Barkskins. Annie Proulx

Many ways to catch every animal. All different each season. You see over there?” He pointed west into the woods where they had not yet begun to cut. “That heap of snow?”

      “Yes,” said René.

      “What do you observe?”

      “Ah. I observe a heap of snow.”

      “If you go close to it you will see more.”

      They walked together toward the mound. Elphège pointed to a small hole near the top. A feathery rime surrounded it.

      “You see? Frozen breath of a bear.” He explained in great detail the ways the bear could be killed and extracted from its den. He continued to talk of ways to lure geese into a deep ditch so they could not open their wings and fly away, explained how to read the age of a moose track, to know the animal’s sex, its size and even its condition. René was astonished at the boy’s knowledge. He was an Indian hunter, and he was, as Trépagny had prophesied, well versed in trickery and deceit.

      René’s free days exploring the forest gave him pleasure. Sometimes he went back to the deadfall region near the west trail, where the snow was mounded in fantastic heaps. He did not go near Monsieur Trépagny’s elaborate house.

      A few days after Mari returned from the mission, Monsieur Bouchard, who, in addition to his duties as government deputy, was captain of the militia, came up from the river, moving easily on snowshoes.

      “What brings you here, Captain Bouchard? It’s a long way,” said Monsieur Trépagny. “Is there a corvée or a militia mustering? Are the Iroquois advancing?”

      “On the ship, a letter for you from France. It looked pressing important, red wax seals, a coat of arms. So I bring it to you.”

      They went up to the house. “The river is a shorter road by half than through the forest,” said Monsieur Bouchard as they climbed the slope to the house. “I wonder you don’t use your canoe in the pleasant weather.”

      “Fighting the current is more arduous than walking.”

      Monsieur Trépagny examined the letter, his sallow skin suddenly scarlet, and put it unopened on the shelf near the door. The men sat at the table drinking hot water with a little whiskey in it.

      “We have a sad story in Wobik,” said Monsieur Bouchard. “François Poignet—do you know him?”

      “By sight only. Tall and with a cast in one eye? A farmer.”

      “The same, but a good man. He went into the forest on his land during the recent cold to continue clearing. His wife died in childbed the summer past and their only living child is a girl of ten, Léonardette. The unfortunate father’s ax glanced off the frozen tree as off a block of granite and cut his left leg to the bone.”

      “Zut,” said Monsieur Trépagny.

      “He struggled to get back to his house. The blood trail marked his effort. Perhaps he called out. If so, no one heard him. He exsanguinated and froze. He was lying on his bier of frozen blood, more frozen than the ax, when we found him.”

      “It is a hard country,” said Monsieur Trépagny.

      “In addition to bringing you that letter I came to ask if you would take the girl into your household—she is young but strong. You know girls are valuable in this womanless land.” He winked.

      “Ah,” said Monsieur Trépagny. “Now I see why you made such a long trip. Why does not someone in Wobik take this girl? Why not Père Perreault? Why me? What is wrong with the child?”

      Monsieur Bouchard lifted his eyes to the smoky ceiling and rolled his head a little.

      “It’s true that she is not perfect in form.” There was a long silence.

      “In what way is she not perfect in form?”

      “Well, in form she is perfect enough, but she has a birthmark—tache de vin—on her neck.”

      “And what does the tache de vin signify that it repels the citizens of Wobik and the holy priest?”

      “It is, in fact, oh ah”—Monsieur Bouchard was sweating with the heat of the fire and the discomfort of his errand—“it is a perfect little image of a demon—with horns. I thought that as your religious beliefs …” And his voice trailed off. He looked yearningly at the door.

      “My religious beliefs? You think I would welcome a girl with the mark of the Evil One on her neck?”

      “It is said—it is said you have a—respect—not for God but for the devil.”

      “I do not. Sir, I abhor the demon. You are misinformed. I believe that your Roman Catholic ‘God’ is the Devil, the Demiurge. You have only to read in the Old Testament to see his cruelty. To me that is the Demon. It is you who worship the devil.” His squinted eyes caught the light as splinters of ice.

      “Perhaps I was misinformed, but my duty is to see the girl in someone’s care. The people in the village—” Calling on public opinion was the last card in his hand.

      “No, don’t speak to me of people in villages.”

      “Yes, as that may be, but people in the village have seen certain things. For example, they say they have seen you in the flying canoe with the devil and his impious boatmen, plying the clouds and laughing cruelly.” He got it out in a tumble.

      “What rubbish!” said Monsieur Trépagny. “Who was this sharp-eyed person—witch, I should say—who sees such false wonders?” He had moved closer to the deputy.

      “I am not at liberty to name persons,” came the smug response of one who protects the innocent.

      “Have a care, Monsieur Bouchard.”

      The old deputy put up his chin. “You have a care, Monsieur Claude Trépagny du Triomphe. I have little interest in flying canoes and devil pacts. Nor in you. I want only to find a place for the girl.” He added slyly, “She is skilled in brewing excellent beer. She learned well from her mother.”

      Mari brought more hot water to the table and, eyes downcast, said quietly, “That girl take me. No like make beer me.”

      “There you go!” cried Monsieur Bouchard. “I’ll send her right up. She’s just down by the river.” Two strides and he was out the door, his long cloak whisking after him.

      “Captain Bouchard! Wait!” bellowed Trépagny at the closing door. He whirled around and struck Mari to her knees, then slammed out with his ax in hand.

      The skinny, sad child slowly climbed the snowy hill from the river. She was thin with lank hair, dark circles under her small brown eyes and a half-cringing way of carrying herself as though ducking blows before they had been struck. Her fingers were slender and dexterous. Mari, moving slowly, patted her shoulder twice, put a wooden spoon in her hand and set her to stirring mush. When Monsieur Trépagny came in he pulled her to the doorway to examine the demonic birthmark. He saw a small red triangle the size of a thumbnail on the nape of her neck and at its top two tiny triangles the height of a mosquito.

      “Hah!” said Monsieur Trépagny. “It’s no demon. The stupid town folk have seen only what they wanted to see. The fools. It’s a fox. We shall call you Renardette.”

      Despite her cringing manner the girl was a competent brewer. She began by scouring the brew house and the stone brewing jars. She asked for hop seeds and planted them among the stumps. She picked the ripe hops herself and made very good beer. No one drank more of it than Renardette herself. Though René still preferred vin rouge, it had to be imported and was too costly. But if ever the settlers’ apple orchards began to bear they could have cidre. That would be pleasure.

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