiced at the prospect of a new life and adventure in the great lands to the west, but beneath it all was a mistrust and foreboding. Now God had decided to punish her for her wantonness by taking her father.

Unrestrained, her mind wanders, peeking into holes, caverns of old and dusty memories. Moonlight on a sash, a lover's breath on her naked breast. Her father bent over his books, preparing the week's lessons. The mongrel their cart had run over, crushing the life out of it. Flashes of moments, all lit with the energy of life, emotions, and powerful thoughts. Slowly these pieces come together, coalescing on a memory of one dark night and a cobbled street shining in the wet.

She and her father were coming home late from a visit to an acquaintance from his school. They commonly spent their evenings going round to his colleagues, side by side almost in the manner of a married couple. Lachlan was very social and conscious of their position within the city's small establishment, and often entertained or visited among the learned elite.

That night they had taken the curricle due to the threat of foul weather, and, despite her father's protests, she insisted on walking back. He could either abandon the carriage to accompany her on foot, and therefore be forced to walk back and recover it, or he could proceed home ahead of her, and she would catch up with him shortly. It was no great distance.

But Lachlan had consumed much wine that night and was in no mood to compromise. After cursing that he was damned that he would walk both ways, so she could bloody well walk by herself; with any luck it would begin raining and a good lesson it would be. He shook the reigns and headed off.

It
had
rained earlier, though the weather remained warm. The wet cobbles of the road shone on the moonlight, and after the
clop
of the horse's hooves had faded in the distance, Rose was finally able to relax. The after-dinner discussion had dragged on for her, the men discussing something called
phenomenology
; arcane and pedantic talk that she did her best to shut out, focusing instead on the cuckoo clock, waiting for the silly bird to show itself. The lady of the house prattled on about a woman's duty, asking why was such a pretty young lady not married? This kind of drivel was much worse than the
dialectic
, and Rose ignored her as much as she was politely able, willing that feathered fool to show its painted, crowing head.

When the visit was over, it felt a relief to be outside and embrace the night. She carried a parasol with her in case the rain returned, and she swung it as she walked along the narrow road. The village of Stromness sloped toward the harbour, and she could see between the buildings the fog-shrouded lights of the many ships anchored there; she wondered if a future lover or husband waited on one of those ships, looking out at the town with a yearning hope and desire.

As she walked toward the water, the fog began drifting in. Above her, the moon sailed bright, illuminating the ghostly tentacles that crept toward her between the buildings. The air chilled and became damp, and she lifted her knitted shawl over her head.

She was walking in a narrow lane when she heard a sound — nothing identifiable, just the sudden awareness that she was no longer alone. A light glowed in the window of the house beside her, and, curious despite herself, she crept closer and peeked inside. The curtains were sheer, parted slightly at the middle. It was someone's drawing room, a well-to-do family judging by the dark, ornate furniture and the artwork that covered the walls. At first she thought the room empty despite the warm peat fire in the hearth. The choreography of light in the room bewildered the eyes with lumpy shadows that moved and rolled with the draft moving through the chimney. She was about to turn away when something caught her eye.

On the floor, a little distance from the fire, sat a man and a woman. He was dressed in white breeches and blouse, which was unbuttoned at the neck exposing a mat of thick hair. His back was toward the fire, and he was barefoot. The woman faced away from the window, her long black hair lay like ink rolling down her white muslin gown. The two of them sat together in a golden chiaroscuro, and, as Rose watched, the man leaned forward and kissed the woman on the neck.

Rose stepped back from the window, her face hot. She looked around; the foggy streets seemed deserted but for the distant sound of a man singing, down towards the waterfront:
Kae and k-nockit, kae and k-nockit, kae and k-nockit corn; the only meat we ivver get, is kae and k-nockit corn.

She knew that she must keep on walking, but the fog seemed to surround her in a delicious anonymity.

Almost against her will, she turned back towards the window. They were sitting closer now and the man's thick hand was on the woman's shoulder. Gently he slipped the gown to the side, a pale shoulder emerging. He bent down and kissed along its length. His other hand worked its way into her cascading hair, wrapping it around his fist; he jerked her head back and lowered his mouth to her proffered throat. Rose could clearly see the welts he left as he bit across her skin; the sounds the woman made were sharp and breathy. The man helped her lift her gown over her head and laid her down on her back. He guided the woman's hand into his trousers; she rocked her arm back and forth awhile, until he got up and removed a candle and holder from the mantle and lit it in the fireplace.

Returning to the woman, he reached down and produced a knife; Rose gasped. She saw him plunge the knife into her, cutting sharply along her chest. The lacing of the woman's corset parted and it fell to the sides, exposing her breasts. She lay with her face turned to the fire, her dark neck rotated in an exquisite contrapposto, her breasts rising and falling with her breath. The man lowered his mouth to them, his lips seeking, rough hands moving over her.

He lifted the burning candle and tipped it over the woman, tracing a line across her breasts. As each drop landed, the woman gave a little jump, and Rose jerked in sympathy, imagining the hot wax on the soft flesh. Her own breath was raspy, and, with each exhalation, a faint mist briefly clouded the window glass.

A sudden noise in the lane and she whirled around; a large emaciated dog emerged from the fog, following the edge of the walkway with its nose. It almost collided with her before it realized she was there, seemingly as surprise by her presence as she was by its own. Its hackles lifted, teeth shining against dark fur.

Rose raised her parasol over her shoulder, the dog's eye's following it. A whimper came from behind the window. Lowering the parasol, Rose extended a hand. Very carefully, the dog extended its muzzle to sniff. She reached a finger forward and caressed it. Slowly, very slowly her hand moved forward until it lay upon the dog's hard skull. She began fondling its ears and the animal's tail dropped. She squatted, moving her hand along its back, feeling the jut of bones beneath the soft fur. Her hand became wet with its coat of dew.

A last lick at her hand, the animal turned and disappeared into the moonlit fog.

Slowly Rose stood up, felt drops of sweat chill on her forehead, uncertain of whether they were the result of the fear at the encounter with the dog — or something else. Another noise came from behind the glass. She wanted to leave that haunted lane, but something had awoken within her and it cried out in frustration. The sounds from the room reached into her and drew her back to her place, and she saw that the pair were completely naked now. Holding himself up by his arms and gleaming with firelight sweat, the man lay between her raised knees, rocking, the woman's dark head nodding back and forth. His face lifted towards the window, and his eyes met Rose's own.

She leapt back from the window and ran all the way home. Her father was just leaving the stable to search for her. He was very angry and whipped her with his crop. Afterwards she undressed except for her shift and crawled into her bed; her buttocks ached from the beating and she squirmed with a mixture of anger and shame and delight, the tears drying on her cheeks. Something inside her grasped at the blows she had received, and she could not take her mind from that fog-shrouded window.

Her hand moved by its own accord, and she watched, spellbound as it lifted up the light cloth and worked into the place, finding it warm and wet and receiving to her touch. Her body convulsed. And again. Wave following wave flowed through her while the slatted moonlight from the window crept across her swinging hand.

The next day she felt great shame about the whole business. The ways of a man with a woman were still secret to her — as were the ways of a woman with herself.

Although she swore she would never sully herself in that manner again, she found herself needing a quiet moment alone to compose herself quite frequently. She assured her father that it was just passing weakness, and when he inquired just what kind of weakness would send a young, healthy woman abed several times a day, she could not answer.

She also began going on long commons by herself, especially in the evening, which Lachlan quickly put a stop to; it was unseeming for a young woman to walk the streets at night, and if she needed so much exercise, she could go by day, with him along, by God.

But when the chance presented itself, she would sneak out of their cottage by night and make her stealthy way back to the lane. Often she would find the young lovers in front of their fire, the curtain slightly ajar as it had been that first night, and she would lean against the damp stone, watching; sometimes her hand would even do its marvellous dance, and she would feel as if she had joined them. She was certain they knew of her presence by the window, and that knowledge and the possibility of discovery made her feel even more wicked.

But one night when she took her spot at the window, she found the wizened face of a harridan glaring out at her, and, with a curse, the old woman thrust the curtains closed. The next time she arrived to find the gossamer replaced with heavy wool. She never returned to that lane.

As she lies in the darkness of a land thousands of miles away from her warm bed in Stromness, she again pursues the solace that she had once found, seeking pleasure through her grief and tears, desperate to shut out the awesome silence. As her fingers find that comforting place, she thinks of the two young lovers, and for the briefest of moments is no longer alone.