come here at first light to watch the movement of men at the shore of the bay. It’s his habit. His father had taught him this among other things: you learn most about men when you watch them unseen, since every man does alone what he will not do if watched.
Wioche pulls his wolfskin around his shoulders, the onshore wind being brisk this late August morning. He takes a piece of dried whale meat from his pouch and chews it slowly, looking at the empty horizon. He looks down at Atilq, who tilts his nose out across the bay to demonstrate that he would not be seen to beg. Wioche reaches again into his pouch and tosses a piece to Atilq.
“Where is your ableegumoocj-k today?” he asks the dog, and Atilq raises his ears because he knows the word
rabbit
.
The wind brings a sound from the direction of the English outpost—footsteps. He follows the sound with his eyes and seesa woman stepping through the brush from the commodore’s lodge toward the beach. There were no women among the English, but all the People knew the commodore’s ship had been in the bay since yesterday. Evidently, though an old man, he had brought a woman with him. Wioche watches from the Second Rock. The woman in the long dress stands half a head taller than the men he knows at the lodge and has hair the colour of raspberries. No one among the Salmon People stands taller than Wioche and no
woman
of any people. He squints his eyes against the rising sun, watching her stealthily find her way to the shore.
T HE SUN has already made its way fully over the horizon and is bathing the water as well as the sands with its rays. Morning gilds the sky. She takes a step forward and stops in her tracks. A giant bird with blue-and-grey feathers, a long angular neck and long, spindly legs is standing like a solitary custodian gazing out over the water. She stands as still as the winged creature, taking in the sight. The bird is grand but vulnerable, so lonely in its repose. She feels the solitude—her own as well—and thinks, This isolation here—it will be my saving grace as well as my struggle. She knows the life beyond this compound must be different to the comparative luxury Walker enjoys. She knows, too, that her own future has been reduced to survival. But above all, Charlotte sees the opportunity here. The genteel covering that she has worn for twenty years has begun to peel away. The lessons of the West Indies ripped off the first layer, exposing her vulnerability. But the mantle of this general’s daughter was rent piece by piece as the reality of food, water, shelter, pirates, rebelling colonies, wild beasts and nature’s ferocity exposed the life of a settler in the New World. While she stands here inthe dawning, she knows there is still a level of naïveté that could defeat her, but she also knows she has pioneer in her bones.
“Why ye be to the beach at this early hour?” Will calls out. The bird she’s been watching lifts off the sand suddenly and soundlessly, its massive wingspan spreading to a width that astonishes her, its neck coiling as it takes flight. Charlotte watches the bird circle toward the sea and asks Will, “What is that magnificent creature?” He tells her it is a great blue heron. “There are many in these parts. They stand for eternity at the shore.” She wants to know when the tides change. “It was a low tide at about three o’clock this morning,” he explains. “Did ye not hearken the squawking of the birds?” So that was the sound that had wakened her in the night. “The gulls fight for clams on the flats of the low tide,” he says. She asks what the flats are. “That ye’ll see later,” Will promises. “But for now, ye must come to the house. The commodore asks for ye at the breakfast.”
W IOCHE KNOWS the men will be coming to trade soon and lets his thoughts stray to the molasses the white men bring, the strange sweetness that rivals honey and syrup, the fierce mother of rum, the devil potion that
Wioche pulls his wolfskin around his shoulders, the onshore wind being brisk this late August morning. He takes a piece of dried whale meat from his pouch and chews it slowly, looking at the empty horizon. He looks down at Atilq, who tilts his nose out across the bay to demonstrate that he would not be seen to beg. Wioche reaches again into his pouch and tosses a piece to Atilq.
“Where is your ableegumoocj-k today?” he asks the dog, and Atilq raises his ears because he knows the word
rabbit
.
The wind brings a sound from the direction of the English outpost—footsteps. He follows the sound with his eyes and seesa woman stepping through the brush from the commodore’s lodge toward the beach. There were no women among the English, but all the People knew the commodore’s ship had been in the bay since yesterday. Evidently, though an old man, he had brought a woman with him. Wioche watches from the Second Rock. The woman in the long dress stands half a head taller than the men he knows at the lodge and has hair the colour of raspberries. No one among the Salmon People stands taller than Wioche and no
woman
of any people. He squints his eyes against the rising sun, watching her stealthily find her way to the shore.
T HE SUN has already made its way fully over the horizon and is bathing the water as well as the sands with its rays. Morning gilds the sky. She takes a step forward and stops in her tracks. A giant bird with blue-and-grey feathers, a long angular neck and long, spindly legs is standing like a solitary custodian gazing out over the water. She stands as still as the winged creature, taking in the sight. The bird is grand but vulnerable, so lonely in its repose. She feels the solitude—her own as well—and thinks, This isolation here—it will be my saving grace as well as my struggle. She knows the life beyond this compound must be different to the comparative luxury Walker enjoys. She knows, too, that her own future has been reduced to survival. But above all, Charlotte sees the opportunity here. The genteel covering that she has worn for twenty years has begun to peel away. The lessons of the West Indies ripped off the first layer, exposing her vulnerability. But the mantle of this general’s daughter was rent piece by piece as the reality of food, water, shelter, pirates, rebelling colonies, wild beasts and nature’s ferocity exposed the life of a settler in the New World. While she stands here inthe dawning, she knows there is still a level of naïveté that could defeat her, but she also knows she has pioneer in her bones.
“Why ye be to the beach at this early hour?” Will calls out. The bird she’s been watching lifts off the sand suddenly and soundlessly, its massive wingspan spreading to a width that astonishes her, its neck coiling as it takes flight. Charlotte watches the bird circle toward the sea and asks Will, “What is that magnificent creature?” He tells her it is a great blue heron. “There are many in these parts. They stand for eternity at the shore.” She wants to know when the tides change. “It was a low tide at about three o’clock this morning,” he explains. “Did ye not hearken the squawking of the birds?” So that was the sound that had wakened her in the night. “The gulls fight for clams on the flats of the low tide,” he says. She asks what the flats are. “That ye’ll see later,” Will promises. “But for now, ye must come to the house. The commodore asks for ye at the breakfast.”
W IOCHE KNOWS the men will be coming to trade soon and lets his thoughts stray to the molasses the white men bring, the strange sweetness that rivals honey and syrup, the fierce mother of rum, the devil potion that
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