[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring Page 16

  I was shaken. "I'm-I'm sorry," I murmured through stiff lips. I stood rooted to the spot for a moment and then I said softly, "I think I'd better go."

  She did not comment, only nodded her head angrily at the door, indicating that I was quite free to do so, and the sooner the better in her estimation.

  I was glad to step out into the warm sunshine and close the door behind me on the angry woman inside. I stood trembling. I had never seen anyone behave in such a way. My what deep bitterness is driving this woman? I wondered. It could completely destroy her if something wasn't done. But what could one do? Personally, I hoped I would never need to encounter her again.

  A soft song caught my ears and I remembered Mrs. McLain. She was still there hanging up her laundry. I didn't want to make contact with the woman, especially not in my present shaky condition. I hastily headed down the path in hopes of dodging around the building, but she saw me.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Delaney," she called pleasantly.

  I had to stop and respond. I managed a wobbly smile. "Good morning, Mrs. McLain," I returned. "It's a lovely morning, isn't it?"

  "It is. And I am just finishing my washing and stopping for a cup of tea. Could you join me?"

  I thought to wonder then about her excellent grammar. She had only the trace of an accent.

  I still wanted to head for the security of my little home, but that would be very rude; so I smiled instead and said, "That is most kind. Thank you."

  She pegged the last dish towel to the line, picked up her basket and led the way through the right-hand door.

  The room was very pleasant and homey, a combination of white and Indian worlds. I noticed what a pleasant atmosphere the blending gave the room.

  She seated me and went out to her small kitchen. Soon she was back with a teapot of china and some china cups. She also brought some slices of a loaf cake made with the local blueberries. It was delicious.

  "So, are you feeling settled in Beaver River?" she asked me.

  "Oh, yes. Quite settled."

  We went on with small talk for many moments, and then she became more personal. Eventually it dawned on me that this was the kind of conversation I had been aching to have with a woman. The kind for which I had been seeking white companionship.

  "Does it bother you, being left alone so much?" she asked sympathetically.

  "I guess it does some. I miss Wynn, and the days are so long when he is gone for such a long time. I don't know how to make them pass more quickly. I have sewed up almost all the material I brought along, and there is really nothing else I can cover, or drape, or pad, anyway," I said in truth and desperation.

  "When you have a family, you won't have so much free time," she observed. "In fact, when winter comes, you will be busier. It takes so much more of one's time even to do the simple tasks in the winter," she went on to explain. I hadn't thought about that, but I was sure she was right.

  I switched back to her earlier comment. "Do you have a family?" I asked.

  "No," was her simple answer, but I thought I saw pain in her eyes.

  "Have you always lived here?" I said, partly to get on to another subject.

  I expected her to say she had come to Beaver River from another area, so I was surprised when she said, "Yes. I have never lived more than a few miles away. My father used to have a cabin about five miles upriver. I was born there."

  I know that my surprise must have shown on my face.

  She smiled.

  "You are wondering why I speak English?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm married to an Englishman." She laughed then. "Not an Englishman, really. He is a Scotsman. He was raised from childhood by a Swedish family. At one time he went to a French school, he was apprenticed under a German, and he speaks three Indian dialects-but his mother tongue is English."

  "My," I said, thinking about McLain with new respect. I had wondered why he didn't speak with a Scottish accent. His sister did not have one either, come to think of it. "My," I said again. "Does he speak all of those languages?"

  "Some French, some Swedish, some German, and much Indian." She said it with pride.

  "But that still doesn't explain your English."

  She looked at me as though she thought I should have understood, and perhaps I should have. "If my husband can speak seven languages," she said, "it seemed that at least I should be able to learn his."

  I nodded. What spirit the young woman had.

  "And how did you learn?" I persisted, feeling very at ease with her.

  "Books. When he saw that I was really interested, he got me books; and he helped me. In the long winter evenings, we would read to one another and he would correct my pronunciation and help me with the new words. I love English. I love reading books. I wish my people had all these wonderful stories to read to their children."

  Excitement filled me. "Have you ever thought of writing the stories for them? You know, putting the Indian stories down on paper for the children to read."

  "None of them can read," she said very sadly.

  "But we could teach them," I was quick to cut in.

  She smiled, and her smile looked resigned and pitiful.

  "They do not wish to learn. It takes work. They would rather play."

  "Are you sure?" I asked incredulously.

  "I'm sure. I have tried." She looked older then. Older and a bit tired.

  "I'll help you. We can try again."

  A new spark came to her eyes. "Would you? Would you care enough to really try?"

  "Oh, yes. I've just been aching to get going, but Wynn said that I should wait. That I shouldn't go rushing in. I even brought some books along so that I might-"

  I stopped. I was getting carried quite away with it all.

  She reached out and took my hand. "I thank you," she said sincerely. "I thank you for feeling that way. For caring. Maybe we can do something."

  "I'll show you my books and the things I have and-"

  She stopped me. "Your husband is quite right, Mrs. Delaney. We mustn't rush into this unprepared. The Indian people have waited for many generations for the chance to read and write. A few more weeks or months will make little difference."

  I supposed she was right. I swallowed my disappointment and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost noon, I discovered with surprise.

  "Oh, my," I said, "look at the time. I had no idea. I must go."

  I stood quickly, placing my empty cup on the nearby small table.

  "Thank you so much for the tea-and the visit. I enjoyed it so much."

  "I've enjoyed it, too. I do hope that you will come back again soon, Mrs. Delaney."

  "My name is Elizabeth," I told her. "Elizabeth, or Beth-you can take your pick. I'd be pleased if you'd call me by my given name rather than Mrs. Delaney."

  She smiled. 'And my name, Elizabeth," she said, "is Nemelaneka. When I married Ian, I thought he would like a wife with an English name, so I spent days poring over books and finally found the name Martha. `Martha,' I told him, `will be my name now.' `Why Martha?' he asked me. And I said, `Because I think that Martha sounds nice. Is there another name that you like better?' `Yes,' he said, `I like Nemelaneka, your Indian name.' So I stayed Nemelaneka, though Ian calls me Nimmie."

  "Ne-me-la-ne-ka," I repeated, one syllable at a time. "Nemelaneka, that's a pretty name."

  'And a very long and difficult one," laughed the woman. "Martha would have been much easier to say and spell."

  Just as I was taking my leave, Nemelaneka spoke softly. "Don't judge poor Katherine too quickly," she said. "There is much sorrow and hurt in her past. Maybe with love and understanding-" She stopped and sighed. 'And time," she added. "It takes so much time, but maybe with time she will overcome it."

  I looked at her with wonder in my eyes but asked no questions. I nodded, thanked her again, and hurried home after retrieving my shopping from the store.

  TWENTY

  6iange of 2,rec f/on

  No ladies came for tea
that day. I had thought I would welcome a day to myself, wondering at times how I was ever going to put a stop to the daily visits; but now, with none of them coming, I found that I really missed them. I fidgeted the entire afternoon away, not knowing what to do with myself. Eventually, I laid aside the book I was trying to read and decided to take a walk along the river.

  I did not go far and I did not leave the riverbank since I was still unsure of my directions.

  It was a very pleasant day. The leaves had turned color and, mingled among the dark green of the evergreens, they made a lovely picture of the neighboring hillsides.

  The river rippled and sang as it hurried along. Occasionally I saw a fish jump, and as I rounded one bend in the trail I saw a startled deer leap for cover. I was enjoying this wilderness land. But Nimmie had been right. I was lonesome at times as well.

  I thought now about all the family I had left in Calgary and Toronto. I thought, too, about my friends and school children at Pine Springs. I wonder if the school has a new teacher? I certainly hoped so. The children who had finally been able to start their education needed the opportunity to continue.

  I wished there was some way to learn what was going on back home. I seemed so far removed from them all, so isolated. Why something terrible could happen to one of them and I would never know! The thought frightened me, and I had to put it aside with great effort or it would surely have overwhelmed me with depression.

  I firmly chose to think of other things instead. It was easy to go back to my visit with Nimmie. I was so glad to have found a kindred spirit. One who was just as concerned-no, more concerned-about the need of schooling for the village children. I could hardly wait to get something started, but I knew Nimmie and Wynn were right. One must go slowly and do things properly.

  Reluctantly, I turned my steps homeward again. I earnestly hoped Wynn wouldn't be too late. I had so many feelings whirling around inside, and I needed so much to be able to share them with someonesomeone who would listen and understand.

  The day passed slowly. Dusk was falling and still Wynn had not returned. I walked around the two rooms we called home, looking for something to do but finding nothing that interested me.

  I paced the outside path, back and forth, and tried to formulate in my mind just where I would plant my next year's garden.

  I stirred the supper stew and rearranged the plates on the table and stirred the stew again.

  I sat with a book near the flickering lamp and pretended to myself that I was interested in the story.

  Still I was restless and edgy. My agitation began to turn to anger. Why did he have to be so late? Was the job really that important? Did his work matter more than his wife? Was this dedication to his job really necessary, or was he just putting in time, choosing to be late every day?

  My angry thoughts began to pile up, one on top of the other. Wynn could have been home long ago had he chosen to be! I finally concluded.

  It was now quite dark. Even Wynn had not expected to be that late. My thoughts took a sudden turn. What ifsomething had happened? What if he were lost? Or had had an accident? What if some deranged trapper had shot him? Mounties were warned of this possibility. Suddenly I was worried-not just a little worried, but sick-worried. I was sure something terrible had happened to my husband and here I sat not knowing how or where to get help. What if he were lying out there somewhere, wounded and dying, and I sat idly in my chair fumbling with the pages of a book and fuming because he was late?

  What could I do? I couldn't go looking for him. I'd never find my way in the darkness. Why, I could barely find my way in the broad daylight! Besides, I had no idea where Wynn had gone. What should I do?

  Indians! They were good at tracking. Didn't they have some sort of sixth sense about such things? I didn't know any of the Indian men, but I knew their wives. I would go to them for help.

  I ran for my light shawl. I would go to the village and knock on doors until I found someone.

  Then I remembered the dogs. They were often untied at night because the owners were not expecting anyone after dark. Out in the darkness of the woods by our pathway, I searched the ground for a heavy stick.

  Footsteps on the path startled me. I swung around, my breath caught in my throat, not sure what I would be facing.

  "Elizabeth!" Wynn said in surprise. "Did you lose something?"

  I wanted to run and throw myself into his arms but my embarrassment and my remembered anger stopped me. I wanted to cry that I had been worried sick, but I feared that Wynn would think me silly. I wanted to run to my bedroom and throw myself down on the bed and cry away all my fear and frustration, but I did not want to be accused of being a hysterical woman. I did not want to explain what I was doing out in the tangled bush by the path in the darkness, and I would not; so I simply said, rather sharply, "What took you so long? Supper is a mess," and brushed past him into the kitchen.

  Wynn said nothing more at the time. He ate the nearly ruined supper and I pushed mine back and forth across my plate with my fork.

  Supper was a long and silent meal.

  I had had so much to tell him, so much to talk about; and here we sat in silence, neither of us saying anything. It was foolish, and well I knew it.

  I stole a glance at Wynn. He looked tired, more than I had ever seen him before. It occurred to me that he might have things to talk about, too. What had happened in his day? Were there things that he wished to talk about?

  Taking a deep breath, I decided I should lay aside my hurt pride and ask him.

  "You were very late," I began. "In fact, I was worried. Did something unexpected happen?"

  Wynn looked up, relief in his eyes.

  "A number of things," he answered. "Our boat got a leak, we were charged by an angry bull moose, the trapper we went to see chose not to be home and we had to search for him and we ended up bringing him in handcuffs; and the Indian that I had taken along to act as my guide took a nasty fall and had to practically be carried the last two miles on my back."

  I stared at Wynn in unbelief. Surely he was joking. But the look on his face told me he was not.

  "Oh, my," was all that I could say. "Oh, my."

  Wynn smiled then. "Well, it's over," he said. "That's the only good thing I can say about this day."

  But it wasn't over.

  We hadn't even finished our poor meal when there was a call from outside our window. A man in the village had accidentally shot himself in the leg while cleaning his gun and Wynn was needed to care for the wound.

  Wordlessly, he put on his hat and followed the excited boy.

  It was very late when Wynn returned home. I was still waiting up for him. He crossed to me and kissed me. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he said; "you should have gone to bed."

  "I couldn't sleep anyway," I said honestly.

  The truth was that while Wynn had been gone, I had been doing a lot of thinking. I really had no idea how Wynn filled his days. When he came home at night, after a long day being-well, somewhere-we talked about what I had done with my day. I had never really asked Wynn about his before. What were Wynn's days like? Surely they weren't all as difficult as this one had been.

  I had been anxious to tell him about my tea with Nimmie and about meeting Miss Katherine McLain. He had faced grave problems and possible death and likely would have made no comment about either if I hadn't made an opportunity just to make idle conversation. I felt ashamed. From now on, I determined, Iin going to pay more attention to my husband and be less concerned with my silly little doings.

  By the time Wynn had returned from dressing the wound, I was feeling quite meek. Hadn't I come north with him to be his companion and support? I had been living as though I had come merely for his decoration.

  I tipped my face now to receive Wynn's kiss, then asked, "How is the man?"

  "He'll be okay, though he does have a nasty flesh wound. Barring infection, he should have no problem."

  I shivered thinking about it.

  "You're c
old," said Wynn. "You should be in bed."

  "No, I'm not cold, just squeamish," I answered. "Would you like a cup of something hot to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

  "Tea sounds good. Is the water still hot?"

  "I kept the fire banked. It will just take a minute."

  "It's very late, Elizabeth. I know you're tired. I don't need-"

  "It's no trouble," I assured him as I moved to the kitchen area.

  Wynn sat down in the one easy chair and I could hear him removing his high-topped boots. He must be nearly dead of exhaustion, I thought.

  I brought Wynn's tea and he gulped more than sipped it.

  "You wanted to talk?" he said, lifting tired eyes to me.

  "It can wait for morning."

  "It doesn't need to wait," maintained Wynn:

  "It's not that important. I just met Miss McLain today and had tea with Mrs. McLain. I'll tell you all about them at the breakfast table."

  I took Wynn's empty cup from him and carried it to the table. Then I turned to him. "Come," I said. "This day has been long enough already."

  TWENTY-ONE

  ~e Jforyfe/l r

  The next few weeks were rather uneventful. Wynn still was busy; but now that he had carefully patrolled all the area to which he was assigned, he was able to do more of his work from his one-room office. I liked having him around more, and it also helped me to become more familiar with what he did.

  He was police, doctor, lawyer, advisor, handyman, and often spiritual counselor-and so much more. The people came to him for any number of reasons. He was always patient and just, though sometimes I wondered if he wasn't a little too frank. They seemed to expect it. If he said, "No, Cunning Fox, that is not your territory for trapping; and, if you insist upon using it, I will need to lock you up," the Indian did not blink. At least he knew exactly what to expect.

  The Indian women came often for tea, though not nearly as regularly as they had at first. Mrs. McLain, my friend Nimmie, called, too: and L always enjoyed her visits. Miss McLain did not come, though I had bolstered up my courage to invite her on more than one occasion.