Where the River Takes Me Page 9

  I carried him around to the escarpment, staying outside the stockade so I wouldn’t stir up the Fort’s dogs or run into the boys. There were some Songhees men on the beach and I called out, holding up the dog so they would see it, and set him onto the path. Off he went! Straight down to the beach and into one of the canoes. No looking back or woofing a “thank you,” but I am sure he was grateful.

  I told Lucy about the rescue, saying she should have stayed with me — she could have petted the dog and helped me carry it. When I asked why she had turned back, she said it wasn’t proper to go chasing after boys.

  Well I expect she is right — unless there is a good reason for doing so. Which is what I had.

  Suzanne would have come, and we would have relived the Adventure for days afterwards. Oh, goodness, rescuing the dog has just reminded me of the time Suzanne and I found two baby rabbits. We took them into the barn where one of the cats had had kittens and the cat adopted the bunnies as if they were her own. It was the most wonderful sight — five kittens and two bunnies suckling together while the mother cat purred. Suzanne and I watched for the longest time. And when Suzanne moved a bunny away from the cat to see what would happen, the cat got up, went over to the bunny, picked it up by the scruff of its neck and took it back to the family.

  Tuesday, August 20th

  A mystery has been solved!

  On my way back from the privy — well before Breakfast — I heard Rev. Staines saying good morning to Mr. Minie. I looked around to see where Rev. S was and spied him on the Gallery looking down at his vegetable garden. I then heard him say, “That’s a fine lettuce you’ve got there, Minie, why not take the rest while you’re at it?”

  And Mr. Minie said, “Merci,” and did just that.

  I told the girls later, and how we laughed! Rev. Staines must have been beside himself, for the lettuce thief cannot even be punished now, since Rev. S told him to help himself!

  Wednesday, August 21st

  Today I went into the Trade Store. Mr. Finlayson and Mr. Durham were there. I told them I was looking for a blue sash and a handkerchief taken from the dormitory, but in truth it was to look inside the store. It was much like the one at Fort Edmonton, a treasure house of shiny brass kettles and copper pots, coloured glass beads, thick white blankets (with a black, a red and a yellow stripe), buttons, needles, clay pipes, guns, axes, knives. Copper wire, like Nokum used for making snares. The store had the same rich scent of tobacco and furs. It made me feel homesick. I failed to find the sash or the handkerchief, but was not surprised.

  Friday, August 23rd

  Three weeks have gone by since I arrived.

  Have I learned three weeks worth of New Knowledge at Staines School? No, and Latin does not count. (The Pains’ School of Parson Puce — that could be a title for my Novel!)

  I have learned about other things though, thanks to my wanderings outside the Fort.

  Saturday, August 24th

  This morning I went to the meadow and saw Kwetlal again. She was digging camas with the others, tho’ there were not as many as last week, which makes me think the harvest might be coming to an end. When I approached her, she remembered my name and looked happy to see me. It turns out she speaks and understands a little bit of English and when she pointed towards the Fort, mimed the act of paddling a canoe and said “brother” and “father,” I guessed that she might have learned some words from a relative who works for the Company. Maybe her father or a brother was one of the paddlers who brought me from Fort Langley. We played a few more “guessing games” — including one in which I tried to explain that my mother and father were dead, but not my grandmother. I must have used the right gestures for she smiled, seeming to understand, and took me to meet her grandmother, the woman I had seen telling stories. I managed to get across that she reminded me of my grandmother.

  I had never seen a camas root up close so I took the opportunity and looked into Kwetlal’s basket. “Camas?” I said. They looked more like bulbs than roots, but Mrs. Staines had been right about the name for, on hearing “camas,” Kwetlal gave a delighted grin, handed me a pointed stick and showed me how to use it. (Now I wonder if I might have pronounced “camas” incorrectly, and said something that means “Let me help with the digging.”) It was not as easy as it looked.

  I got better with practice, but came close to making a grave mistake. I had gone into the woods to relieve myself and, coming back, had noticed a clump of stalks that had not been touched. Thinking that the bulbs would have to be dug up eventually, I decided to be helpful by making a start. Well I’d no sooner put in the stick than Kwetlal’s grandmother gave a cry of alarm and motioned for me to stop. She looked very concerned, Kwetlal too, and I soon understood why — the spot where I was about to dig was for poison camas. And to show how dangerous it was, she dug up a large, fine-looking bulb that looked identical to the others. That was why they had to be kept apart. And to make sure the one she’d dug up would not end up with the others, she reburied it then and there.

  I learned a lot more — at least I hope I learned, for reading the language of gestures was at times as difficult as understanding Latin. Thank goodness Kwetlal knows some English. Halting it may be, but there was no mistaking her meaning when she said “Death camas.” So my nature lesson on camas (or what I gathered from our conversation), is this: There are two kinds of camas, blue and white, and the bulb from the white is poisonous. The only time you can tell them apart is when the plant is in flower, so every spring the women dig up the white plants, roots and all, and destroy them. And sometimes they move a few to a distant spot. Thank Heaven they saw where I was about to dig.

  I made certain to remember where the white camas was buried, though I would never dig in the meadow without Kwetlal. It would be akin to someone digging in the Company’s garden, or stealing Rev. S’s vegetables.

  I wish I had asked Kwetlal if they ever use the death camas on their enemies. Is that why they don’t destroy all the white plants?

  Oh, what a perfect idea for my Novel! The Hero could use it on a Villain, like Parson Puce or Mrs. Staines, or a Villain could use it on a group of unsuspecting girls at Staines School! Those with the most poisonous tongues, like Maggie and Sarah, would fall deathly ill, but Jenna the Heroine would be spared.

  Before I left the meadow I asked Kwetlal if I could keep a camas bulb for a souvenir. She said I could, so I picked one out and hurried back to the Fort.

  The girls were playing tag in the yard and asked me to join them, but I came up to the dormitory, wrapped my bulb in a handkerchief — the one with the embroidered flowers that Aunt Grace gave me — and put it inside my deerskin pouch.

  My souvenirs of Vancouver’s Island now include a camas bulb, a clamshell, a blue-black mussel shell and a tiny cedar cone from my Lookout. I keep them in the pouch, next to the bag of pemmican, inside my cassette. I think of them as my secret treasures and do not want anyone to know.

  Tuesday, August 27th

  I had a disturbing dream last night. A Cree woman was trying to enter the Fort but Aunt Grace was barring her way. The woman was crying and begging to be let inside.

  I cannot stop thinking of this dream. I never liked the way Aunt behaved towards the Cree. She would probably have treated my own mother in the same uppity way, had my mother been alive, and it upsets me to see Mrs. Staines behaving likewise, especially towards Mrs. Douglas. Whenever their paths cross Mrs. Staines looks down her nose in a puffed-up manner or turns the other way.

  Father once told me that a year after Aunt’s arrival in Fort Edmonton, she had been jilted by a man in favour of a half-breed woman, and had taken it hard, believing that a white woman should have a stronger claim on any white man. Being more uppity, I suppose.

  I like Mrs. Douglas. Whenever our paths cross she smiles and says hello and asks how I am doing in school. The other day she was working in her garden. I stopped to admire her flowers, and she told me that she’d brought the seeds from flowers she had grown when t
he family was living in Fort Vancouver. She told me their names — wallflowers, marigolds, sweet William, candytufts — I forget the rest. I thanked her in Cree, for I had heard that her mother was Cree, and she gave me the warmest smile and asked about my family, etc. So we ended up having a nice chat in Cree until the bell rang for Supper and it was time to go inside.

  The Douglas girls are fortunate to have such a kind and gentle mother. I like to think that my mother would have been the same, had she lived.

  Later

  After Supper I joined some of the girls for a walk to Beacon Hill. Mostly the oldest girls, so Mrs. Staines gave her permission.

  There was no one digging on the meadows. The mat shelters were gone, and there were piles of brush and weeds that had been dug up before. I think the camas harvest must be over.

  On the way back we stopped by the stables to pet the horses. I miss the horses we had at Fort Edmonton. And the times Father would take me riding. Sometimes he would walk his horse and let me sit by myself, “to get the feel of it.” I felt grand being up so high.

  Thursday, August 29th

  Alec and Davy got into a fight with a couple of Songhees boys. I did not see what happened, but Radish said that one boy was “punched up pretty bad.” A worker at the salmon store stopped the fight and hauled our boys up to Rev. Staines. They were caned and forbidden to fight again.

  Saturday, August 31st

  The other night I was telling the girls about Mr. Rowand’s racehorses and how thrilling it was to go to the track outside the Fort and watch the races. Sarah and a few others made a great show of yawning, and Lucy told me that everyone was bored by Fort Edmonton this and Fort Edmonton that, and they wished I would go back there or stop talking about it.

  Well I flared up at this and said I would go back in an instant if I could, and maybe I would, so there, and stomped off in a huff.

  Now I realize I was being childish, and making myself even more unlikable. I should have laughed and told them they were right — I do go on about Fort Edmonton — but I thought my stories were entertaining! Is that how you make a friend, by doing what they want? It was so easy with Suzanne. I’m glad I’ve met Kwetlal, even though it’s a challenge understanding each other. I hope I’ll see her and her grandmother again. But how, if the harvest is over?

  Time for Dinner, and then Deportment.

  Later

  Mrs. Staines took us outside in Deportment. “Mind your step, girls! Hold up your skirts, like so! No, no, Lucy — hold them out at the sides! Like so!” She led the way on a devilish obstacle course of ruts, dips and boardwalks, dodging dogs and manure and chickens — and we followed in single file, a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls. The workers in the yard looked on with amusement and the boys who happened to be around aped our every move with outrageous exaggeration, which drove Mrs. Staines to distraction and made us giggle the harder. It was too hilarious to think of being embarrassed, although a few of the older girls looked mortified — especially when Mr. Beauchamp began to whistle and blow kisses.

  Mrs. Staines said afterwards that we must learn to keep our dignity in such situations and to ignore all displays of “infantile behaviour.” Et cetera.

  We had a good laugh at the boys’ expense though, for they had to have a haircut. The wife of one of the canadiens does it once a month. She cuts hair as tho’ she were wielding a scythe through a wheat field.

  September 1850

  Sunday, September 1st

  There was such a din in the Common Room last night, none of us could sleep, so Lucy pried up the loose board and we spied on the officers. They were having a grand time, drinking spirits and slurping oysters off the shell — raw oysters!

  We tried to follow their conversation, but there was so much guffawing and slurping that they could have been speaking Latin, except that they were enjoying themselves too much.

  Sarah said she had tried a raw oyster, but had not liked the feel of it sliding down her throat. That led to a discussion about the worst foods we had ever eaten. For Lucy it was roast dog and for me it was fat and gristly beaver tail — even though Suzanne and everyone else loved beaver tail and considered it a luxury.

  After the men had quieted down a little and the other girls had gone to sleep, Lucy leaned closer to my bed and whispered that she wished she were more like me. I did not believe her, for she had made fun of my clothing and teased me in front of the others, but I was curious enough to ask why.

  She said she wanted to be brave enough to go exploring, like I did, but was too cowardly — afraid of getting lost or hurt, afraid of Alec finding out and telling her father, afraid of being caned by Rev. Staines or captured by a hostile tribe and turned into a slave. She went through a list of such dire possibilities that I laughed and said, “Or you could be flogged on the jetty and thrown into the harbour for the crabs.” Whereupon she added, “Or forced to eat boiled rat tails!”

  After that we took turns adding to our list of Worst Punishments, laughing so hard we had to stop for fear of wetting our beds.

  Then I told her that I knew how to poison someone.

  “How?” she said, and leaned even closer, so our heads were almost touching.

  “With camas.” I told her all about it — how easy it would be and how no one would know the difference until it was too late.

  She wanted to know how I knew, and I said it was a secret.

  We were quiet after that until I heard Lucy whisper, “Can I come with you on your next adventure?” I pretended to be asleep. If she had asked me a few weeks ago I would have been pleased, and we might have become good friends. But what if she came with me and we happened to meet Kwetlal? Would Lucy take kindly to her? Would she tell Mrs. Staines that I am associating with the Songhees, something we are forbidden to do? I would rather keep my friendship with Kwetlal a secret.

  Monday, September 2nd

  No black treacle on our bread this morning, but jam! Red, syrupy, sweet, sticky, delectable! We savoured each mouthful and took such a long time doing so that Mrs. Staines said there would be no more jam if we were late for school.

  The leaves on the maples are slowly beginning to change colour. A few have begun to fall.

  The poplars along the banks of the Saskatchewan River will be bright gold by now. The mornings will be cold. Nokum might be wearing the warm capote of Father’s I gave her — tho’ the sleeves were too long and the hood almost covered her face. Soon she and the women will be hard at work mending snowshoes in time for winter.

  Tuesday, September 3rd

  Another Breakfast with jam. Not a speck is wasted, for we wipe our plates clean with a finger when Mrs. Staines is not looking. I told Radish he had a bit at the corner of his mouth and he said he was saving it for later.

  Another thing about today, but not as nice as jam, is the smoke. The air has been full of it — not just today, but for the last few days — and when I asked why, Lucy told me that the Indians were burning the meadows. I did not believe her but Rev. Staines overheard us arguing and said it was true, and after Supper he is taking a group of us to see for ourselves.

  Later

  It is true. We walked to Beacon Hill after Supper and sure enough, some Songhees were setting fire to piles of weeds and to thick patches of fern and underbrush — even to small trees growing beneath the oaks. I was alarmed at first, fearing the fire would spread to the Fort or to my Lookout tree. But Rev. Staines said the fire would not get out of control, the Indians kept careful watch, and it is something they do every harvest. He had heard all about it from various men and officers who had been here a long time. When a few of us asked why, since it made our eyes sting and filled the air with smoke, he said he expected they had a good reason and what did we think it might be?

  Lucy and I exchanged glances, thinking the same thing — Rev. Staines does not know the answer. But neither did we, so we made suggestions like the others (on our way back, for the air was too smoky to linger).

  Mine: To keep bushes and shrubs
from taking over their camas?

  James: And their potatoes.

  Alec: To make the ground easier to dig, for when they dig up the potatoes and stuff next year?

  Sarah: Because it’s faster to burn the weeds than to pull them out?

  And more of the same, until Lucy says to Rev. Staines, “Sir, could you not just ask the Indians?”

  “A splendid idea,” he says.

  Maybe I’ll try to find out from Kwetlal. Maybe the burning is something they have been doing for hundreds of years and don’t even think about why anymore. Every year the camas and other plants grow back, so the burning works, whatever the reason, and maybe that’s reason enough.

  Radish made us laugh when he said, “Why does every outing have to be a lesson? Can’t we just go somewhere and not think?”

  Wednesday, September 4th

  Hot today, once the fog lifted.

  Radish is missing a small wooden carving in the shape of a whale. He claimed it was taken by one of the boys. Rev. Staines ordered a search of the boys’ dormitory but it was not found there, nor in ours.

  The missing items are now:

  1 blue sash

  1 white handkerchief with an embroidered S

  1 small wooden carving

  Another idea for my Novel — the disappearance of various small items, or one item that is exceedingly valuable! The Fort is in a panic because the item must be found before the turn of the tide to prevent a dire catastrophe!

  Back to the Staines School Mystery — who could be responsible? And why are such trifles being taken? I would love to solve the case.

  Everywhere smells of salmon! The Songhees are bringing in cured and smoked salmon for trade and the salmon store is filling up.

  I have heard that the most valuable fur in this district is not beaver but sea otter. Not here so much, but farther north. And I was surprised to hear that the sea otter pelts go all the way to China!