SILHOUETTES AT DUSK story

Beyond the last wagon road that winds its way through these hills is a well-constructed log home. Whispers of wind know the way. And it easily creates a path between branches of tall poplar trees.

During Autumn-time these slim trunks quiver with leaves that tinkle gently as bells. Blue Jays continue their raucous sounds, seeking the highest elevation in what they feel is a private domain.

Heavy-laden Spruce provides a natural fence for privacy as they surround a large pond, back of the cabin. Listening closely, sounds burp, splash and climb slowly into a bright, starry-eyed sky...

But this is not Autumn-time, nor does a faint breath of wind tap gently on anyone’s forehead. At this moment Winter-outdoors is a rage of stinging snow. And whitened cheeks feel the slap of its chill.

Grand Papa was using his last reserve of strength to keep the sleigh on its earlier tracks. Heading up the hill to receive the remnants of cut wood came too easily. At that time the snow was mere inches deep and the pace of his horses was a surge of power, knowing the right pressure to secure proper footing.

Now on the return journey, piles of snow formed layers like blankets on the slippery trail. And normally sure-footedness scrambled on new icy ridges.

“Mon Dieu,” Grand Papa wheezed. “Dis weather not so nice, eh, mes enfants?” Many years ago, this man now weathered from the hardships of living in an isolated cabin, came from Northern Quebec. Two visits to this land called Nouvelle Ecosse convinced him to move.

“It is so nice here, Mon Cherie,” he had said so many years before to his wife who sat beside him on the wagon. “And cheap too. Dere is dis hill with some room for a pasture, for ‘ay and some cows. And also, a fine woods where we can cut trees for not’ing. They can be lasting forever.”

And so they came to live here, on the promise of a comfortable log cabin, with a view of the valley.

But he was getting old. And living so far from everyone was like living on another planet, no matter how peaceful it was. His shoulder ached from another bout of arthritis.

His wife of forty-three years kept him healthy most of the time. Good food, especially pea soup and the love of these young children kept his spirits high. And taught him how to be patient once again.

“No time for temper,” his wife had admonished him when the cow did not produce enough milk. Or when a coyote would get at their chickens.

His dear woman always had a way. She could turn his head in a moment with a stern look, or a smile. “The children,” she said, bringing him back to the present. “They are very cold. Watch the tracks. Our horses are having a most difficult time.”

‘Harry’ was a strawberry Roan and ‘Kit’, a race trotter that was saved from the Glue Factory. They were gifts from their English neighbors, for two brave people with the courage to take in their grandchildren. Their horse “Monsieur” was able to spend his last days in a peaceful state.

Grand Mama had insisted the children come to live with them. The grandparents knew the hearts of these two children who needed space to roam. And indeed there was ample land for them to grow up. Soon, Grand Papa was able to teach the boy the ways of a small farm in the woods.

Even Monique learned valuable lessons. Grand Mama was able to teach her grand daughter the advantages of cooking in a fine kitchen.

Snow was persistent in its flood of snowflakes upon the four people. Grand Mama cuddled beside her husband. “This cold weather is hard on my bones,” she murmured, reaching wide to wrap two loving arms around her grandchildren.

“How much longer, Grand Mama?” Monique asked feebly. She was a slender young girl of nine. Her flowing blond hair hid under the hood of her jacket. She could not wait to finish baking her surprise. Cookies for everyone would bring many smiles tonight.

Henri was eleven and very much the stronger of the two. He proved it often as he hiked on trails that were like patterns of thread within this hilly country. Back in Quebec, his name was pronounced ‘Ah-Ri.’

But his friends here called him “Henry.”

The children had been living with their grandparents ever since their own parents died of Tuberculosis two years ago, in Ville Marie, Quebec. After the sadness and much talking it was decided they would live with their Grand Papa and Grand Mama.

“The fresh air would be good for ‘les enfants,” Grand Papa had said at the time.

It was good the children were bundled up in heavy coats and scarves. The wind was determined to give them a jolt and drop icicle-chills down their warm backs.

“Welcome to a winter storm, in the woods of Nova Scotia!” came as a sudden shout of exuberance from Henri. It was a true message that spoke of the changing weather conditions in this part of the province.

Their log cabin was a quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbor, and almost in the center of their seventy-five acre property. The building was still sturdy after all these years. Everyone knew the Quebec heater would soon be red with heat, and they could relax in its warmth.

Their wet clothes would be hung close to the heat, and perhaps Ah-Ri would have a game of checkers with Grand Papa.

The trees near their home had grown together in bunches and provided for their cooking and heating needs many years ago. First, the log home was built, then the barn and afterwards a shelter for the collected wood.

And the sounds of an axe chopping became a familiar noise as it echoed against the hills.

At first, deer would linger as they investigated the new presence in their once quiet woods. Often a raccoon or bear watched from the shelter of a favorite tree. And before long, the wildlife accepted this family as new neighbors and no longer treated as intruders.

“Finally,” Monique said as the horses stamped noisily in front of their wood shelter. Everyone shook off layers of snow, scrambled from the wagon and began to help stack its precious cargo. Inactive bodies finally had a chance to warm up through busy movement.

The ways of the woods was not easy and all had to do their share.

Ah-Ri as usual tried to move faster and carry more than his young arms should attempt. “Wait, my little one,” Grand Papa said. “We are four here, and you must let us share in dis task.”

Before long the horses were unhitched, placed in their stalls and provided with fresh water and hay. The family quickly raced for the cabin, each carrying a load of wood.

Yes, tonight they should be very warm. “I am going to load the heater so we will soon be like burnt toast,” Grand Papa promised. He knew everyone had similar thoughts.

The evening progressed through various stages. From excitement over Monique’s snack of sugar cookies, and Grand Mama’s very hot chocolate, to ghost stories at bedtime.

And soon, Grand Papa’s snoring signaled it was time for everyone to also be sleeping. It didn’t take long for everyone to shut tired eyes and begin their dreams.

Sometime during the night, Henry awakened. Right now he didn’t really care about how anyone pronounced his name. Something was wrong. And his boyish senses were fully alert. He smelled something. It was smoke.

And not far away, he heard a crackling. Was that fire he wondered?

In school he learned one should not sit up during any smoke danger, but roll off the bed. This he did, except he forgot he was on the top bunk. And he hit the floor with enough noise to wake everyone up. Outside, the dog was barking.

Henry covered his mouth as he tried to shake his sister awake. Monique was not moving at first, until he slapped her face. “Why did you do that, Ah-Ri?” she asked, as tears rolled down her cheeks. Henry didn’t wish to make her cry. But, it was getting very hot in here.

Where were his grandparents? After the loud crash he made, they should be close by. The children were choking as they crawled across the floor, fumbling into furniture. They moved slowly into the next room, finally able to feel Grand Papa and Grand Mama’s faces.

But they were not moving.

Nothing the children did could get a sound from their much-loved surrogate parents. Then Monique and Ah-Ri tried desperately to drag them from the bed.

At first it was so dark in the room, but suddenly a flash of red advanced towards them. Henry knew he and Monique must get out, and very quickly, too. He pulled her close to him, and flung her onto his back like a sack of flour, surprised at his strength.

Then he knelt for a brief moment before trying to run with his dear sister through the wall of flame. If only…he thought as he suddenly felt like a piece of burnt toast.

From her window in the barn, the milking cow watched the cabin turn from a dark cloud of anger, to bright yellow. Somehow she knew never again would she feel the sure hands of her master, as her rich milk spilled into the waiting bucket.

And barking from sore lungs, the dog now went seeking help. Somehow he knew he would never again hear the laughter of the children.

**

And the years passed. No one ever desired to build a new home on the site of that completely burned out cabin. Only the stone foundation remained. It was left as a sanctuary for the four victims who had lost their lives one night on a hill, close by a peaceful pond.

Whispers of conversation soon traveled throughout the valley, about the family that lived alone on a lonely road climbing Onslow Mountain. It was said the fire was able to consume only the outside bodies of those four people.

But their spirits were very much alive in the night, especially when families were restless in sleep. Sad memories lingered for a long while.

The tale of tragedy became a song sung by children at school, through nursery rhymes and skipping rope talk.

“Ah-Ri and Monigue,” they said.
“One, two, three and four. Fire! Fire!
Please, don’t burn me any more.”

But each night for many seasons, when the sun went down there was a different message. It came as a flock of geese landed in the fallow field of distant memories. This old farm became a regular part of their journey.

It was a place of safe haven, with shelter from trees, grown thicker over the years. And the sweet taste of water from the pond always provided a precious drink from those long flights.

Trout swam darkly beneath the water, lily pads took root along the shore and frogs continued their artful bellowing. Even loons sometimes rested upon the tiny surface, remembering something so vague as humans who once listened from their porch to their eerie calls in the night.

And the deer were regular visitors to this vacant land, drawn to the aroma of fresh apples. No one desired to purchase the acreage, thus allowing the house remains to collapse in disrepair, until all that was left was the outline of a stone foundation.

Sturdy Dandelions filled in most of the vacant spots. And St. Anne’s lace grew in clusters on the north side, where the small porch used to be.

From a distance, other pairs of eyes watched the growth of four trees, as they sprouted from within the ancient foundation. At first they were only tiny shoots, but each season brought moisture, sunshine and stubborn growth.

One evening a child noticed something different, during a hike with his own grandparents. “Look,” he had said. “There are four trees, all together.”

Yes, they had grown from young trees now reaching up from the sadness that once was. And families later agreed each tree must represent the humans lost one terrible night, so long ago.

From a distance at dusk, silhouettes from two tall spruce trees can now easily be seen. There is one large sapling for Grand Papa and another for Grand Mama.

The other two are more like one, in the form of an apple tree with its trunk growing in two directions. You could almost see the stronger branch supporting the smaller of the two. It reminds us so of the boy who tried to help his sister to safety one terrible night.

Now each family member is a memory, but never forgotten.

* * *

© Richard L. Provencher 2007

Richard & Esther Provencher invite you to read “FOOTPRINTS” at: www.synergebooks.com. “Someone’s Son” and “Into The Fire” will be out soon. The link to “FOOTPRINTS” is: http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_footprints.html