“You know how it is that we all come to be voyageurs?” Yew NO how eet EES zat wi all come to bee voyaGEURS?
Glass shook his head no. Dominique rolled his eyes, recognizing the prelude to his brother’s tired stories.
“Contrecoeur is on the great St. Lawrence River. There was a time, a hundred years ago, when all the men in our village were poor farmers. All day they worked in the fields, but the dirt was bad, the weather too cold—they never made a good crop.
“One day a beautiful maiden named Isabelle was working in a field by the river. Suddenly from the water came a stallion—big and strong, black like coal. He stood in the river, staring at the girl. And she was very afraid. The stallion, he sees that she is about to run away, so he kicks at the water—and a trout goes flying to the girl. It lands there in the dirt at her feet.…” La Vierge couldn’t find the English word he wanted, so he made a flip-flop motion with his hands.
“Isabelle, she sees this petit cadeau, and she is very happy. She picks it up and she takes to her family for dinner. She tells her papa and her brothers about this horse, but they think she is making a joke. They laugh and they tell her to get more fish from her new friend.
“Isabelle goes back to the field, and each day now she sees the black stallion again. Each day he comes a little closer, and each day he gives to her a gift. One day an apple, one day some flowers. Each day she tells her family about this horse who comes from the river. And each day they laugh at her story.
“Finally there comes a day when the stallion walks all the way up to Isabelle. She climbs on his back, and the stallion runs to the river. They disappear into the current—and they are never seen again.”
The fire cast dancing shadows behind La Vierge as he spoke. And the rush of the river was like a hissing affirmation of his tale.
“That night, when Isabelle doesn’t come home, her father and her brothers go looking for her in the fields. They find the tracks of Isabelle and they find the tracks of the stallion. They see that Isabelle has mounted the horse, and they see that the horse has run into the river. They search up and down the river, but they cannot find the girl.
“The next day, all the men of the village take to their canoes and join the search. And they take a vow—they will abandon their farms and stay on the river until they find the poor Isabelle. But they never find her. And so you see, Monsieur Glass, since that day we are voyageurs. Still this day we keep up the search for the poor Isabelle.”
“Where’s Charbonneau?” asked Langevin.
“Where’s Charbonneau!” retorted La Vierge. “I tell you the story of a lost maiden and you’re thinking about a lost old man?”
Langevin said nothing in reply. “He’s malade comme un chien,” said La Vierge with a smile. “I’ll call to him—make sure he’s safe.” He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled into the willows. “Don’t worry, Charbonneau—we’re sending out Professeur to help you wipe your ass!”
Touissaint Charbonneau sat on his haunches, his naked ass pointing discreetly toward a bush. He had been in that position for some time. Long enough, in fact, that he had begun to develop a cramp in his thigh. He hadn’t been right since Fort Brazeau. No doubt he’d been poisoned by Kiowa’s shitty food. He could hear La Vierge taunting him from the camp. He was starting to hate that bastard. A twig snapped.
Charbonneau bolted upright. One hand reached for his pistol and the other tugged at his deerskin trousers. Neither hand accomplished its task. The pistol slipped to the dark ground. His pants slipped to his ankles. When he lurched again for the pistol, his pants tripped him. He sprawled on the ground, scraping his knee on a large rock. He grunted in pain while from the corner of his eye he watched a large elk lope through the timber.
“Merde!” Charbonneau returned to his business, grimacing at the sharp new pain in his leg.
By the time he made his way back to camp, Charbonneau’s normal pique had been ratcheted up a notch. He stared at Professeur, who sat reclining against a large log. The big Scot wore a beard of mush.
“It’s disgusting the way he eats,” said Charbonneau.
La Vierge looked up from his pipe. “I don’t know, Charbonneau. The way the fire lights up the porridge on his chin—it kind of reminds me of the Northern Lights.” Langevin and Dominique laughed, which further irritated Charbonneau. Professeur continued to chew, oblivious to the humor at his expense.
Charbonneau spoke again in French: “Hey, you idiot Scot bastard, do you understand a word of what I’m saying?” Professeur continued to work on the mush, placid as a cow with its cud.
Charbonneau smiled thinly. He appreciated the opportunity for such wholly naked cattiness. “What happened to his eye, anyway?”
No one jumped at the opportunity for conversation with Charbonneau.
Finally Langevin said, “Poked out in a brawl in Montreal.”
“It looks like all hell. Makes me nervous, having the damn thing staring at me all day.”
“Blind eye can’t stare,” said La Vierge. He had come to like Professeur, or at least to appreciate the Scot’s ability with a paddle. Whatever he thought of Professeur, he was certain that he did not like Charbonneau. The old man’s grousing commentary had grown stale by the first bend in the river.
“Well, it sure seems to stare,” insisted Charbonneau. “Always looks like he’s peeking around the corner. Never blinks, either. I don’t see how the damn thing doesn’t dry up.”
“What if it could see—it’s not like you’re much to look at, Charbonneau,” said La Vierge.
“He could at least put a patch over it. I’m tempted to tack one on there myself.”
“Why don’t you? Be nice if you had something to do.”
“I’m not your damned engagé!” hissed Charbonneau. “You’ll be glad I’m along when the Arikara come looking for your flea-bit scalp!” The translator had worked himself into a frothy lather, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth as he talked. “I was blazing trails with Lewis and Clark when you were still messing your pants.”
“Jesus Christ, old man! If I hear one more of your damned Lewis and Clark stories, I swear I’m going to put a bullet in my brain—or better yet, your brain! Everyone would appreciate that.”
“Ça suffit!” Langevin finally interjected. “Enough! I’d put you both out of my misery if I didn’t need you!”