C H A P T E R   T W E N T Y - F O U R

An almighty gust almost knocked Rene off her snowshoes. She steadied herself and began beating her way up the grade toward the railway crossing. Down came gusting clouds of sharp snowflakes, stinging her face, growing in intensity. With the wind whipping up the loose snow, she could hardly see the way. She turned to the split-rail cedar fence and followed it. This, she told herself, is just a blizzard, the kind one reads about. I’ll be able to tell the Mater and Leo, but then again, perhaps not — they’d just think that I’d gone mad. Hilda, that’s who she’d write to. And she owed Father John a letter: how well Eric was doing, how the home atmosphere and building his cabin had made him relaxed, happy, and positively charged with energy. Eric was a good letter writer but never prone to commenting on his own health. Father John would be anxious for news, so she made up her mind to write on Boxing Day.

She was getting pretty good on snowshoes but no trail had been beaten alongside the fence where she now tramped, so each snowshoe sank in the accumulated soft snow. Heavy going. But she told herself: keep pressing on! And before long she got to the fence protecting the railway track. In the tearing east wind, she found the gate, slid it open, shut it, then with only a few feet of visibility, did her best to tramp directly across the tracks and reach the opposite gate, more by guess than by God.

Seeing only a few feet ahead, she knew what Eric had meant by a whiteout in some of his letters. She remembered hearing that animals worked more by scent — especially the lynx. She shuddered as she recalled Eric’s tale.

Early one morning after Christmas, Earle had gone into the stable with his lantern. Chores began around six, but the sun didn’t rise till around eight. He had opened the door and right away sensed something wrong with the cattle. Before he could figure it out, some sinewy creature sped past, a chicken in its mouth. He whirled and jammed the door on its neck. It dropped. He grabbed its hind legs and beat its brains out on the heavy beams.

Rene had timidly brought up the subject on the train coming down. “Eric, are there still lynx around these days?”

“Well,” Eric had replied, “you sure hear them sometimes. Awful yowls at night. They did see footprints last winter by the brook.”

Rene shivered. “How big are they?”

“Like a small lion. Very shy. But savage, and unbelievably strong. You don’t want to meet one — awful hungry in winter.”

Rene found her excitement at the wilderness diminish. “Cougars, bears, lynxes —”

“Bears, they always sleep in winter. And no more cougars in the Gaspe.”

“But lynxes?”

“Apparently so. I told you about Earle killing one. He was crazy to fight one like that, but little Henry, five at the time, was coming up behind him. The beast could’ve grabbed the child and taken it off to eat. So Earle had every reason. You get bursts of energy sometimes.”

“So how did it get into the closed barn?”

“Likely loose boards in the mow; Earle had meant to fix them...”

Why remember all that now? Being alone like this. And who’s to say no lynx was prowling around, waiting for some juicy woman — Stop! she commanded herself, and wrenched the thought from her mind.

Just keep to your left, follow the rail fence — don’t try the shorter beaten trail across the open field into that trail in the woods. She snowshoed down to the gully crossed by the Stony Bridge, built by Alford ancestors who cleared their fields of stones. Eric said hayloads rocked precariously, going across.

Hard going through this loose snow. She stopped, panting, and wondered how long blizzards lasted. A few minutes? Fat chance. Keep going, she told herself, and keep going she did. Cross the gully, up the hill towards the head field. Funny what difference a small rise makes. The load of shingles grew heavier, especially as the wood absorbed the moisture. After a few minutes she stopped and tried leaning against the fence. But no such luck: the tapered tails of the Indian snowshoes made it too awkward. Wearily, she forced herself on.

A couple of weeks ago Earle had lent her his old wool trousers. Ladies never wore pants here, but then ladies didn’t walk back in the woods with bunches of shingles on their backs either, or with forgotten axes, or warm lunches, or bags of heavy nails. She felt comfortable in them, and warm, too.

By the time she reached the top of the grade, she was exhausted. Now what should she do? Take a little rest? But somewhere, in her dim memory, she heard Eric saying, no one ever stops in a blizzard, you never let up — they’d just find your frozen body in spring. So by sheer force of will, she trudged on step by step, panting and more alarmed. Impossible to see where she was. Finally the fence ended: only trackless woods ahead. Now what?

Put this pack of shingles down, you idiot, she told herself over and over. But she kept imagining the look flooding Eric’s face when he saw her arrive carrying it. He wanted so much to finish his cabin by Christmas, and this would make it happen. She’d go to any lengths to help him realize his dream.

But no trail. If only she’d tried their usual path along the floor of the valley? Too late for that. So what now? She wiped her wet sweaty face with a snowy mitten. Good to rest for a moment. But her active imagination threw up visions of succumbing to fatigue and sinking down — Eric finding her huddled body, frozen stiff — if a lynx hadn’t gotten to it first.

So on through the woods, go on, try to make for any clearings already logged. But that wind beat at her, the load felt so heavy. Still, she forced herself forward, imagining a fierce cat behind every bushy spruce. Her heart was racing.

The land must dip soon. Go down, find the brook, unless it’s too snowed over, and follow that. Yes, so thread through the trees, cross that space already logged — Oh! Trip on a buried stump, pick yourself up, hoist the shingles, slog on. But where was that downward slope? Was she just going in a circle? Don’t get yourself frightened, but... well, that lynx WAS seen last fall. Ridiculous to be killed or freeze to death so close to home — and even closer to the cabin. But it had been known to happen; Gaspe was full of such tales.

Do not give up. Pull yourself together. But so tired. Ah! The land is starting to dip. Steeper and steeper. Go down, get to that brook.

Down she headed, panting hard. Difficult to see: only a few feet. But less wind under the trees. Steep — oh my yes, very steep. Down this hill on snowshoes? But how? Not something Eric had taught her. The load, put it down. But no axe to blaze a tree. So how would they ever come back and find the shingles?

She tripped, fell forward. She and the shingles tumbled over and over down the hill. She struck a tree.

She lay stunned.

Lie still. Check. Your tummy? The baby? Seemed all right. Anything broken? Move your arms and legs. She did so. Dancer’s training. She knew how to relax, and fall gracefully. But now, lying here, what a feast for a beast!

She grinned, then panicked — pick yourself up. Find your snowshoes; fortunately they’d come off — saving her from a twisted or broken ankle. She had rolled a good way down. Wait! Was she close to the cabin? Leaning back, she cupped her hands and yelled the Australian, “Cooo-ee!” which was known for its carrying power. “Eric! Eric, help! Cooo-ee!”

She listened for an answering call. None. But a wild animal might have heard. And with no snowshoes, she’d never reach the cabin’s safety through this deep snow. Imagining the huge cat bounding toward her, she hurried on hands and knees up the hill, following the marks of her tumble, and found one. Now locate the other. And fast. Again on hands and knees, she headed down, dragging the snowshoe. Awkward, steep. She turned and backed down. Surely any animal would have smelled her by now.

Ah! There, in the branches of a heavy spruce, she saw the other snowshoe and bunch of shingles.

By now, covered in snow, Rene became annoyed — with herself for being so foolish as to bring those shingles back, and with Eric for needing them — she crawled on her hands and knees as fast as she could to the bottom. The flakes fell still thickly but without buffeting winds. She forced herself upright, terror clinging, leaned against a tree, and got her snowshoes on, fingers freezing. Doing up the thongs was agony. Wet, cold, exhausted, and afraid, she thought, what a half-wit I’ve been!

The snow had not let up, and indeed seemed to be coming down more heavily. She trod quickly, carefully, easier now without the weight, and almost missed the brook, being iced over and covered with snow. She hurried along what she hoped was the course, and then almost before her, log walls! She fumbled at the door latch and stumbled inside. No Eric.

Oh hells bells! Now she did feel sorry for herself and panting hard, almost dissolved in tears, but no — she pulled herself together. The stove was lit, so she stuffed in more wood, and then, brushing the clingy snow off, started to undress.

Later, when Eric returned, covered in snow, and opened the door, he stopped. “Rene! I was up to Vautier’s Lake to fish through the ice. Look what I brought! And then I went to find you; I headed down on the woods trail. How did I miss you? I’ve been so worried.”

Rene was sitting naked, clothes hanging by the stove to dry. “Oh, thought I’d just take a stroll down a different path...” They both smiled and fell into each other’s arms.

***

Later, they sat in front of the fire with fresh-caught trout laid out beside the frying pan ready for cooking. The lard lunch pail had gotten lost in the tumble. Stories told, they both relaxed while Eric fried the trout. What a lovely sizzling sound they made. Insulated by a new blanket of snow, the cabin felt cosy, snug, actually hot.

“Now that’s over, I’m pleased I’ve been through it.” She looked out the little side window. Still snowing.

“I could live like this forever,” he said simply.

“I’m not sure I could... And anyway, my dearest, we do have a third person joining us in the spring.”

“Oh yes, yes. I didn’t mean I would. So let’s at least enjoy it all now.”

“And then in the spring, back to Trinity Memorial.”

He nodded. “Yes, back to Trinity.”

***

The church bell began to toll.

“We’re going to be late!” Rene tried to tramp faster on her snowshoes. A light snow had begun again, but she could make out St. Paul’s Church beyond, down Kruse’s Lane.

“No, we’re not. They only start a good bit after the bell.”

Eric and Rene had spent the night back at their cabin. Fortunately, Jim, ten, with an older man, had been cutting firewood for his mother, Mae Byers; he’d lost his father early on, and taken on helping with the farm. With his younger brother, Pat they came by the Old Homestead and explained that the couple were spending the night in the woods, so not to worry.

Rene had expected to change for the evening service when the Shigawake ladies put on their finest for this early celebration of the birth of Our Lord. She had laid out her clothes and wanted to wear them. But Eric was so close to realizing his dream of finishing by Christmas Eve that, after they found the bunch of shingles, they had kept on until dusk, which fell early this far north. Then Eric had suggested that, with the darkness they’d better head up the brook to Nelson’s bridge and come down Kruse’s Lane.

As they approached St. Paul’s, they saw a couple of farmers attaching their horses to the fence and throwing blankets over them, the open stable under the church hall being packed. The Minister, Mr. Walters, stood waiting by the church door. The couple arrived, threw off their snowshoes and coats, and hurried in. Only then did Rene realize their situation. She was wearing Earle’s old trousers, a borrowed lumberjack coat, and a moth-eaten red wool tuque with its orange tassel that Lillian had found — at least, her head was covered in church.

She and Eric walked down the aisle, drawing astonished stares. Hard to ignore the buzz that rippled through the packed congregation at the sight of their snowy old clothes: Rene in heavy trousers, unheard of in Shigawake. Eric, she saw, was blissfully unaware. He had come to worship his Lord and that’s all he thought about: the birth of the baby Jesus.

Mr. Walters led the small choir of plump ladies in procession down the aisle, a few of them casting stern sideways glances at Rene and Eric in the front pew beside Lillian, and her sister Winifred who had come for Christmas from Montreal. Rene could not ignore the shock on Winifred’s face at seeing her favourite brother and his wife in their get-ups.

As the service progressed, the snow on their garments melted; Rene noticed pools forming on the pew and the floor beneath. This service would not be forgotten!

And my! What a tongue lashing Winifred gave her young brother outside the church while Earle was getting out the sleigh. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Eric, bringing Rene back there. I saw her beautiful clothes laid out in the bedroom. Why didn’t you get back in time? What do you think you’re doing, coming to church, the two of you, looking like that!”

Eric actually smiled. “Wyn, do you truly believe Our Lord required his worshippers to be clad in their foolish finery? What did those Bethlehem shepherds wear? You think Mary and Joseph said, Get out, you’re not properly dressed?” He shook his head, and threw back his head, and laughed.

Well, that certainly shut his sister up, thought Rene. Bully for you, Eric. But nonetheless, she had felt uncomfortable having caused such an unsightly stir.

And of course, it would be the talk of Shigawake the next week.