As Isqe-sis speaks, it becomes Rose’s turn to reach out and run a hand along Isqe-sis’s honey-coloured arm. Pale skin, wrapped skin, skin hidden from the rare sun was the norm among Rose’s people, and the only colour she ever saw among her countrymen was in the faces of the fishermen and the shepherds — people whose skin turned red and purple with the gnawing of the seasons.
Now it is Isqe-sis’s turn to blush at the caress; she pulls her arm into her capote and looks down. Her infant mews, and she lifts it to her swollen breast. The crucifix swings free.
Seeing it, Rose asks about her faith, Isqe-sis revealing a deep passion for Christ, and how she hungers to be confessed. Journeys to the isolated Jesuit mission on the Nelson River are sporadic at best, and she suffers greatly during the long intervals in between.
There is a kind of animism to Isqe-sis’ faith, a way of looking at Christ that differs from other Christians — Protestants or Catholics. She sees the holy within not just the Body of Christ, but within all creation. The trees, the soil, even for the lowliest of crawling things she feels a religious respect. Rose wonders how her confessors could approve.
When she takes her leave and sees the body in the muddy path, the warmth she shared with Isqe-sis fades. The killing had been too brutal, too sadistic. The dead boy reminds her that even if some of them are ostensibly Christian, she must maintain her guard against the sanguinary aspect of the breed.
“These people cannot stay, Mr. Turr. We have neither the provisions nor the accommodations to provide for them.”
Although his words are flat, inside the factor is fuming. Selkirk should have known they would not be able to supply his peasants before he arranged to bring them here, he thinks. The man seems to believe that Company resources are his to use as he sees fit. A pox on him.
“I am deeply sorry for their misfortune,” he says without the least hint of concern in his voice. “But they must depart as quickly as possible.”
They are standing beside the signal cannon at the entrance to the factory. The wind is blowing hard from the northwest and Turr’s thin hair flows from his scalp like red smoke. Several ravens are squabbling over the ox carcass behind them.
“They have had a very difficult time,” Turr says. “Many have lost family. “They will have an even harder go of it to arrive at Red River before winter.”
“It is over late to debate the wisdom and ethics of Lord Selkirk’s designs,” the factor replies. “My order is as firm as my conviction: they must leave tomorrow.”
Below them, an Indian pushes off in a canoe. Two men stand on shore playing out a net, which the man ties to several tall poles sunk into the river bottom. The canoe bounces and pitches in a steep chop set up by the wind running against the flood. While struggling with the last of the poles, the canoe suddenly rolls and throws the man into the river. The Indians on shore laugh.
“Have you decided who will guide them?” Turr asks.
“I spoke with Alexander McClure this morning. He is willing to take them on to Red River.”
“The Half-caste?”
“He owes the Company a great deal,” says the factor, his frown deepening. “Unpaid credit from last year’s season; he brought in few furs and of low quality. I did not give him a choice.”
“I see. Well, I will speak to the colonists and let them know.”
The man in the river grabs the gunwale of his canoe and kicks toward shore. He stands up, shaking off the water while his companions mock him. With a rueful grin, he sits down as a small liquor keg is brought out and passed along.
“Another thing, Mr. Turr: I want you to go with them.”
“Eh?”
The factor shoves his hands into his pockets and stares off into the distance. “I am afraid so. I must have a Company man at the settlement to find out what in blazes Macdonell is doing. The rumours are disturbing, and London wants more than just rumours.”
The blade of dried grass he had been chewing blows from Turr’s lips. Laughter carries from below. “Perhaps you would consider someone else? Someone younger? I had hoped …”
The factor shakes his head. “I need someone I can trust, a man who can give an accurate report. Besides, there is no one else I can spare.” He pats the cannon beside him. “God’s blood, I would love to fire this. It does a man good to make a great noise and smoke every now and then, eh, Mr. Turr?”
Cecil Turr nods, not trusting his voice. His hands shake. Without taking his leave, he turns away and shuffles back towards the fort.
Rude bastard, thinks the factor, his heat increasing again. He takes several deep breaths then dismisses Turr from his mind. His musings on the joy of cannon fire had reminded him that the supply ships had not yet arrived from their searching for the lost frigate. He swears volubly at the cannon, a stream of blistering invective. Only a factor for a year, and now this. He is sure he will be blamed.
The flood of furs to the Bay has slowed to a trickle despite recent company expansion inland. The widely scattered forts they built at great risk and expense had come to naught; the Nor’westers were always there first, having bullied or bribed the Indians into long-term allegiances. In their arrogance, they even established a post on the Hayes, a mere three-day journey upriver. The Company is on the verge of becoming irrelevant in its own territory, and even if policy is decided in varnished, smoke-filled luxury thousands of miles away, it is the poor bastard on the frontier who will be blamed. God rot it, it is just not fair.
Many more Indians have gathered to join the party on the river, and a fuke is let off. The factor jumps. Damn it to God-rotting hell, he thinks. That fucking sod Spencer has traded too much liquor to the Home Guard. He turns and stomps into the fort. Several colonists are milling about behind the palisade, staring and pointing at the unique things that catch their eye. The chief trader sees the approach of the factor and turns toward him, smiling.
“You can smile all you like, Mr. Spencer, but I find little to be amused about. Your carelessness has roused the Home Guard, and I want those gates locked, now!”
Rose sits on her hard bunk, listening to the yowling and gunfire not one hundred feet away. She had been rereading a dog-eared copy of Richard Allestree’s The Whole Duty of Man, Laid Down in a Plain and Familiar Way for the Use of All, that the Factor had given her. The commotion had started late that afternoon and carried on well past sunset. After the murder of the Indian boy, she had tried to comfort herself with the book, but the frightening whoops and singing kept cutting through her focus. She has never heard such chilling sounds before, and feels afraid and unsafe, emotions becoming all too familiar. They had been given one tallow candle, and its pale light only seems to deepen the shadows.
When the factor offered a private dwelling, she had been delighted that they would have their own space, a wall to put between themselves and the rest of humanity. But with the horrid sounds carrying from the other side of the palisade she finds herself yearning to be again surrounded by her countrymen.
Lachlan sits on a polished section of a log, staring in fascination at the mosquitoes circling him, tiny wings shimmering in the wan candlelight. At the sound of another gunshot, he gets up and peers out the rickety door. A great fire is burning outside the fort, with sparks soaring heavenward to blend with the sharp, cold stars. Through narrow gaps between the palisade poles, he sees shadows of dancing figures cutting across the fire. The air throbs with dark and