Henri Robichaud walked around to the back of his house and entered the shed where he kept his tools. This was the place where he felt closest to his father, where the heritage which had almost been lost was clearest to his mind and heart.
His father, a taciturn man, had measured out his words with the care of a miser weighing purest gold. But he had been a good man, good with his hands and better with his son. It was through work that his father had communicated best, showing by example the bonds that tied the Robichaud family to their God, to this home and this piece of earth. He had bound his son deeply to the place and the community, so deeply that even when he was plucked too soon from this earth, still his son strove to keep the fragile flame of heritage alive.
All his father’s tools were still there. Even when they had long outlived their usefulness, Henri refused to let go of this part of his bond. Instead he had mounted the pieces high upon the walls on wooden pegs, so that everywhere he looked he was confronted with the imprint of that grand old man. Henri found himself staring at the wooden hay fork with the middle tooth broken off, the handle darkened almost black with his father’s sweat. Next to it hung the poke used at lambing time, a collar to immobilize the sheep. Henri’s gaze ran on around the shed’s walls, taking in the ancient winnower and crop-cradle and flat-hammer and hardy and adze and broadax and auger—all vital components of his memories, his heritage.
He reached into the corner and pulled out his own eel spear. The shaft was as thick as his upper arm and carved from the trunk of an ash, one of the most hard woods to be found. Imbedded at the crown was a razor-sharp trident, each blade twice the length of his middle finger.
Henri took down his father’s grist stone and spat into its center. Carefully he ground the trident’s three fingers in slow circles, refining the points until they shone in the light streaming through the shed’s open door. Finally satisfied, he reached back into the corner for a second more slender pole. He stepped outside, balanced the spear on one shoulder and the pole on the other, and started off.
As he rounded the corner of the house, Louise appeared in the doorway. His heart lurched at the sight of her. She was such a lovely one, this darkly beautiful queen of his home and his heart. From beneath her starched bonnet streamed hair long and lustrous as a raven waterfall, a shining river that he loved to run through his fingers. They had been married almost a year, and still he marveled at that simple movement. His fingers were so stubby, his hands so hard and rough, when twined through her long tresses. Gentle as he might try to be at those times, he could scarcely believe that she would permit him such a liberty, much less mean it when she said that she truly loved his touch.
But her normally dancing eyes were somber now, her usually shining face shadowed and turned down at every plane. Henri longed to set down his burdens, walk over, take her in his arms there on the stoop, and let the entire village know just how precious she was to him. But not this morning, not this day. Instead he willed himself to smile, though it was only his mouth that carried the movement. Louise answered with a smile of her own, one which did nothing to erase the sadness blanketing her features.
There was none of their normal banter, none of the promise to take care and be back before the setting sun. Today there was only a heavy silence, filled with all that remained unspoken between them.
Henri took the long path down the terraced earth to the bayside. He arrived at the correct moment, when the tide was beginning to flow out and pulling strong. He walked to the bushes where he had last moored his flat-bottomed canoe, and set down his tools. Normally two men were required to pull such a boat across the bank and into the water. Henri was one of the village’s few men who could do so alone. His father had been another, but whenever he and Henri had come down to the water’s edge together, his father had pretended that he could not manage the burden by himself. “Come help me,” his father would say, “give me your young strength.” And Henri would pull with all his might, dragging the rough-hewn boat down to the water’s edge, feeling like the man he hoped one day to become.
Since his marriage, Henri some days imagined what it would be like to have a youngster there beside him, one whom he loved so much that he would willingly play the weakling and give his son the right to know a strength of his own.
But this morning he did not dream of times to come. Instead he felt only relief that he had a day of solitude before him, confined not by his own efforts but by the much stronger tides. He pulled the boat down to the water’s edge and stepped deftly into its stable center. Two strong pushes upon the skiff pole and he felt the ebbing current grab hold. He reversed his hold on the pole and began pushing against the tide, keeping the boat to the edge of the retreating waters.
Searching the tidal ponds was only possible from a boat. The mud was so glutinous and deep that a man could not stand, much less walk. Just that spring a neighbor’s prized cow had escaped the corral and stumbled into the low-tide flats. Before men could be gathered and a noose fitted, the bellowing cow had sunk out of sight and drowned. A dugout canoe with a flat bottom was the only conveyance of use in these circumstances, one whose outer shell had been hardened by a slow-burning fire. The thick skin bobbed like an unstable cork and drew only a few inches of water. It was a hard vessel to steer and harder yet to hold stable when fighting an eel.
Eel fishing was a very precise practice, one which required extreme care and attention, and therefore suited him perfectly this day. For Henri had not come out here to think. He only wanted to hold the world at arm’s length. Henri had found that answers to the hardest questions came when he was able to forget about them entirely. Otherwise he found his thoughts becoming a storm, and nothing was solved, nothing accomplished. If he could only manage to put the problem aside for a few hours, more often than not he found the answer appearing all by itself.
The bay was empty today, which he took as a good sign. The grand English ship had unfurled its sails and left at sunset the previous day. He poled against the tide, carefully searching each of the gullies he passed. Henri had heard that Cobequid Bay held to the highest tidal surges in the world. He had seen it rise and fall as much as eighteen feet in each direction. As the tide continued to drop, more and more mud flats became exposed, the mucky black surface pocked and cratered. These ponds sometimes trapped and held huge ocean eels, which the women of his village salted and pickled. A barrel of pickled eel from Minas was a delicacy known as far away as France.
The morning was hushed and warm, the air so breathless each tidal pool became a mirror. Henri searched and poled, the sweat dripping freely from his brow. In the quiet solitude he found himself recalling the previous evening’s events, ones which had robbed his night of sleep and stolen peace from his morning. Despite his desire not to think at all, the memory and its troubling mystery insisted on coming back time and again.
Yesterday Louise had invited her entire family to join them for the evening meal. These were occasions for great laughter and jollity, as Henri cared deeply for all the Belleveaux. Louise’s two younger brothers, Eli and Philippe, considered Henri a perfect brother-in-law, for he seldom spoke and rewarded every story and most comments with his rich laugh. Henri loved the brothers’ company and felt honored by the comfortable kinship shown to him by Louise’s parents. He hungered for the sense of belonging to such a family.
Yes, Louise’s mother was a bit of a scold. Marie Belleveau was known throughout the village as a woman more comfortable with a frown than a smile, and most times when she opened her mouth it was to nag. But she approved of Henri. He knew that even when she arrived full of criticism for his front garden.
“How you can show your face about the village with such a jungle for a garden I will never understand,” were the woman’s first words.
“You are right, of course, Mama Marie.” Henri adopted his most soothing tone and bowed her into their little living room.
“And the state of your roof, I believe you have more moss up there than slate.” She huffed herself down by the fire, for the setting sun had brought a north wind and with it an uncommon chill for late June. “And your shutters, the paint peeling so, never have I seen such a—”
“Here, Mama.” Louise’s arm swooped down with a cup of steaming cider. “Let’s see if this will take the edge off your tongue.”
Henri was not certain who of the family was more surprised at Louise’s words. She rarely showed anything but patience and calm in the face of her mother’s tirades. On the infrequent occasions when something did unravel her control, it was normally at the end of a harangue, not the beginning. Henri’s eyes quickly scouted the room, and he found surprise on every face, including Marie Belleveau’s.
So he did what he was best at, which was to warm the room with his most infectious smile. He turned to Eli to say, “Word has it you had a good day at market.”
“Ah, let me tell you, you don’t know the half of it.” Young Eli considered himself to be the best trader in the village, and took it as a personal affront when anyone claimed to have made a better deal. “Took a load of our cheese down to Cobequid Town. The road was wet and the horses angry, but it was well worth the journey.”
The adults settled themselves about the room and offered jests and jibes to punctuate Eli’s bragging. All but Marie, who seemed to be studying her daughter with a pensive squint. Louise scurried about the kitchen, refusing offers of help from Philippe’s new wife. Her back remained stiffly erect with an emotion Henri could not fathom. After all, it was she herself who had called for this family meal together.
The gathering remained in good cheer throughout the meal, warmed by a hearty stew and good cider and the prospect of a fine crop this year. Henri noted that Louise did not join in, remaining distant and reflective. Twice he slipped his hand into hers, masking his concern with a smile and warm compliments over the meal. She nodded to his words, but her gaze was unfocused and her hand cold.
As she was serving a steaming peach cobbler, there came a knock on the door, and the vicar let himself in. “I could smell the aroma of your cooking halfway across the village, Wife Robichaud.”
The formal way of addressing a young woman was one from the distant days of yesteryear, but Henri felt pride and even affirmation of himself as he stood to greet the vicar. Wife Robichaud. “You honor us with your coming, Jean Ricard.”
“I thank you for the invitation. No, thank you, Louise, I will take no stew. I supped with the Widow Lambre, whose son and granddaughter are up from Cobequid Town. A lovely child, lovely. And bright as the sun. Yes, thank you, a piece of that sweet-smelling cobbler will be perfect.”
Louise settled the bowl in front of the vicar, her eyes watching him eat and talk and laugh with the others, following the path of his spoon as it rose and fell. Marie observed them both, her own face gravely unreadable. Henri could only watch and wonder.
When the vicar had finished and pushed the bowl aside, Louise walked to the head of the table. “I have something to tell you.”
The earnestness of her expression stilled them all. Clearly she had been waiting for the vicar to arrive before speaking. Henri saw Jacques Belleveau look a question at his wife, and another at the vicar. Neither showed any more awareness of what was about to come than Henri had. Louise’s father said, “Well, out with it, child.”
“There’s something eating at your craw,” her mother quietly agreed. “We’ve seen that this night.”
“Yes. You’re right.” Louise twisted her hands into a knot so tight the knuckles stood out white.
Jacques pushed out the chair next to his own. “Sit yourself down here and speak with us. You haven’t been off your feet all night.”
She paused, then lowered herself to the chair and forced a long breath. “I have made a new woman friend.”
Henri fought down a sudden laugh. Not that Louise’s words were humorous. But he could have made a joke, his way of dealing with almost any problem. Yet a single warning glance from Louise’s mother halted the words before they were formed.
Louise gave no sign of having noticed the silent exchange. Her hands twisted harder together, and she said carefully, “She is English.”
The room’s sudden silence seemed as loud as a thunder clap. Then chairs creaked about the table as people adjusted to the news and cast glances at their neighbors.
“We met last year,” Louise went on. “The day before our wedding. I had gone up to the high meadow to gather wild flowers. She … her name is Catherine. Catherine Harrow. She was married on the same day as Henri and I.” She turned to look at him, and he was the first to break eye contact. He stared at the table, his troubled thoughts swirling his emotions into turmoil.
Gradually the glances about the table centered upon two men, Louise’s father and the vicar. It was their place to speak first. Jacques Belleveau cleared his throat and asked quietly, “You have seen her again?”
“Yes.” It was no longer enough to hold her hands together. Louise bunched up the apron, twisting and turning the starched material. “Yes. Last autumn and then again this spring. And summer.”
Henri had been around enough Belleveau clan meetings to recognize the calm face and tone as Jacques’s chosen manner in dealing with all troubling issues. “So you have met her several times, then.”
“Yes. More … more than several. Many times.” Another breath. “Almost once a week in May and June.”
A sigh of surprise surfaced around the room, more telling than any words. Jacques shot a warning glance to the others, then turned back and held to the experienced calm of a clan elder. “And what do you talk about?”
“Everything.” A single tear squeezed from one eye. “Families and marriage and winter and crops. Everything. We trade recipes. We talk about our homes.” Louise’s lips trembled along with her voice.
“Every week you meet with an English lady. And only now you decide it is time to speak with us, your family. Did you not think it should have been brought to us before now?”
“Of course I did.” Another tear escaped. Louise did not seem to even realize she was crying. “I was afraid. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, that you would tell me not to see her. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it?”
“We’re not saying anything just yet, child.” The responsibilities of father, of clan leader, were evident on his face as he said, “First I would like to know a little more about these discussions of yours.”
“We have talked about everything, just as I …” She took a shaky breath and cast a fearful glance at the vicar. “We have been reading the Bible together.”
“The Bible.” Gradually the vicar raised himself erect, his eyes showing surprise. “So that is why you asked to borrow one.”
“We started with Matthew. Now we are in Luke.” Another tear came, and this time she raised the edge of her apron and wiped her eye. “We pray together. For our future and for our families.”
The vicar glanced at Jacques, then said to Louise, “What do you find in the Gospels, child?”
“Love.” And for some reason this one word was enough to bring further trembling to her mouth. “She is like a sister to me. Please do not say I must stay away.”
Henri, heart pounding, saw Jacques Belleveau return the vicar’s glance, give his head a tiny shake. The table was a frozen tableau of surprise and concern, the tension as strong a force as the meal’s lingering aromas. Eyes on the vicar, Jacques asked his daughter, “Why did you decide to tell us now?”
“Because yesterday she told me who her husband is.” A tremor escaped from the stiffness with which she held herself. One which was echoed in her voice as she declared, “Catherine is married to Captain Andrew Harrow, the commandant of Fort Edward and the English forces of Cobequid Bay.”
A slight breeze traced its way across the water, rippling the surface of the next pond and making it difficult to inspect its depths. Sometimes a big eel would become trapped in a small bit of water, chasing after food with such avaricious fury that it disregarded the lowering tide. Other times a smaller breed would simply not notice the water’s swift decline until it was too late. The mud flats were a black plain now, broader than the remaining waters of Cobequid Bay. The sun was high and glaring down, making the stench of drying mud and seaweed very strong. Henri did not mind. He had farmed this very same mud all his life, up above the first range of dikes. This was the richest farmland ever harvested—his father had said those words so often he could remember them still.
He poled down to where the next pond was forming, ignoring the flapping drumbeat caused by the tails of the five eels he had already caught. Three eels was a solid catch by anyone’s standards, but Henri enjoyed his reputation as the best eeler in the village. All five were of a size, as the local women said, meaning they were the length of his arm. Yet he would still look, still hunt, still work at pushing aside all the worries that kept him from feeling the first hint of hunger, though it was now well past noon and he could almost taste the cheese and fruit Louise had packed for his lunch. Louise. What was he to do about this quandary? And to make things far worse, Jacques Belleveau’s decision that night had astonished everyone in the room. Everyone, that is, except the vicar.
Louise’s father had remained thoughtfully silent for a long time after his daughter had finished speaking. Finally he had risen to his feet and said simply, “Louise is now the wife of Henri Robichaud, first and foremost. I feel it is right to make no decision until I have heard from him. Vicar?”
“I agree,” the pastor had said, rising to his feet with alacrity. “And it is time I make my way homeward.”
“Time for all of us.” Jacques hurried his wife and sons toward the door, waving them forward with uncommon dispatch. “Henri, you will come and see me on the morrow, yes? Good. Until then, I bid you both a good night.”
The house had emptied before Henri could come up with words to protest. He did not like decisions. Especially ones where his own heart seemed set against the wishes of his beloved wife.
But he could not help it, not even here and now as he poled down the black murky shoreline, not even when the waterfowl and the wind and the sun were all there in summer finery. He was very confused. He disliked this intensely, especially now that the vicar’s earlier conversation with him seemed to overlay this issue. He thought back to the winter day when Jean Ricard had suggested that he was to be the next clan elder. Why not Eli or Philippe? He did not want the honor, no, nor the responsibility. Give it to them.
The wind caught the surface of the pond into which he peered, and suddenly he was staring at a totally different image. One which came not from the water but from his memory. It was of the warm evenings when Louise had taken to bringing the Bible outside, the one she had been given by the vicar. She would read as he sat beside her and worked at one chore or another, retying his nets or carving a bit of wood, small and slow motions to keep his hands busy at the end of a tiring day. And from time to time she would read a passage aloud, words that had so moved her he could hear the music of her heart. More often than not he ignored the words, registering more the sound of her voice than what she was saying. Her speaking was enough to draw a new peace from his own soul. One he had never known before, except perhaps in the few moments of Sunday worship when he found himself able to set all distractions aside.
Henri stopped his poling and straightened to wipe his brow. There was his answer, there in the sunlight splashing upon the dark sparkling mirrors of a thousand tiny pools. He would not do as he was inclined, as his mind said was the logical conclusion. He would not ask Louise to stop her friendship with this woman. No. Instead, he would make it a clan decision.
There was to be the summer gathering in a week’s time, the same kind of gathering where last spring he had announced their engagement. Let Louise invite this Englishwoman. Let this Catherine show herself. If she accepted, then all would have a chance to decide for themselves. If she did not, then perhaps the decision would be taken for them. After all, what English soldier—a commandant no less— would permit his wife to attend a French village fête?
Relief flooded his entire being. Here was a way of restoring peace within his house, a way of offering his wife the confidence he felt, and not reacting from fear over this strange contact. Yet even more strong than the relief was the sense that here and now, surrounded by the heat and the smell of the rich black mud, he felt a peace slipping into his soul. It was the same feeling he had known while sitting of an evening beside his wife. It was a mystery, this feeling, one which left him sensing that he had done something good. Something beyond himself and his own comfortable habits.
His attention was caught by a rolling motion in the pond just up ahead. His breath was trapped in a throat suddenly tight and dry.
With stealthy motions he poled over, careful not to make more of a stir upon the water than necessary. This was a large pond, and it was connected on the far side to yet another. If it was an eel, and it sensed his coming, it could quickly move out beyond the reach of his spear.
The water’s surface rolled again, and he felt a shiver of anticipation race up his spine. The boat was moving steadily now, the motion enough to carry him forward on its own. Quietly, silently, he set down his pole and reached for the spear, his heart racing. The thickness and the strength and the weight had been made not for the type of eel he had caught before, nor for the normal day’s catch, but rather for just such a moment as this.
The water rolled a third time, almost within reach, almost there. He raised the spear as high as he could, stretching himself fully, arching his back, readying himself for the plunge. He felt as though all his life as a fisherman had prepared him for this single instant. His father’s quiet counsel was all there, powering him now as he stabbed a two-fisted surging plunge into the black waters.
The waters erupted.
The eel writhed up and out of the water with such vicious fury it almost toppled him over. It was longer than Henri was tall, longer than the boat itself. The muscular body, black and strong, was almost as thick as his thigh. The tail wrapped itself up and around the spear, reaching back until it could strike at Henri’s arm, raising great red welts to his elbow. The mouth was open and snapping, the teeth long as his fingers and needle sharp. Henri rammed the spear down upon the boat’s flooring and held the eel in place with both hands. He ignored the eel’s writhing attack, the slaps upon his arms and shoulders and face. Slowly, slowly the eel’s strength ebbed away. Finally Henri felt safe to ease his weight from the shaft and take the first true breath since plunging the spear into the depths.
It was a prize, the largest eel he had ever caught. The largest he had ever seen. Almost as if in recognition of his feat, the tide began to flow back into the bay.
Henri dropped to his knees, his strength so drained from the battle he could scarcely pick up his pole. With small tentative pushes, he guided the boat back inland, following the water’s gradual rise. He wanted to shout, to laugh, to call to the people of Cobequid Bay. He was coming home with an eel so large it would make a feast for the entire village.
Louise would be so pleased.