A Dark and Promised Land (6 page)

The
Ayisiniwok
women are very loyal to their White husbands, but such sentiment is often not returned, and it is common that a trader or employee will return to Scotland or Orkney after their mandatory seven-year residence at the Bay, leaving behind their local wives and children to fend for themselves.

As she listens, Rose finds herself warming to Isqe-sis, and the dignity with which her people endure that which none but the most depraved Orkneyman would countenance; of family, loves, and lives lost by those who traded with the English on the Bay. It had never before occurred to her that the depravity of the poor could be a moral reflection of the powerful.

As Isqe-sis speaks, it becomes Rose's turn to reach out and run a hand along Isqe-sis's honey-coloured arm. Pale skin, wrapped skin, skin hidden from the rare sun was the norm among Rose's people, and the only colour she ever saw among her countrymen was in the faces of the fishermen and the shepherds — people whose skin turned red and purple with the gnawing of the seasons.

Now it is Isqe-sis's turn to blush at the caress; she pulls her arm into her capote and looks down. Her infant mews, and she lifts it to her swollen breast. The crucifix swings free.

Seeing it, Rose asks about her faith, Isqe-sis revealing a deep passion for Christ, and how she hungers to be confessed. Journeys to the isolated Jesuit mission on the Nelson River are sporadic at best, and she suffers greatly during the long intervals in between.

There is a kind of animism to Isqe-sis' faith, a way of looking at Christ that differs from other Christians — Protestants or Catholics. She sees the holy within not just the Body of Christ, but within all creation. The trees, the soil, even for the lowliest of crawling things she feels a religious respect. Rose wonders how her confessors could approve.

When she takes her leave and sees the body in the muddy path, the warmth she shared with Isqe-sis fades. The killing had been too brutal, too sadistic. The dead boy reminds her that even if some of them are ostensibly Christian, she must maintain her guard against the sanguinary aspect of the breed.

“These people cannot stay, Mr. Turr. We have neither the provisions nor the accommodations to provide for them.”

Although his words are flat, inside the factor is fuming.
Selkirk should have known they would not be able to supply his peasants before he arranged to bring them here
, he thinks.
The man seems to believe that Company resources are his to use as he sees fit. A pox on him.

“I am deeply sorry for their misfortune,” he says without the least hint of concern in his voice. “But they must depart as quickly as possible.”

They are standing beside the signal cannon at the entrance to the factory. The wind is blowing hard from the northwest and Turr's thin hair flows from his scalp like red smoke. Several ravens are squabbling over the ox carcass behind them.

“They have had a very difficult time,” Turr says. “Many have lost family. “They will have an even harder go of it to arrive at Red River before winter.”

“It is over late to debate the wisdom and ethics of Lord Selkirk's designs,” the factor replies. “My order is as firm as my conviction: they must leave tomorrow.”

Below them, an Indian pushes off in a canoe. Two men stand on shore playing out a net, which the man ties to several tall poles sunk into the river bottom. The canoe bounces and pitches in a steep chop set up by the wind running against the flood. While struggling with the last of the poles, the canoe suddenly rolls and throws the man into the river. The Indians on shore laugh.

“Have you decided who will guide them?” Turr asks.

“I spoke with Alexander McClure this morning. He is willing to take them on to Red River.”

“The Half-caste?”

“He owes the Company a great deal,” says the factor, his frown deepening. “Unpaid credit from last year's season; he brought in few furs and of low quality. I did not give him a choice.”

“I see. Well, I will speak to the colonists and let them know.”

The man in the river grabs the gunwale of his canoe and kicks toward shore. He stands up, shaking off the water while his companions mock him. With a rueful grin, he sits down as a small liquor keg is brought out and passed along.

“Another thing, Mr. Turr: I want you to go with them.”

“Eh?”

The factor shoves his hands into his pockets and stares off into the distance. “I am afraid so. I must have a Company man at the settlement to find out what in blazes Macdonell is doing. The rumours are disturbing, and London wants more than just rumours.”

The blade of dried grass he had been chewing blows from Turr's lips. Laughter carries from below. “Perhaps you would consider someone else? Someone younger? I had hoped …”

The factor shakes his head. “I need someone I can trust, a man who can give an accurate report. Besides, there is no one else I can spare.” He pats the cannon beside him. “God's blood, I would love to fire this. It does a man good to make a great noise and smoke every now and then, eh, Mr. Turr?”

Cecil Turr nods, not trusting his voice. His hands shake. Without taking his leave, he turns away and shuffles back towards the fort.

Rude bastard
, thinks the factor, his heat increasing again. He takes several deep breaths then dismisses Turr from his mind. His musings on the joy of cannon fire had reminded him that the supply ships had not yet arrived from their searching for the lost frigate. He swears volubly at the cannon, a stream of blistering invective. Only a factor for a year, and now this. He is sure he will be blamed.

The flood of furs to the Bay has slowed to a trickle despite recent company expansion inland. The widely scattered forts they built at great risk and expense had come to naught; the Nor'westers were always there first, having bullied or bribed the Indians into long-term allegiances. In their arrogance, they even established a post on the Hayes, a mere three-day journey upriver. The Company is on the verge of becoming irrelevant in its own territory, and even if policy is decided in varnished, smoke-filled luxury thousands of miles away, it is the poor bastard on the frontier who will be blamed.
God rot it, it is just not fair.

Many more Indians have gathered to join the party on the river, and a fuke is let off. The factor jumps.
Damn it to God-rotting hell
, he thinks.
That fucking sod Spencer has traded too much liquor to the Home Guard.
He turns and stomps into the fort. Several colonists are milling about behind the palisade, staring and pointing at the unique things that catch their eye. The chief trader sees the approach of the factor and turns toward him, smiling.

“You can smile all you like, Mr. Spencer, but I find little to be amused about. Your carelessness has roused the Home Guard, and I want those gates locked,
now
!”

Rose sits on her hard bunk, listening to the yowling and gunfire not one hundred feet away. She had been rereading a dog-eared copy of Richard Allestree's
The Whole Duty of Man, Laid Down in a Plain and Familiar Way for the Use of All
, that the Factor had given her
.
The commotion had started late that afternoon and carried on well past sunset. After the murder of the Indian boy, she had tried to comfort herself with the book, but the frightening whoops and singing kept cutting through her focus. She has never heard such chilling sounds before, and feels afraid and unsafe, emotions becoming all too familiar. They had been given one tallow candle, and its pale light only seems to deepen the shadows.

When the factor offered a private dwelling, she had been delighted that they would have their own space, a wall to put between themselves and the rest of humanity. But with the horrid sounds carrying from the other side of the palisade she finds herself yearning to be again surrounded by her countrymen.

Lachlan sits on a polished section of a log, staring in fascination at the mosquitoes circling him, tiny wings shimmering in the wan candlelight. At the sound of another gunshot, he gets up and peers out the rickety door. A great fire is burning outside the fort, with sparks soaring heavenward to blend with the sharp, cold stars. Through narrow gaps between the palisade poles, he sees shadows of dancing figures cutting across the fire. The air throbs with dark and compelling drumming.

“I dinna much like our position,” he remarks. “We are between our friends and whatever
that
is. Good for our friends perhaps, but nae good for us.”

Rose turns to her father. She knows that such lapses into his native accent are a sure sign of stress.

“Perhaps we should return to the Great House — what do they call it, the Octagon? The Indian word for it is
Kitzi-waskahikan
.”

Lachlan turns to her and smiles. “Ah, lass, you do my heart glad. You have been in the country naught but two days, and already you are learning the Savage's language. Where did you come by the word?”

“I do not recall, father,” she says quickly, recalling her illicit liaison with Isqe-sis. “I imagine I must have overheard it.”

“Well, I approve,” says Lachlan, nodding. “Judging by that bestial noise out there, these people can only be helped by what we can teach them, and in order to teach we must learn their language and their ways.”

Rose gets up and takes her father by the hand. Though her face is shadowed and invisible, he looks up at her smile.

“You regret coming here?” she asks.

“No, but I am uncertain. The little I have seen so far falls fair short of what I had imagined. But listen! That racket is moving closer. Let us flee to the Octagon, or whatever you call it. What do the Irish say? Better a good run than a poor stand?”

They abandon the cabin for the brightness and safety of the Great House and its peeling walls. Disturbed by the carryings-on outside the fort, most inhabitants have abandoned their beds and several traders carry loaded muskets.

They enter the main hall where they encounter the chief trader, who is bullied by Rose's father into giving them a tour. They move from one cold room to another, the way announced by a feeble lantern. Rose's skirts stir a dirt floor thick with rat droppings, bones, and other filth as they pass through the chapel, mess, trading hall, and even a magazine, wherein Lachlan thinks it foolish to locate such capricious stores inside the place where so many people lived: one lucky shot from a devil Frenchman would send the whole place to heaven. They finish the tour in the warehouse.

“These are last winter's furs, ready for shipment to England,” Spencer says, approaching the massive, iron-clad doors. The lock clacks loudly as he turns the key, the lantern guttering as the great doors are swung open, like the breaching of a tomb. It casts a moving, fitful light onto stacked bales of compressed and dried beaver pelts. The space is close and musty, filled with the stench of hundreds of untanned skins.

“This is a much smaller load than most years,” Spencer says, moving closer to Rose. “It's been getting that way for some time. Just a few years ago, this room would not have space for a bleeding mouse; she were jammed so tight with beaver.”

“Is it all just one kind of animal?” Lachlan asks, uncomfortable with the clerk's obvious interest in his daughter. “Do you only trade in beaver?”

“Nay,” Spencer replies, not taking his eyes off Rose. “There is also marten and mink and bear. Caribou, moose, and buffalo. Anything ye can slit a hide off is in there. Hell, the Savages would skin mosquitoes if we paid 'em for it. But 'tis mostly the bloody beaver.”

Lachlan reaches out and fondles the edge of a pelt; it is both crisp and luxuriantly soft at the same time. “Your profanity is unwelcome in the presence of my daughter, Mr. Spencer. However, I find it amazing that the European passion for hats has been responsible for the civilizing of an entire continent.”

“I don't know about that, sir, begging your Lordship's pardon,” Spencer says with a grin, showing a black mouth largely devoid of teeth. “Civilized, you say, but just outside these walls heathen are murdering heathen tonight. Not much in the way of civilization in these parts.”