The Snake River (27 page)

Part Five

A BRAVE NEW WORLD

Chapter Twenty-nine

The wedding day was more than Miss Jewel could take. In a way she would have liked to stand right there and watch her Billy Wells get hitched to none other than Elvira Upping. Just went to show, she thought.

Went to show what?

She didn’t know. She chuckled sardonically. But now that the church had given her the boot, she had some richly vulgar thoughts.

The spectacle might be fun, but she wouldn’t be able to bear the shunning. They would celebrate the joining together of man and woman, and then have a big dinner on the grass in front of the church, and everyone would maintain this elaborate charade that said Maggie Jewel didn’t exist. They would go around with stiff backs turned to her. Not one person would speak, or nod at her, or offer her tea.

Oh, her moods were black these days.

Funny how your feelings played tricks on you.

She didn’t want Billy Wells. She saw him for what he was, a weasel, a chameleon. But her fantasy wasn’t as smart as her wide-awake brain. Her fantasy made lots of fairy-tale pictures of her and Billy together. Making love. Teaching the innocent. Making love. Raising children. Waking up together. Making love.

No, fantasy wasn’t smart. It raised up Michael Devin O’Flaherty last summer, half man, half devil. This winter it raised up Billy Wells, all worm.

If she stayed here today, fantasy would make her cry.

It would be disgraceful to cry over a worm.

She went into the yard, where Sima was splitting wood. She smiled to herself, thinking how glad he would be.

“Let’s go to French Prairie today,” she said. Lisbeth’s parents had come back two days ago, and she was mere, so Miss Jewel didn’t have to give a reason.

“Nothing to do with Lisbeth,” she said.

He dropped the maul and grinned.

First sign of life from Miss Jewel in days, Sima thought. Didn’t ask questions, just got his rifle and saddled his fine American horse and got her mounted and they set off.

He liked French Prairie. Even when Lisbeth wasn’t there. People lived in shacks and tipis and even lean-tos. They wore skins. They ate meat they hunted and berries they gathered. Most of them were Indians by blood, and even the Frenchies and few Scots were Indians by learning.

Sima felt like life at Mission Bottom was all about pretending you weren’t one of the beasts. You wore spun cloth, not the hides of animals. You were embarrassed about needing to go to the bathroom. You never talked about sex. You ate what you cultivated in nice rows. You were too good to be earthly.

God, if only word would come from Dr. McLoughlin. But not quite yet. He didn’t want to leave Miss Jewel in trouble. He wanted to see Flare before he headed out. He wondered if he could take Lisbeth with him.

They came to the edge of the clearing of the cluster of cabins called Jarvis’s and saw some fellow pissing in the grass in front of old Baptiste’s cabin. It made Sima smile big. Miss Jewel started to smile, he saw, but killed it.

It wasn’t until they rode closer, and heard him holler, that they realized it was Flare.

Flare knew damn well it was them. Knew it damn well. What other white woman rode astride? He shoved his prick back behind his breechcloth before he started hallooing. Mind your manners, lad, she’s a lady.

He went running up to them.

“Top o’ the morning to ye,” with a fine, wide smile.

They said something friendly back.

Ah, it’s right awkward, isn’t it? You want to hug both of them, but look at the spot you’ve put yourself in. Sima doesn’t know you’re his father, and Miss Jewel thinks you’re the griz of all liars. A fine job of living you’ve done.

He stood a few steps off, looking at them sheepishly.

Sima offered a hand, and Flare gave him an
abrazo
, saying it was a custom he’d learned among the Spaniards down in California. Actually, he’d learned it years before, in Taos. Felt good to grip his son. And he touched his hat to Miss Jewel, up there high on that horse.

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. O’Flaherty,” she said warmly. Her face looked flushed. “I want to tell you immediately how sorry I am that I accused you of falsehood. Billy Wells was the one who was lying, I know that now.”

Flare was taken aback. He held his hands up and she took them and dismounted, almost into his arms. He looked into her eyes. He wished the woman didn’t always make him feel weak-kneed.

“Now that we have a bit of an understanding,” he said to her, aware of sounding more Irish than usual, “do you think you could call me Flare? That ‘mister’ makes me feel like me father.”

“Thank you, my friend,” she said. “And I’m Maggie.”

“That ass Billy is getting married right now,” Sima said ironically. ‘To Miss Upping.”

Flare saw pain in her eyes. He stepped away from her or else he’d embrace her. Miss Upping, he thought, fitting enough, that tight-ass. Turds of a feather flock together.

“Let’s not talk about this now,” said Maggie. “Sima will fill you in. I want to have a good time.”

“You’ve come on the right day, lass,” said Flare. “We just rode in last night and we mean to feast today.”

“And lift a cup,” Miss Jewel said with a smile.

“Surely some will do that,” said Flare.

“And dance to Monsieur Jacquet’s fiddle?”

“A jig or two, lass.”

“Sounds grand,” said Maggie. “I want to dance with every man in the place.”

“A right bastard, yes?” asked Sima with a smile, checking the term. They were walking toward Flare’s surprise for the lad.

“A right bastard,” said Flare grimly. “And Dr. Full is, too.”

Sima had given Flare the whole story, a nasty bit of work by Billy Wells, backed up by the good doctor. It didn’t make sense to Sima. Flare claimed it was because the missionaries despised the strong and fawned on the weak. He couldn’t tell if Sima thought so, too.

Flare studied Sima’s face. Surely the lad wouldn’t be tempted to model himself on the missionaries now. Surely. But he was a lad to keep his own counsel.

The shunning was rotter stuff. There are no cruel like the righteous, Flare thought.

He’d damned well better get Maggie Jewel out of this miserable situation. Damned well.

They came to the little corral with the horses. “Here’s the surprise, lad,” Flare said with a gesture. Sima’s face looked…afraid to hope. “We did well on the pony raid. A dozen horses—six for me, six for you. You may choose your six—they’re all fine.”

Sima looked at Flare, looked at the horses, back at Flare. He offered his hand gravely. “Thank you.” He was a good lad.

“The six are yours to do as you please with. But here’s an idea. Good ones like that would soften a lot of hearts back with your people. Clear your back trail.” And get you away from these missionaries.

Sima nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Flare looked at her across the big fire pits. The Frenchies were roasting a couple of elk whole on spits. Would be fine doings, though not quite so fine as buffler.

She was chattering gaily with two breed women. He chuckled. Maybe they were talking about how to make a lazy stitch, why English selvidge was the best cloth, or what new baubles might be down to Vancouver. Or gossiping about how Madame Sacre Bleu was in a family way again, how young Merde hadn’t learned to keep his prick in his pants, and whatever. It tickled him to think of that highfalutin Miss Jewel making woman talk.

She looked like she was having a grand time. She needed it, according to Sima.

Sima had disappeared with Lisbeth. Flare sent silent blessings with them into the bushes.

He walked around to a bunch of men smoking and talking and shook with Alex McDougal. A square-jawed, blunt-talking fellow, graying and balding, never without a pipe in his mouth, not a bad fellow for a Scot. Didn’t see his wife, Heather, a Bob Ruly from the Red River settlements—Bob Ruly was one of the Sioux tribes. Though named Heather, and a half-breed, she was uncommonly dark, and had the tongue of a shrew. Flare sat with the bunch, lit his pipe, and looked over at Maggie sneakily.

She’s too tall for you, Michael Devin O’Flaherty, too serious, and far too religious. Bad as hooking up with a Brit.

What’s wrong with ye, lad? What are these thoughts of domestic life you’re entertaining? Ye’d not be content minding a store. What would be happening when your heart got to itching to see the other side of the mountain?

Besides, she won’t have ye. Which shows she’s right smart.

He looked at her. He’d never had feelings like these before, and he didn’t like them.

But then he’d never had a son before.

Nor thought of wanting a wife, and more sons, and daughters.

It gave him the willies.

Tis a brave new world, Flare said to himself mockingly, that has such creatures in’t.

Sima and Lisbeth were spooned up together, naked as God made them, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Though it was a lovely April day, evening was coming, and she asked for the blanket after they made love. She was getting chill.

She wiggled her bottom against him to encourage him. He murmured and kissed her neck and ears and caressed her breasts and belly. She liked what she heard, but she wasn’t sure. He was talking about taking her to Montreal.

Montreal—it sounded grand. Her father told her all about it. Fancy carriages and French gowns and silver plates to eat from. She’d like seeing that. But they’d never let her have any such luxury. Her father didn’t even dare take her mother there, for fear of the insults on the street. Like her mother, she was just a mixed-blood girl. Which was all right only in the whorehouses.

She loved loving Sima, but she didn’t see how women sold themselves to men they didn’t know, men who used them quickly and roughly and threw them away.

She didn’t think she liked white men much. Except her father. She didn’t know many white men. The Frenchies were all mixed-bloods, like her.

Sima was trying to get her to answer whether she wanted to go to Montreal. If they went, she’d get to stop at the Red River settlements. She had friends there, good friends. Of course, Sima might not like some of the attention the male friends would pay her. She was hardly noticing Sima’s words, just his hands. Soon she decided she’d better shut him up. She knew exactly how to do that.

Maggie danced until she was ready to drop.

There were gigues and reels, fast songs and slow, vigorous and languid, athletic and romantic. She really did dance with every man there, she thought, including several who smelled questionable, and a couple with roving hands. Mr. Skye picked her up clean off the ground and twirled her in the air, which was thrilling.

The music was wonderful. Voyageurs’ songs, they called them, mostly new to her. There were two fiddles and Jew’s harps of all sizes. The harps made a chorus, a drone, the way she imagined bagpipes must sound. The fiddles sang melodies above, now sprightly, now wicked, now sentimental, now dreamy, often melancholy.

A melancholy one was “À la Claire Fontaine":

À la claire fontaine,

M’en allant promener,

J’ai trouvé I’eau si belle

Que je m’y suis baigne.

(chorus)

Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime

Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

In several verses it told the story of a young man, walking one night by a clear fountain, who tells the nightingale to sing while he weeps. He has lost his lover. When she asked for a bouquet of roses, he refused. Now she is gone. He will never forget her.

You would never have thought these rough Frenchmen, who looked half like animals and who acted and smelled half like animals, were really men of sentiment. But they loved their old songs. They roared out the words to the lively tunes and wept in their rum through the maudlin ones. They sang what they could never say.

The drunkenness, however, was going to be considerable, with Mr. Skye leading the way. She was glad that Flare didn’t partake, and would be able to see her home safely.

Only one more dance, she told Skye, who insisted. It was “Passant par Paris,” a lively drinking song, and she wore herself out jigging it.

Passant par Paris, pour y vider bouteille,

Passant par Paris, pour y vider bouteille,

Un de mes amis il me dit à L’oreille:

(chorus)

Gai, Bon, Bon

Le bon vin m’endort et l’amour m’y reveille.

Le bon vin m’endort et l’amour m’y reveille.

Skye whispered the translation of the chorus in her ear with mock suggestiveness: Wine puts me to sleep, and love wakes me up.

When she collapsed onto a log, Flare spoke quietly to one of the fiddlers. Then he turned to the crowd and said, “One Irishman shall give you bunch of drunks a taste of the finer things of life. This is ‘The Young May Moon,’ by the Irishman Thomas Moore, the greatest living poet.”

The young May moon is beaming, love,

The glowworm’s lamp is gleaming, love,

      How sweet to rove

      Through Morna’s grove,

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,

’Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

      And the best of all ways

      To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

      And I, whose star,

      More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,

      Or, in watching the flight

      Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

It was gorgeous. The one fiddle double-stopped sweet harmonies. Flare closed his eyes and sang long, lovely lines fragrant with feeling. It was beautiful and touching. She supposed it was the Irish soul in him.