The Haweaters Page 6

  Charlie steels his mind. He does the opposite with his wrist. He has one shot to get this right. He bounces the rock in his hand exactly four times, then draws back his elbow, whipping the missile at the solitary partridge. His aim is bang on. It usually is. The bird drops as Charlie yanks the knife from his waistband, more than willing to slit its throat should it turn out to be stunned and not fully dead. It’s happened before. But not today. Today Charlie grabs the limp bird by the neck and slings it over his shoulder.

  Annie looks between the bird and Charlie’s face several times. “Excuse me for saying this, but you look decidedly different.”

  Charlie lowers his knife. “Than what? You see me near every day. Person can change only so much from one hour to the next.”

  “From when I saw you late winter.”

  Late winter. Annie is referring to the sugaring bee when the bush families gathered to bleed hundreds of maples and birches of their sap. Seemingly endless buckets of the sweet liquid had been dumped into huge vats suspended from chains over open fires. Charlie had stumbled across the group in the woods behind Sloan’s place just as the long, slow process of boiling down the sap had been getting underway. Everyone had been full of cheer. They were gossiping and laughing and taking turns stirring the pot, occasionally slopping steaming liquid into the snow, ostensibly to test for doneness, but really to give the frolicking children a sugary treat.

  Charlie had kept his distance. He’d been on his way to Manitowaning, where he’d been sent to fetch supplies for the logging camp, but his loneliness had led him to take a detour through the woods near his family’s homestead. He’d been thrilled by the festive atmosphere, but he’d also been so fatigued from the long, brutal days of labour he could do no more than prop himself against a tree. Even so, it was an enjoyable thing to witness. Not often has he heard mirth overtaking a bunch of people more inclined to misery.

  Charlie glances at Annie. She’s staring at him, an inquisitive look playing across her features. He considers striking out. Catching her off guard. Knocking the question clear off her face. But even he has to admit the pleasantness of the memory. “What impressed you more? My steadfastness in holding up that tree or the grace with which I almost fell over when Mrs. Sloan grabbed my hand and dragged me amongst all you dancing ninnies?”

  Annie whoops with delight. “Every last bit of it. The whole thing was a whirl. I can still see you in my mind, staggering and stumbling as if trying to catch your balance on a storm-struck ship.”

  Charlie feels the blood rush to his face. Damnable girl. That’s not how he wants to be remembered. “Glad I amused you.”

  If Annie notices Charlie’s embarrassment, she doesn’t let on. Instead she twirls around like a top on a dangerous tilt. “Oh, you very much did. It was the only time I can ever remember seeing you smile. I wasn’t sure you knew how. That reminds me, are you coming to the next one?”

  Annie continues to spin. Charlie steps back so as not to impede her whirlwind. Only briefly does he consider sticking out his foot. “I’ll likely be in camp again this next winter. Was a fluke I happened to swing by that day. Even if I’m sent on another errand, it’s not like to be timed so well as to bring me home during a sugaring.”

  Annie stops spinning, her arms held out like the wings of a gull on a gusty day. “No, you silly goose, I mean the stumping bee next week. There are new neighbours out Mr. Boyd’s way. I don’t rightly remember their name – Smith, Smithers, something like that – but the bush families are heading over to The Slash a week Tuesday to help the poor souls pull the first mess of stumps. I was absolutely certain you’d be invited owing to your muscles and your oxen and your youth. If that isn’t the case, I’m inviting you now.”

  This is the first Charlie is hearing of any bee and he can guess why. Bigotry. Villainy. Favouritism. No end to the sinful traits flourishing in these woods. “Been on this island four years now and somehow it’s never our turn to be stumped. Seems everyone is in line ahead of us, including those who came later.”

  Annie ponders this. “I’m sure I don’t know anything about that. What I do know is that Mother has asked her busybody friends to send their bachelor sons up from Owen Sound. It seems a calamity is upon us. Namely, there aren’t any quality suitors on this island and Mother is having a devil of a time trying to find me a match. I’m not supposed to know that, of course. I only discovered the plot by sneaking a peak at one of her letters.”

  Should’ve struck her with the rock when he had the chance. But he’d hesitated. And for what? Charlie is rapidly coming to the conclusion this girl needs the reins her horse doesn’t have. If he’d ever even thought of reading one of his momma’s letters, he’d be whipped until his bones saw light. “I’m guessing that I wouldn’t be welcome even if I had the nerve to show my face. Sure thing I’m one of the low-quality suitors your momma is complaining about.”

  Charlie winces. He shouldn’t have worded it like that. Implies interest when what he feels is contempt. Resentment. Futility.

  Annie doesn’t appear to notice. Her attention is now directed at a beetle crawling through the grass. She stretches down to pick it up. “That’s the most nonsensical thing I ever did hear. Everyone’s welcome, especially you. I need you to protect me from Mother’s designs. Lord knows she’ll be ordering me to behave like an angel. I’d rather not. I don’t have anything in common with those mainland boys and yet sure as sunshine, Mother will marry me off to the first one with a fortune if Father lets her. It’s not conceivable to her that I would already have a suitor in mind.”

  What suitor? And where did she find him? Surely not while flitting through fields like a nectar-drunk butterfly. There aren’t any suitors out here. Not even low-quality ones.

  The beetle crawls out of Annie’s palm and onto the back of her hand. She raises it in front of her lips and blows. The beetle sits there unmoving for several seconds. Then it takes flight.

  Charlie is perplexed, but not by the beetle. No, he’s perplexed by this girl who is asking him to play a role not even his sisters have ever asked of him. He’s not sure he wants to be Annie’s protector. In fact, he’s fairly certain he doesn’t. It isn’t the sort of thing that would go by unremarked. Not by her poppa. Not by his. Not by anyone’s. On the plus side, it’d make Amer so incensed he’d likely burst an artery. Can’t say that would be a bad thing. “What about Laban?”

  “What about him?”

  “Isn’t it usually the older brother who performs the role you’re asking of me?”

  Annie’s snort startles Charlie. “That’s a fool thing to say. Laban may be older than me, but that’s the sum of it. Beyond a doubt, he’s as ineffective as a blunt knife at protecting me from Mother or anyone else.”

  Of course he is. Didn’t need to be told that. The simpleton didn’t hardly defend himself when Charlie beat him for setting his horses loose in his family’s oats where they ate more than their fill before Charlie came upon them. Then Laban strolled over and demanded the return of the four-legged thieves as if it was a given they should even be returned at all after what they’d done. The gall. Chased him back to his own side of the fence. Knocked him to the ground. Would’ve finished the fool off if Amer hadn’t swooped in just as Charlie’s fist was coming down on the boy’s windpipe for the third time. A boy who can’t defend himself shouldn’t be allowed to exist. Not out here. “But I’m guessing your brother will be at the stumping bee and you can’t possibly be blind to the fact that we’ve had trouble in the past.”

  Or to the fact that her poppa had called in the law to handle a matter that had already been handled, at least so far as Charlie was concerned.

  Annie rolls her eyes. “There isn’t a single soul on this stretch of island who doesn’t know all about that, but just so long as you’re not fool enough to bring along that revolver of yours, things are likely to run smoothly. Believe me, Father isn’t about to make a fuss in pu
blic that can’t be pinned on someone else.”

  Charlie knows this to be true. But that’s not what concerns him at the moment. “How do you know about the gun?”

  Annie picks up a smooth white stone. She turns it over in her hand and runs her fingers along the vein of pink zigzagging through it. “How wouldn’t I? If you wanted to keep its existence a secret, you probably shouldn’t have done your poaching on our land.”

  “You saw that?”

  Annie rubs the stone over her cheeks and forehead, the expression on her face inscrutable. “I surely did, but that’s not what should concern you. What should concern you is that Mr. Porter also saw you and so did Mr. Boyd and Mr. Sloan and possibly others that I’m not yet aware of.”

  Charlie is troubled by this. He thought he’d been stealth. A great warrior on the hunt. The only person he knew to have seen him with the gun was Boyd and that was the result of sloppiness he wasn’t likely to repeat. Now he’s discovering that he’s been as visible as a lighthouse on a moonless night. Assuming, of course, that what Annie is saying is true. “How do you know all those people saw the gun?”

  Annie is silent. Charlie glimpses a hardness in her eyes that he hasn’t noticed before. It leaks into her voice. “People don’t think I hear things, but I hear practically everything that’s said within the walls of my parents’ house. So tell me, are you planning on shooting my father? If so, in the head or in the heart?”

  Charlie’s breath stammers out. “Not sure your poppa would approve of your question.”

  “I’m absolutely certain that’s true, but you really should let me worry about my father. All you need worry about is your answer.”

  Charlie need not worry about that. “Traded the gun this past Saturday for a fiddle and some brass knobs to dull the oxen’s horns.”

  Annie turns the white stone end over end. “Well now, that’s a curious turn of events. Do you still have that fiddle?”

  Charlie nods.

  “And do you play it fair?”

  Charlie shakes his head. “Play it rough. But I’ve only had it a few days so the music is bound to get better.”

  Or so he hopes. As it stands, Charlie can’t get the individual strings to sound as if they belong on the same instrument. He fingers them and saws at them, but they insist on sounding like a badly shot animal clawing its way towards death.

  Annie frowns. “That’s a crying shame. I thought for a second there that we maybe had a reason to be alone in the same room together. I guess we’ll have to conduct our secret rendezvous in the bush.”

  What secret rendezvous? Charlie doesn’t recall agreeing to any such thing. A sharp crack spins him around. Doc Francis emerges from the trees, muttering and gesturing as he carries on an animated conversation with an invisible companion. At first, Doc Francis appears unaware he has company. Then his awareness emerges. He gives them a brisk nod. Annie steps in front of him. “Well hello, Dr. Francis. It’s always a pleasure to see you, but why, may I ask, are you wearing such a long face?”

  Her question makes it longer. “There is illness at Mr. Boyer’s homestead, so if you had any plans to avail yourself of his hospitality, I suggest you change them. It will be a couple of weeks, maybe even three, before it will be safe for visitors to attend the family.”

  His words come out louder than necessary. Wilder. Annie mule-kicks the ground. “In case you do not know it, sir, the Boyer homestead is where the post is held. Mother needs her letters as prompt as can be or the sky will surely fall and crush us all.”

  Doc Francis bats away Annie’s complaint. Literally. If her complaint had been a ball, it would’ve sailed over the trees. “The post will have to wait. There is diphtheria in one of Mr. Boyer’s children and the others will surely soon fall ill. I cannot stress enough that you don’t want to come in contact with that homestead or any of its occupants until the sickness has passed.” Doc Francis mutters something under his breath. Something apparently meant for his invisible companion. Then he nods and turns back to Annie. “I cannot change the facts to suit your mood, Miss Amer. You are old enough to know that.”

  The doctor motions for Annie to move out of his way, then steps forward. Charlie leaps off the path. No choice really. By the doctor’s own admission he has come in contact with both Boyer’s homestead and its occupants and now he’s standing before them like an omen. This infuriates the younger man. “You’re the doctor for the Indians up at Manitowaning. The Boyers aren’t Indians, so far as I know.”

  Doc Francis claps eyes on Charlie. Then he claps his hands. “I am the doctor for anyone who needs one. There is no difference between white and red when it comes to diphtheria. You will do well to remember that.”

  “Government know you think like that?”

  The doctor spits, then chokes, then clears his throat. “Does the government know I think like what? That sickness in settlers burns through Indians like wildfire? That stopping it before it spreads beyond a single homestead is to everyone’s advantage? I believe they do, although they enjoy the luxury of forgetting it when it suits them.”

  Charlie looks back along the trail he’s already traversed and then forward along the trail he has yet to follow. He wants to get away from this man. This omen in human form. “And this diphtheria. You got the cure for that or you just guessing?”

  It’s a legitimate question. At least in Charlie’s mind. But clearly not in Doc Francis’s. He takes a step towards Charlie. Charlie takes a step back. The distance between them doesn’t change. “Do we have a problem I do not yet know about, young man?”

  Charlie looks away. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Doc Francis gives a brisk nod. Then he strikes the air. “I am truly glad to hear it. Now I have an axe wound to attend to before the sun moves low so I will be on my way, if it is all the same to you.”

  Doc Francis tips his hat to Annie. Annie curtsies. Charlie can’t help but wonder if she does so in reverence or jest. Her face gives nothing away.

  Charlie flushes and turns to the retreating doctor. “Don’t tell anyone you saw us together.”

  Doc Francis waves over his shoulder. “I never do.”

  He never does. What does that mean? Since when has Charlie ever been alone with Annie Amer? Never, that’s when. Crazy old bonesetter.

  Charlie turns, then topples as Annie kicks his feet out from under him. She jumps on Charlie’s chest and pins him to the grass. Charlie’s temper flares like bellowed flames. “Why are you sitting on me, you silly girl? I’m not a horse.”

  Annie thunks her finger against his forehead. “And I, sir, am not a defenceless child. You should try remembering that the next time you think to turn your back on me. If you ask me, this is the worst possible way to kick off a romance.”

  Annie springs off Charlie and brushes her skirt flat. Then she heads over to Crispin, unropes him from the sapling, and swings herself up onto his back. Charlie has yet to react. He can’t think of a reaction. It’s like his brain has been hit by a tornado in the form of a girl and is in desperate need of a good shake. God help him. Or her. It’s not clear which.

  Charlie picks himself up off the ground and locates his partridge. He swings the dead bird, once again, over his shoulder. “Can I assume we’re done here?”

  This is a sincere question. Charlie doesn’t want to start down the path to the mill only to have Amer’s daughter trample him in a spontaneous show of strength. Or insanity. Or wilfulness. Or whatever else her jumping on him was supposed to signify. Annie, however, appears to be more interested in plucking the flowers from her horse’s mane than in committing another spontaneous act of athleticism. “Done as dinner, thank you for asking. I’ve got berries to pick this afternoon and I’ll catch the devil if Mother thinks Ellen did most of the work.”

  Which Ellen likely will. Probably already has. Still, Charlie can’t help but wonder what ‘catching hell’ look
s like in the Amer household. No dessert? Performing two piano concertos instead of one? Surely not a strap across the back or a head into a wall. That much is obvious by the way Annie is calmly urging Crispin along the path, her dirty feet dangling free and her flower halo visible in her wild, tangled hair. No hesitation. Not even a hint of concern. No, nothing terrible is going to happen to this girl. It’s as if that’s been ordained. By the same God who has so thoroughly cursed Charlie.

  Speaking of cursed, Charlie turns. Then he runs. Even if he sprints the entire way to the mill and back, he’ll still likely catch a whipping when he arrives home. Possibly it’ll be to punish him for his tardiness. More likely it’ll be for the gun Boyd is no doubt just now discussing with his poppa. That blasted weapon. More trouble than it was worth. More trouble than a gold nugget is worth, which reminds Charlie of the book he’s about to trade away. He slows his pace and sticks his hand into his sack. Why bother running when the end result is just going to be another whipping?

  4

  ALWAYS WAR, NEVER PEACE

  Anne Amer looks towards the approaching hoof beats and sees her daughter returning on the bare back of the horse her father gave her for her thirteenth birthday. Annie’s safe return should make her mother feel calm, content, elated even, but instead she suppresses a scream. Anne sent Annie to fetch the weekly post as soon as the breakfast dishes were washed and stacked, yet only now is her daughter sauntering back home, her hair a tangle that will take Ellen hours to fight her way through. And Anne sees no sign of the post. Lord, not this again.

  Anne presses her hand to her forehead, which aches to an alarming degree. She slips her hand into the pocket of her apron and draws out a small glass bottle from which she takes a generous swig. The warmth spreads through her body, softening her joints and soothing her spirit. All will be well. The pain will recede and soon so will the urge to beat her daughter senseless.