Promises to Keep Page 2

  It was the officer, the one with the sharp eyes, who answered. “His Majesty will take care of all his subjects. It is not your place to question him.”

  His smug reply was like a slap. Determined not to react, I stepped closer to the quiet soldier. “Trust must be earned,” I replied. “What about you? Do you trust the king to take care of us?”

  Before he could respond, the officer blustered past, knocking him sideways. “This is all?” he demanded of Papa. “Two old hunting rifles and one axe?”

  Papa’s anger was quickly veiled by an expression of confusion. He opened his palms and shrugged. “Oui, c’est tout. I am farmer, not soldier.”

  Evidently disapproving, the officer grunted and started toward the door. “MacDonnell!” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir,” the other soldier replied, but before leaving he made a quick bow to Papa. “My apologies for the interruption,” he said in a cultured French accent. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

  No one spoke.

  “This is not good,” Maman eventually muttered.

  “They will surely bring back the axe,” I said.

  Mathieu regarded me closely. “What did you say to them?”

  “Only that I could not believe the king would allow us to live without it.”

  “And they said what?”

  “That I had no right to question the king.”

  “You must be careful, Amélie,” Maman warned. “They do not hear a question, they see a beautiful young woman, and one who dares challenge them. You are not as safe as you once were.”

  “Especially now that they have stolen all our weapons!” Mathieu added. “Papa, can they do that?”

  Our father had not grown up as we had. When he was only five, a group of Mi’kmaq hunters had discovered his father, drowned in the Gaspereau. His mother had died the year before, giving birth to his stillborn sister, leaving him an orphan. The Mi’kmaq had welcomed little Charles to their village and raised him as one of their own. He came to know their language as well as he knew French, if not better, and he learned the secrets of the forest. He lived and trained with the other youths, hunted with them, ate with them. I had been told that in a dark forest, he could be mistaken for one of them—as long as he covered his bright gold hair.

  I loved to imagine him as the young blond warrior he had once been, strong, courageous, living wild. I imagined he sometimes longed to return to that life, if only for a little while. Now would be one of those times.

  He answered my brother through a clenched jaw. “Apparently so.”

  I needed air. Slipping my apron over my head, I hung it on the hook, then tied my bonnet tighter as I stepped outside. The wind reached for it, but I foiled her attempts. The best she could do was whip at my skirt, but I pressed my palms flat against the material as I stormed barefoot up the slope behind our home. When I reached the peak, I hugged my arms across my chest, looking down over the fields and watching a stand of scraggly spruce bow and dance with the wind. The crops swayed as well, though their rich ocean of green buds was shallow, still swelling in adolescence.

  I came to this place when I needed to be refreshed, to escape my family’s expectations, to clear my thoughts. In my life I’d never gone beyond the limits of Grand Pré, but from here I could see past the golden rises of the dikes and let my daydreams ride the Atlantic. The prettiest sight of all was at the end of the day, when the fishermen’s white-sailed boats returned home, riding the spill of sunset on the water. They had been joined recently by a number of much larger, unfamiliar ships, and we all wondered at their business. Until this morning, I had enjoyed the anticipation of one day finding out why they were there. Now I knew from my brother that they brought only more soldiers. I was no longer happy to see them.

  A patch of darkness skimmed over the fields as a lone cloud passed overhead, and I looked up. Claire always said cloud shadows warned of darkness yet to come, but I chose to ignore her superstitious words. I liked the clouds.

  Another gust of salty air washed over me, tacky on my lips, and I closed my eyes. My favourite afternoons came before a storm, when I stood in the wind and watched rolls of hungry clouds swallow the sun. When the sudden darkness folded around us—a last-minute warning to bring in drying laundry and gather children—its power made me shiver with anticipation. Even more wondrous was when lightning cut through the sky, diving down to split the water. Those storms were rare, making them a gift in my eyes. When hurricanes blew in autumn, I stayed out of doors as long as I could, welcoming the impending madness.

  Today I felt no rain on the wind but a tension in the air, as if the clouds waited with me to see what might happen next.

  A small child cried out, and I searched out the Labiches’ home. I knew the sound of little Jacqueline, and when I squinted I saw her stamping tiny feet in the grass. Angelique and Suzanne stood with her, their mother behind. Monsieur Labiche was in their doorway, staring down the same two soldiers who had just left our home. Another man I hadn’t spotted before sat beyond on a wagon bench, holding his horse’s reins and watching over a load of seized weapons. Monsieur Labiche was a big man with a temper, and I wondered at the fortitude of the soldiers, since I probably would have turned and run if faced with his wrath. Then again, I imagined they had faced worse.

  Curiosity led me down the hill toward the little group. I already knew the soldiers’ mission; Monsieur Labiche would eventually be forced to surrender his weapons. About halfway down the slope I stopped and listened, wanting to hear how they would persuade him, but all that came to me was the officer’s terrible nasal attempts at French. His tone was disrespectful, making me angry all over again, but I would not interfere. I paused twenty feet away, and the other soldier—MacDonnell, I recalled—looked my way.

  I have seen a rabbit freeze in place, trying not to be seen though it was in plain view. That was my instinct as well. But like the rabbit, I had stopped too late. MacDonnell glanced from me to his commanding officer, assessing the situation, then stepped toward me. At the wagon, he removed his coat and set it on top, partially covering Papa’s rifles and our axe. His white shirt was stained with exhaustion, and I wondered who was tending these men—doing their wash, cooking their meals. They were only human after all.

  I saw no hostility on MacDonnell’s face; his expression was one of curiosity. Even so, I shifted my feet, on guard. He must have seen my inadvertent movement, for his mouth curved in response, adding an unexpected gentleness to his expression. When he was about six feet away, I stepped back.

  He stopped and held out empty hands. “You’ve nothing to fear.”

  I lifted my chin in denial, strangely pleased that he’d chosen to speak French. Still, regardless of the language, he and I were strangers, and I did not mean for him to pretend otherwise.

  “That’s not what we’ve been told.”

  His mouth twisted slightly. He found this funny? “No, I suppose not,” he said. “The British army does not make friends easily, does it? What I mean is that you, yourself, have nothing to fear from me.”

  I crossed my arms. “No? Why not?”

  “I will not hurt you.”

  It was a bold statement. I decided the test was not over. “Will you give me back my family’s weapons?”

  “I cannot. You know that.”

  “At least our axe?” Any pretense of bravado faded from my voice.

  “I cannot. I am sorry.”

  “Then you lie,” I said, turning away. “Without that axe you not only hurt me and my family, you kill us.” I climbed back up the slope, my head held high. I didn’t want him to see defeat in the set of my shoulders.

  But he seemed disinclined to end our conversation. His feet shushed through the grass behind me. “Wait! Mademoiselle, wait!”

  I paused but did not turn around. “Is that an order?”

  “Please, mademoiselle, I am sorry. Truly I am. But if we gave back your axe, we would have to return them all, and the whole point is to ensure y
our people will not carry weapons which could be used against us. I do know you will need firewood. We all know that.” He hesitated, then his voice lowered. “I will do what I can to help you and your family when that time comes.”

  I nodded but continued up the hill, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.

  THREE

  Papa was waiting for me on the other side. He was turned toward the west, his face glowing orange under the beginnings of a sunset, and my step faltered, seeing him there. As much as I welcomed spending time with him, not having to share him, I had thought I was alone.

  “Papa,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He turned his head to smile at me. “I came to find you.”

  Of course he knew where I would go, needing to escape. “I was so angry . . .”

  “As was I.”

  “You didn’t look angry, Papa.”

  He nodded, facing the sun once again. The oranges were fading to pink, washing into purples as they sank slowly into the sea. The wind had died down and the night was calm, marred only by the occasional whine of a mosquito. The dulled surface of the sea was still, and my father’s quiet strength settled over me like a warm blanket.

  “No, ma chérie. I did not look angry. Come. Walk with me.”

  The day’s heat had risen toward the darkening sky, but the dusk was not yet too cool for a stroll. From their soggy homes in the marshes, frogs sang lullabies to the birds and other creatures of the sunshine as they bedded down, and a bat swept silently across our path, enjoying a winged feast. A wolf cried in the distance, but his call went unanswered.

  Papa lifted his hat so he might scratch his head, then set it back down. He walked to the edge of the hill, just before it descended to the crops, and I followed his gaze beyond the dikes, beyond the water, to the red cliffs of Cap Batiste where Glooscap lived.

  “Sometimes, my dear Amélie,” he said, “it is better to hide your anger.”

  I thought of my brief conversation with MacDonnell. “I’m not good at that.”

  He chuckled, and the warmth of the sound rippled across the sunset. “No, you are not good at that.” His smile faded. “But I think maybe it’s time you learned.”

  “Claire says I am impulsive.”

  “You are. Like running out here tonight and speaking with the soldier just now. That was foolhardy. He could have been dangerous.”

  I said nothing, only flushed with shame.

  “You are a fortunate young lady. You have spent your whole life with a family who loves you very much. You have been sheltered from the ignorance and violence of men, and you are naive.” He gnawed on his lower lip. “I am to blame for that, so it is up to me to set things right.”

  “I don’t understand, Papa.”

  “Maybe not, but I shall tell you why. You know, my daughter, that a long time ago I was a different person.”

  I nodded. Of course I knew that.

  “My Mi’kmaq family loved me as we love you; however, we lived differently. And when I was one of them, I was treated as one of them by outsiders.” He hesitated. “I have done things of which I am not proud—”

  “You are a good man, Papa!”

  “Yes, yes. I am a good man. I know myself to be honest and moral and a man of God. But even good men may be called to do bad things, and I . . . well, I was called.”

  I had never heard him speak this way. He rarely spoke of his days in the Mi’kmaq village, though he occasionally shared his favourite memories. This was something else.

  “What did you do?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and inhaled slowly. “I will get to that in a moment.”

  My father had lived as an Acadian for twenty years, but I still saw the Mi’kmaq in him, in the way he carried himself. Though he was a few years past forty, he was a strong and handsome man. Most of the other men his age were losing hair and gaining pounds, but not my papa. Maman too appeared younger than she was. She was fine boned and looked fragile compared to many other women, but she could keep up with any of them, I knew.

  “I believe the tides are changing again,” he said, “like they did years ago. Maybe it will be even worse this time. No one will speak openly about the growing anger in the air, but when they took our rifles and axes today, the British rendered us helpless. André tells me more soldiers have come. They are fortifying their ranks. There is still war between them and the French, but I had hoped we would be allowed to avoid it. I no longer believe we can.”

  War? What was he talking about?

  “You must step lightly,” he warned. “I do not want you to say what is on the tip of your tongue or to act impulsively. You need to be prepared to suffer the consequences if you make a wrong decision. And yet, should the time come, I want you to believe in yourself.” He took my chin in his hand. “You are special, Amélie. Since you were small, I have known you were strong. God has plans for you, I am sure. Promise me, Amélie. Promise me you will be smart, and you will take care of yourself, whatever happens.”

  My throat swelled, but I would not cry. I did not want him to know his words frightened me.

  “You have never had to ask yourself if what you’re doing is right or wrong, but I fear the time is coming when that will be unavoidable. I need you to understand that sometimes doing what is right is not the same thing as doing what is good.”

  His meaning was unclear. “I know when it is Giselle’s turn to do something,” I tried, “and she forgets to do it, what is right is that I should tell her to do it since it is her responsibility, but I often decide it is easier and nicer of me if I simply do it myself. But that is not what you’re talking about, is it?”

  He shook his head. “It is a question of using your judgment, yes? And you are a kind, hard-working young woman. By the way, I want you to tell Giselle it is not your job to collect the eggs for her. She is small for her age, and she is using that to her advantage.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  A softer look came into his eyes. “I need you to know, dear Amélie, that I once killed two men.” After his confession the air seemed to still around us, the crickets and tiny frogs hushing. I could hardly breathe. Even more shocking than his news was the smile which came to his lips. “And I do not regret it.”

  I did not know how to answer. He seemed suddenly to be a different person.

  “I can see what you are thinking, Amélie, and that is something you must learn to hide. Emotions can betray you. They can get you into trouble. But I will explain so perhaps you will not judge me too harshly.” He sighed. “Yes, over twenty years ago I killed two men. They were going to kill a friend of mine who could not defend himself, and when I heard the noise, I rushed to see what was happening. I had only a few steps in which to decide what to do, so I followed my heart. I did not make a conscious decision. When I saw my friend and I saw the wickedness of those men, God forgave me the sins I was about to commit; I felt His hand on my knife.”

  Never in my life could I have imagined hearing these words. My father was a gentle, kind soul, not a killer. “What . . . what happened afterward?”

  “My friend survived and escaped back to his village. I have not seen him in many years. I came home to your mother, and I learned to build a wall around my thoughts, for if they were known, there would be grave consequences. My family needed me, and though I am not ashamed of what I did, I have not told many people. The men I killed were soldiers. If my actions were to be discovered, I would be punished to the full extent of the law. This is what I need you to understand about judgment. If I had felt what I did was wrong I would have turned myself in, but to this day I know I did the right thing.”

  “Does Maman know?”

  He nodded. “And André.”

  “Why are you telling me, Papa?”

  “Because war is all around us. It is closing in.” His words grew urgent. “If our world is turned upside down and we are forced to fight, I want you to be able to tell the difference between what is right and what is good. I
want you to trust your instincts.”

  “Of course, Papa,” I whispered, afraid to disappoint.

  “If you trust your heart, Amélie, you will always do what is right.”

  I had no idea what he was saying. I could only hope it was true.

  FOUR

  August had always been my favourite month. The Mi’kmaq called it Kisikwekewiku’s, named after the Fruit- and Berry-Ripening Moon. In addition to the seasonal beauty, the air was bereft of most stinging insects, and the simple act of lying on the grass under the caress of the summer sun felt so good it was almost sinful. As mornings began to cool, we were welcomed by fog so thick we could barely see the neighbours’ homes. It eventually burned off, and the days came alive with sudden storms and waves of heat, flooding the red soil and feeding the thick green crops. The harvest of corn was already safely stowed for the winter, and the rest of the gardens exploded with colour, awaiting our busy hands. While we worked, we sang the songs of our ancestors, and when the nights descended, we danced around open fires.

  Today, as I had many times before, I would bring some of our crops to the British. Lately we had done it under orders, not simply for generosity’s sake. The soldiers I had once visited as friends were wary of me now, almost suspicious. I was uneasy about being in the midst of them, but not enough that I asked my brothers to come with me.

  After I’d finished the day’s chores, I went to the gardens and dropped some of the late-summer bounty into my basket. The rows were thick with growth, and when I yanked out a weed, a couple of juicy earthworms came with the roots. I carried the wriggling creatures toward the chickens, earnestly pecking and scratching at the side of the yard. At sight of me, the flock raced over, wings spread, their feathery little haunches pumping so hard they lifted off the ground. When all twenty or so had grouped at my feet, their necks stretched optimistically, I was sorry I didn’t have more to offer. I pinched the two worms into as many pieces as I could, then held them out for eager beaks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing my hands together to loosen the dirt. “That’s all I have.”