The cabin fever seemed worse that winter. Tom pined like a prisoner with a life sentence whether he stayed on the farm or worked in his studio. Sometimes he would shudder, thinking of how he would be locked up for desertion if he were ever captured. Finally, the tumbled ice that had piled up in the bay began to shift and slink away out to sea while on Bras d’Or Lake it shrank, thinned, and broke into floating islands. The thaw meant warmer days, muddy roads, and the return of Spring Thaw. She was accompanied by her brother and cradled in her arms was the new tiny stranger, a boy named Owlet. Like his namesake he had round, startled eyes. Both parents doted on him, his mother carrying him everywhere strapped to her body while Iain darted to and fro like a bird feeding his chick. The baby never cried because he was consoled the instant his face started to crease with distress. Tom tutted at such spoiling until Iain drew him aside. “Both Indians and Highlanders know that you can’t give a baby too much love.”
Tom was in no mood to argue. He and Silent Owl were planning their next expedition.
“Your hunting trip, only you catch pictures instead of game,” Spring Thaw said.
“We’ll go to the summer hunting grounds on Cold Island,” said Silent Owl. “And you will trust me to find my way there even though I’ve no pieces of paper.”
‘Newfoundland, the oldest settlement of all,’ Tom replied.
‘Not new to us. Our people went there every year, long before any of your white tribe arrived. You didn’t need nets or spears to catch fish. You scooped your hand over the side of the canoe and picked up handfuls of them.”
“I trust you, but why don’t you draw a map for me?”
Tom explained to him about scale, distance, and geographical features by drawing a map of the farm and its surroundings. “Your turn now.”
Tom gave him a sheet of paper and some charcoal. After frowning at the empty paper, Silent Owl drew a ridge of soaring peaks cut through by a deep fjord. Then he sketched a herd of caribou and above them an eagle on the wing. There was no sense of scale but the spare, expressive lines made Tom gasp with envy. Silent Owl finished with a group of wigwams.
“That’s our destination? You’ve an artist’s eye but it’s not a map. It doesn’t show me how to get there.”
“All that’s in here.” Silent Owl tapped his head. He hurled the charcoal away and crumpled up the paper. “That’s good for war paint. Nothing else.” Tom was left smoothing out the creases and wondering at the skill of a man who had never had a drawing lesson in his life.
They had to cross the Cabot Strait in a large sea canoe. Six others joined them as crew. At first, the newcomers stared at Tom when they thought he wasn’t looking and one of them reached out to touch his hair, wondering at the strange white cloud. After that they settled down to paddling. Once they made landfall the others headed off for the northern peninsula, a raised finger pointing toward the coast of Labrador. They would hunt for caribou in the mountains that Silent Owl had drawn. Meanwhile, Tom and Silent Owl would travel to the fishing villages of the eastern coast before heading north to join them.
The landscape was different from Cape Breton. There was no imagining here that you could be in the Highlands. It was harsher, colder, more barren and bleached. The clammy skies sagged with sea fog and the winds still blew a winter breath in June.
As before they were welcomed as a diversion in the remote villages. Children skipped after Tom as if he was the Pied Piper, full of questions and wanting to carry his camera. Their cries would bring out their mothers and one of the women would invite him to sit in front of the fire with a dish of tea. The man of the house would often saunter in and offer a dram. Tom always refused. “You don’t want a blurred photograph.”
Meanwhile, his wife was trussing up the children in their Sunday clothes. Once Tom had been invited into one house, the neighbors would not want to be outdone and he could work his way down the whole row of houses. After the formal pictures were taken, he would suggest that they might want to be pictured with a savage, making sure that the children overheard.
Afterward Tom liked to wander along the shore to take less formal studies of people in their work clothes. The men in their fishermen’s jerseys agreed but the women were reluctant to be photographed wearing rough aprons with their sleeves rolled up and their feet sturdily booted. They reminded him of the generous fisher lasses in Stornoway who had been so particular about their Sabbath dress.
Tom and Silent Owl made their way along the eastern seaboard, letting their pack horse plod along at his own pace through villages perched like an afterthought on the ancient rocky surface. The wooden houses were all built in the same way, bunched together, mostly single storied with only the church standing taller. So when they approached the small settlement near Notre Dame Bay, Tom noticed at once the two-storied house, head and shoulders above the rest and separated from its neighbors by a stone wall. They must be richer than the others, he thought and decided to try there first. He walked up to the doorstep, camera case perched on his shoulder. While he waited for an answer, he peered into the lighted window. He was staring at the ornate lamp there when the door was opened. The figure in the doorway seized his arm and pulled him inside on tottering legs. The door into the front room was ajar and she pushed him inside.
“Here’s a stranger come,” she announced before disappearing.
“I’m a traveling photographer.” Tom’s voice cracked. They all turned to look at him, open-mouthed children, bearded men with ruddy faces and women with wary smiles. None of these he recognized, except the woman who sat, straight-backed and hawk-eyed in the midst of them. A queen surrounded by her court. He knew her face although the flesh of her skull was scraped back further to the bone.
“I remember you from across the sea. You’ve changed occupations, I see.” Her voice was as strong as he remembered. “I heard about the terrible things that befell Captain Otter’s ship.”
Tom wanted to flee but his feet were anchored to the floor. What did she know? Would she betray him?
“We’ve all made a fresh start. Would you like me to photograph your family?”
She surveyed him and then seemed to make up her mind. “Very well. Take them outside at the front of the house. Off you all go and make yourselves ready.” Tom Masters and Janet MacKenzie were left alone. “We still live by fishing. I had visions of us becoming farmers, but my son Murdo has saltwater in his veins. So I still light the lamp to guide him home safely.”
Tom took a deep breath. “I’ve been given a second chance and I haven’t wasted it.” He held out his arm to help her as she rose to her feet, wincing a little. She nodded, her expression unreadable.
Once he had shuffled everyone in place outside in the watery sunshine, Tom looked around, puzzled. “There’s someone missing? The lady who came to the door?”
There were some indrawn breaths before Janet spoke. “Take your picture. She can join us later.”
The auburn-haired woman appeared for the last picture. She joined the end of the line, chin up and face flushed. Tom had to tell Murdo to shunt along to give her room. Side by side they looked so alike although she was younger. Brother and sister surely? She reminded him of someone. So who was she?
When he had finished Janet came up to him, holding out his payment. “Go to the kitchen for something to eat.”
Tom didn’t know whether he felt affronted or amused. Traveling photographers must be a lower form of life than naval officers who stayed in the parlour for their refreshment.