The Age of Water Lilies by Theresa Kishkan Page A

his hands resting on the small of her naked back.
    â€œI won’t promise you daily letters in return, my love, because I don’t know what is in store for me. But as often as I’m able to, I’ll write. I expect there will be restrictions, perhaps even someone who will read every letter written by young men to their sweethearts in case vital secrets are being revealed. The secrets of the mess kitchens, the tents, the tin baths where we will be allowed to wash ourselves in a few inches of tepid water. I imagine there will be fleas.”
    They both laughed.
    Gus continued. “We should have a code, shouldn’t we, so you know if I am simply sitting in a camp eating and waiting or else on my way into the heat of battle. A line from Virgil perhaps?”
    â€œYou will have to write it down for me so I can compare. Your Latin is far superior to mine. Is there a bit about horses? I can always recognize equus when I see it. And now, too, pressi lactis , though perhaps horses are more appropriate to war.”
    â€œSomething from the Georgics , then. Let me think. But before I think, may I adjust my arm? What you are doing with your hand is particularly fine.”
    Much later, after they had made love again in the privacy of grass and washed their bodies in the trickle of icy water entering the canyon from the main creek travelling down from the lakes on the Bonaparte Plateau to the Thompson River, after they had dressed and were tightening saddle girths and making sure Flora’s hair was tidy, her clothing reasonably unrumpled, Gus turned to her over the back of Agate and said, suddenly, “ Sed nos immensum spatiis confecium aequor / et iam tempus equum fumantia solvere colla . That will be it, Flora.”
    â€œAnd what does it mean? I recognize horses, of course, and something about distance, is it?”
    â€œWell, let’s see. Something like, ‘But now, a huge space we have travelled / and time has come to uncollar our steaming horses.’ When I send you this message, you will know that, hmmm, that . . . oh, please don’t cry, Flora. I’ll write it down for you, shall I?”
    â€œYes, I will memorize it so that I have it by heart at every instant. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be feeble. And now, speaking of collars, could you check to make sure I have no grass seeds on the back of my blouse? I would hate to be thought a woman who lies down in fields.”
    â€œI can’t think of anything more appealing somehow. But here, let me just unthread this needlegrass from your sleeve. And now we should be on our way.”
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    The box canyon became a favourite retreat. You could ride by it without noticing its entrance, a narrow gap between rocks, hidden by a hedge of Saskatoon bushes. Pushing aside the bushes, they would urge their horses through. The bushes sprang back, perfect camouflage. Once inside, it was like being in a room with a ceiling decorated with tumbling cloud. The creek for water, dry grass for a bed. Within its intimate space, they talked about everything, sharing details of their lives (though there was always some reserve on Gus’s part regarding his life since leaving his family home), books they had read and loved (“When I read Cranford , I thought it amazing that a book about a quiet village in which nothing really happens could be so entranc- ing. It occurs to me that such a book could be written about Ashcroft, or Walhachin.” “Maybe you will write it. As I recall, the narrator of Cranford is a young woman who has come to the village as a visitor . . . ” “Oh, but I’m not a writer. I am keeping a journal, though, and perhaps when I am old and idle . . .”)
    The one problem was finding the proper excuse for Flora to ride off without arousing suspicion. She had her sketching and that was considered suitable, but generally her