they drink and fornicate …” There is a sudden commotion below them: shouts and laughter.
“That will be the factor; I must speak with him. No, stay and finish your drink, Mr. Turr; your turn with Himself will arrive soon enough. Enjoy the peace while you may!”
After the governor departs, Turr remains, savouring his brandy, which he refills from the nearby decanter. Soon the oil lamp gutters and goes out; he does not bother getting up to relight it. His cigar ash glows as a perfunctory mote in the darkness.
Would they dare? he thinks. How naive; of course they would. As we would in our turn. It is war, after all. Nations or Companies, it makes little difference; the terms are the same with no quarter asked or given. It is a struggle where everything — for us and them — is at stake.
You and I have not been in Rupert’s Land very long, governor, but everything I have heard in London indicates a grave situation; after one hundred and fifty years on the Bay, the company is on its knees. The land is a powder keg and Selkirk’s goddamned colonists are likely to prove the stray spark that blows us all to hell.
The next morning three York boats leave with the tide to pick up the surviving colonists. Rose, standing on the high bank of the river, watches them depart. Her father has left to speak with the factor and she knows that if he discovers her missing from their cabin unaccompanied by an escort, he will likely beat her. But the smell of the tiny, rancid space reminds her too much of the oppressive journey aboard the Intrepid, and she longs for cleaner air.
The wind freshens, bringing with it the promise of more rain, but at least it keeps the insects at bay. Her muddy skirts twist about her and she pulls a paisley shawl over her hair. There are few women’s clothes at the fort, but the factor had given her what little he could find. Years out of fashion and a trifle too large, but at least they are not a Savage’s rags.
At that thought, she sees the Indian’s tipis outside the fort. Smoke from muskeg fires peel away from the tops of several of the nearest. Curious, she makes her way toward them, intending to walk past in a manner that would evidence no interest, and yet allow her to see more closely.
As she approaches, shouting breaks from the willows and a boy rushes toward her, pursued by several others. Blood runs into his face. A large rock strikes the back of his head and he tumbles onto the path. The rock-thrower saunters up and picks the bloody stone off the trail. While his fellows laugh and hoot, he brings it down on his enemy’s skull again and again, driving the bloody head into the mud.
She yells at them to stop. They ignore her, kicking at the body until the boy who threw the stone begins sawing at the scalp with a long knife. Rose turns and vomits. There is a stirring in the tipi beside her and a man emerges; she recognizes him as the Indian in the canoe who had shot the white bear.
“What you do?” he grumbles, seeing the mess she has made on his home. He stands next to her, and she backs away.
“Please, they have killed someone, you must get help.”
The Indian walks over and gives the body a kick. “He is Stone Indian,” he says, as if that answer were sufficient.
“But there has been a murder. We must do something.”
“He is enemy. Nothing to do. Scalp maybe. You want?” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and grins at her, the youths watching them.
Isqe-sis emerges from the tipi and begins haranguing the man. He tries to argue, but her volume increases until several faces are staring at them from surrounding tipis. Shrugging, he turns and walks away.
“You feel not okay?” Isqe-sis hesitates a moment, thinking. “Rose?” Rose shakes her head, snuffling and holding a handkerchief to her eyes. Isqe-sis guides her into the tent.
“Come sit. You eat?” Isqe-sis indicates a buffalo robe and gives her a bladder of water.
Rose shakes her head. “How did you get here? You were back at the camp …”
“Come last night. With my brother.”
“I see.” She takes a heaving breath, blows her nose into a handkerchief. “They killed him. I saw it; he was just a child. You people truly are … are Savages!”
Isqe-sis looks at her. “Stone Indian are our enemy,” she says. “They kill many of us. This one maybe watch us for their warriors, in secret. A danger to us. Perhaps there will be an attack.” She pushes a steaming cupful into Rose’s hands. As before, she hesitates over the white skin, moving her fingertips over fingers and hand and up the smooth white slope of arm. She sighs and turns away.
Rose shivers at the touch. “But you are supposed to be Christian. How can you kill if this be so?”
Isqe-sis does not suppress her laugh. “Are the English not Christian?” she asks. “Do the English not kill?”
“In my country, the penalty for killing is death.”
Isqe-sis laughs again. “Not here. Christian kill. This camp almost empty, White disease kill many this year. Bad axes, bad guns kill some. Many more musket kill Ayisiniwok, my people. Death is in the land here. For Christian English, for Christian French, for Ayisiniwok, for Stone Indians. Even for girl with hair like falling leaves.”
At that, Isqe-sis begins telling Rose about life in Rupert’s Land. It is an illuminating experience, and she soon forgets about the body that lies outside, already stiffening and gnawed by dogs. Isqe-sis tells her of growing up in the shadow of the fort; the manner in which the Europeans misuse them, often trading inferior goods for the most prized beaver pelts. Loving between White men and Indian women is very common, and that most of the children that wander about the fort are of mixed blood. À la façon du pays, they call it. This had been recently decreed illegal by the Company, as all of these children were morally if not absolutely legally the responsibility of the Company, one it felt loath to carry. Yet such relationships had a long tradition on the Bay and continued unabated, if more discreetly.
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
