Blood Sky

Separated by 800 miles of verdant wilderness, the infants came forth into the world at precisely the same instant. Their initial cry was simultaneous, their first breath drawn in unison-a unison that bordered on the uncanny.

The blonde infant, red-faced and angry continued the screaming; upgrading the tempo until the pitch was almost unbearable. Her wizened visage was so contorted it was difficult to decipher where her natural features would settle once she tired of her initial tantrum. The moment Marjolaine retrieved the babe from the confines of Jeanette’s womb she’d experienced a sense of apprehension. In an attempt to thwart the disquieting emotion, she focused on thrusting her forefinger down the newborn’s esophagus, emulating as best she could, the deft movements of her mentor in the art of midwifery; a Grandmere Muriel, midwife to all and sundry in the small French settlement of Fort Ville Marie. The learned midwife had stressed the importance of unblocking a newborn’s esophagus to ensure total elimination of any mucus that might obstruct the breathing process. Congratulating herself for not having choked the infant with her callused finger, Marjolaine initiated the cleansing of the little one.

For some strange design she was adverse to the touch of the infant’s flesh, pure and delicate in appearance, yet prompting chills to surge sporadically up and down the domestic’s spine. She bound the screeching infant in a small woolen blanket, designed and woven to perfection by the same hands that had gently eased her into the light of day. Hoping her mother’s scent would calm the brat she placed her at Jeanette’s breast, but the act angered the infant further as her tiny head struggled madly to free itself from the confines of her sleeping mother’s bosom. Cupping her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block out the unearthly squeals, Marjolaine leaned against the elaborate cherry-wood wardrobe, hand-hewn by Jeanette’s husband, Jacque, as a wedding gift.

Staring vacantly across the large room that served as kitchen and bedroom, she focused her gaze on the great flagstone-hearthed fireplace. Her eyes scanned the numerous hooks attached to the immense stone structure boasting the necessary cooking utensils: stock, stew and dripping pans: a gridiron, firedogs and a lone shovel. A set of flatirons sat on the ledge beside a tin lamp and some homemade candlesticks. A steel cauldron rested on the hearth beside the raging fire. The bulky rocking chair situated in front of the open fire was occupied by the frame of Father Arter who’d assumed his position for the better part of two hours having been hastily summoned at Jeanette’s urgent request, her highly religious bent intent on the earliest possible baptism for her firstborn. She was only too aware that new mothers were forbidden to enter the church for forty days following delivery, as they were considered unclean. As well, Jeanette was concerned about the weather forty days hence, as their local parish, like most in Ville Marie, was not heated due to risk of fire, and her newborn might be struck with pneumonia. She was perplexed as to why so many women and girls of the parish insisted on appearing at mass with, as Father Arter would say, "displays of Satan," even on the frostiest days of the year.

Indeed Mercier’s galas were a site to behold – albeit a distant echo of the larger and vastly more splendid court of Versailles. Display to Mercier was everything and he maintained as much protocol and ostentation he could devise by adhering to the sacrosanct barrier of classes, ensuring that the majority of his guests were strictly of the upper echelon to be entertained with a luxury totally detached from the lives of mere colonists who believed that sumptuous and magnificent meals, dances or galas were dangerous and licentious recreations.

Aside from being attended by the most noteworthy individuals in New France, Mercier’s finest hours were those in which the various tribal delegates were invited, as he could flaunt his wealth and high living standards in front of what he thought were the most disadvantaged people on earth. As for the natives, they felt anything but envy as material things meant little to them, and they were more than ready to leave at the galas finale.

As well, the majority of his native guests pitied Mercier. Masters of body language, they could see he was shallow, attempting to live vicariously through his position and possessions and that the only one impressed was Mercier himself. As the celebrated Governor of New France, Mercier was often miffed by the passive faces of the natives who rarely altered their expressions, unlike the French who invariably displayed animated enthusiasm while in his presence.

The late afternoon was crisp and silent, the leaves brittle beneath her feet. A resonant hush of frosty air and a fresh scattering of light rain had transformed the ground into a pristine and sparkling carpet. The waning sunlight lowered to meld silently into the river as a hawk glided majestically above her. The winsome howl of a coyote echoed from somewhere deep within the woods, his cry somehow conjuring up hazy memories of her contented childhood. From the direction of the village Blood Sky could hear young voices excitedly yelling,

"Yakohsatens, yakosatens – The horses are coming!"

Thinking it just another game the children were playing, she continued on her way until a sound, much like the muted beat of a drum, obligated her to turn her head. Two men on horses were approaching her, waving their arms, signaling her to wait.

Sidling up behind her, the men dismounted. A fat white man with a round face lengthened somewhat by a scraggly beard glanced at her with dull gray eyes under thatches of bushy brows. Turning his attention from her, he began to root around in his saddlebag for something while the other stranger, an extremely mute-faced Indian: tall and spare to the point of being cadaverous, waited beside him, his grave eyes lowered. Drawing something from his bag the fat man waddled toward her in a rather tyrannical fashion, his puffy cheeks red and blustery from the cold.