the French came here, a strange boat with a carved prow appeared off Miscou; they were Vikings come from a great island in the North, an island with volcanoes and geysers. The Mi’kmaq welcomed them like lost gods, and bonds of affection were woven between our two peoples on beds of moss. As you can see, they left their traces!” she said with pride. “There are many other legends… When the moon rises, the southwester breeze murmurs that Jacques Cartier was welcomed in Ruisseau by the chief of the Mi’kmaq, who offered him his daughter as a token of his friendship.”
“If the rumour is true, then an explorer’s trade doesn’t just involve planting crosses!” Joseph exclaimed.
Although Angélique spoke French, her voice held the intonations characteristic of the Mi’kmaq language, which sounded sweet to Joseph’s ears.
“But my son has no European features.”
Joseph had trouble imagining her as a mother. “You have a son? But you seem so young!”
“I had a baby when I was sixteen. His father died over two years ago, carried away by one of the white man’s diseases. I didn’t turn to the forge to forget my pain, though, I turned to plants, herbs, and flowers.”
A seagull soared overhead, clouds filled the sky, time slowed to a languorous pace. Time for pleasure. His deep-seated fascination with this woman seemed to show the way to a new life.
Day after day at the fiery forge2, Joseph exorcized his pain and sense of loss by striking the anvil again and again. On the tenth day, his rage surfaced. The forge blazed, resembling the hell shown in the missionaries’ pictures. After all, she could have left behind a letter, a note, a word, a message, to explain her actions… Contacted my family… Unless she had something to hide, unless she left with another man… Will I ever see her again? Will I ever get to the bottom of this? he wondered furiously.
Another wave of anger engulfed him at the thought that Emilie could have betrayed him, that she might be honeymooning somewhere right now. Angélique had been watching him and was forced to take a step back as the flames took on apocalyptic proportions.
On the fourteenth day, it seemed to Joseph that Angélique’s bared breasts were in the way of an offering. Saint-Jean watched their little dance with amusement. Membertou, Angélique’s son, had started to sulk. Although Joseph slid under the beaver pelts every night, he did not need them for warmth. By the second week after his arrival, his entire being, like the forge, was a bed of glowing embers.
* * *
All night long, the tribe celebrated along the shores of the Poquemouche, which looked like a raging river in places. By resin torches that lit up the night, the natives used their fish spears resembling tridents to harpoon eels and throw them in with the other eels squirming in baskets. Joseph was introduced to the sport. Angélique served as his guide. He was bewitched by the woman, by her powerful magnetism. He felt a growing passion as the stars danced in the sky and the moon disappeared. As the sun rose, he felt as though even the leaves on the trees had begun intertwining. But he couldn’t quell a feeling of unease. Not brought about by the memory of Emilie, but by the thought of Angélique, her origins, and the child who was not his. And yet… Angélique symbolized the vitality of this continent steeped in the humus of its First Nations and its forty centuries of history. Born through her mother of a people that had incarnated the age of Enlightenment well before Louis XIV, when Europeans were massacring the Infidels to conquer Jerusalem in the name of the love of Christ, she was a breath of fresh air and mystery that he longed to touch.
“Come, I want to show you a quiet creek where I go to to be alone,” she whispered.
She held out her hand to help him out of the canoe; he thrilled at her touch. He was torn between two passions: one inaccessible, the other near at hand… They sat together in a small moss-covered clearing under the shade of two giant birch trees. Angélique offered him some smoked salmon and wild strawberries she had brought with her. The intimate feast ended with fresh spring water after which he fell asleep. He woke to Angélique’s eyes on him. Joseph stared back intently, as though her beauty might evaporate.
“I had a dream while you were sleeping,” she confessed.
“About what?”
“You were lying dead on a bed of moss. You looked so fine, all surrounded by light.”
“What does the dream mean?” Joseph asked, surprised.
“For us, it represents a sort of resurrection.”
“Resurrection? Well, what do you know! That’s what it would take for me to believe what I’m feeling right now,” he thought out loud.
He knew the importance of dreams to her people. Her words gave him the courage to take her into his arms. He breathed in deeply. Time, space, and memory, like the sun overhead at its zenith, came to a halt. Mountains of clouds took shape, then vanished. The forest, the river, the creek all came alive. Slowly, his heart pounding, Joseph began to caress Angélique, who whispered her desire. Swiftly, Angélique shed her clothing. As they made love, Joseph felt as though he had merged with the trees of the forest, reaching higher and higher until he touched the clouds. This was what had been missing from his life – warmth, intimacy, and passion.
For Angélique, too, much time had passed since she last made love. For weeks now, from the moment she first set eyes on Joseph in Ruisseau, she had wanted to caress him, nestle against his body, lose herself in his scent, and feel his embrace. The love she’d felt from that first day grew even stronger as she witnessed his respectful gentleness; she wouldn’t have waited any longer.
The shivers up and down her spine felt like a cloud of ocean spray. Her neck, her shoulders, and her breasts flushed with passion under his touch. Under his musician’s hands, each chord of her body became part of a symphony. Her pleasure intensified to the point where it seemed for a second she would forget how to breathe.
In the birch tree overhead, a swallow sang for them alone.
* * *
And so they continued that summer. A jealous Membertou, six years old, kept his distance. In Joseph’s presence, he showed nothing but indifference and spoke only Mi’kmaq. His attitude eventually enraged Joseph, especially since he had been trying so hard to win the boy over. Tough, undisciplined, always poking his nose where it shouldn’t be, Membertou did exactly as he pleased: a real little savage in Joseph’s eyes! Angélique tended to make excuses for him, she said his father had been a great warrior. The child spent his days wandering through the woods, eating in one tent or another, picking fights over nothing. There was no keeping track of all the mischief he got into. A week ago, as though inhabited by rage, he had hacked up a canoe. Then, to conceal the hut he built for himself in the forest, he stole several red fox hides from the storehouse. Saint-Jean, whose furs were more important to him than God, money, or women, had given his grandson a stern talking-to. Afterwards, Joseph insisted to Angélique that Membertou return the hides, but she hesitated, “With us, families are different,” she explained. “There’s no such thing as stealing. What belongs to one belongs to all. What children want is sacred. Children are given free rein and, when they grow up, they abide by the clan’s rules. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. You let them live a carefree childhood for longer, but don’t you think he’s gone too far, even by your customs?”
Angélique did find that her son was going too far, but pride stopped her from saying so. Exasperated and sensing he had no role to play in Membertou’s
