Silhouettes in the Moonlight

Grand Papa and Grand Mama drew closer to both grandchildren in a sleigh led by a pair of determined nostril-steaming creatures. Their return journey on snow-piled layers was more like dealing with weighty blankets on a slippery trail. Usually these sure-footed animals were comfortable upon snow, yet began to slip and slide from ice-covered ridges upon former ruts.

 

“Mon Dieu,” Grand Papa wheezed. “Dis weather not so nice, eh, mes enfants?”

 

Mumbled answers of “We…We” carry to his ears. These French-Canadien children, actually said, “Oui” meaning “Yes” in English.

 

Many years ago their grandfather moved here from Northern Quebec. After purchasing a thirty-five acre wooded parcel of land with ample room and resources he built his country cabin for a life of future memories. Considered remote in the 1940’s he survived in comfort along with nearby families and their descendants.   

 

“It is so nice there, Mon Cherie,” he promised his wife, Camille, forty years before. “Cheap too. Dere is dis hill with some fine room for a pasture, hay, some cows. A good woods too where we can chop our trees for not’ing. They can be lasting forever.” She now snuggled beside him on the wagon. Everything he promised did take place.

 

Camille accompanied her husband to this new province where their cozy log cabin commanded a scenic view of the valley. But their plan to raise a household of babies was not to be. Only one daughter was born and when she turned eighteen, she returned to Quebec. Year later, a car accident left the children orphaned. After being placed temporarily with relatives, it was decided ‘les enfants’ should move to Nova Scotia and live with their grandparents. It was a land of plenty, where a garden, crops, fresh air and hard work would sustain them.

 

Grand Mama knew two active children needed space to roam. And Grand Papa was able to teach the boy new ways of a small farm in the woods. The boy had shown a willing spirit and grew to love his grandparents. Even Monique learned valuable lessons. Grand Mama taught her grand daughter the advantages of cooking in a simple country kitchen. She also learned about the importance of satisfying appetites for a hardy man and boy.

 

“We are soon to arrive home” Grand Papa said, interrupting her thoughts. “Den we can escape dis storm.” His dear Camille was such a blessing. He looked at her through falling flakes. Then touched her cheek gently, unable to feel the softness of skin through his mitt. A returning smile produced a warm glow in his chest and he grunted with satisfaction. 

 

“The children,” she said. “They are very cold. Watch the tracks. The poor horses are having a most difficult time.”

 

‘Harry’ was a strawberry Roan and ‘Kit’ a race trotter saved from the Glue Factory. They were recent gifts from English neighbors for two people with the courage to take on the responsibility of raising two young grandchildren. Besides, Grand Papa’s old horse was happy to be allowed to spend his last days in a corral beside the cabin. Certainly he was not going to miss the challenge of trails in hilly terrain, a difficult journey for any beast with aging legs.

 

Snow continued to persist in a flood of flakes upon the four travelers. For the children it meant absorbing the wonder of a magical scene as they hurried through what seemed like a sky full of white fireflies. Grand Mama moved closer to her husband. “The weather is hard on my bones my love,” she murmured, arms reaching around her grandchildren.

 

“How much longer, Grand Mama?” Monique asked, trying to be cheerful. She was a slender young girl of nine. Flowing blond hair hid under the hood of her jacket. She could barely wait to finish baking tonight since homemade cookies would bring many smiles.

 

Henri was eleven. It was also his duty to be watchful over his younger sister as they completed chores and played games. In Quebec, his name was pronounced ‘Ah-Ri.’ But here, school chums called him “Henry,” the English way.

 

Both children learned to enjoy living in the roughness of woods ever since their parents passed away, in Ville Marie, Quebec. Henri proved it often with snowshoe tracks like patterns of thread within this hilly country. It was fortunate, this evening of wintry challenge, the children were bundled up in heavy coats and scarves. However the wind continued to give a jolting surprise, dropping icicle-chills down warm backs.

 

“Welcome to a winter storm, in the woods of Nova Scotia!” came suddenly as a shout of exuberance from Henri. It was a true message, which spoke of the rapidly changing weather conditions in this part of the province. He was also proud of his knowledge of English, a welcome addition to his French heritage.

 

Their log cabin almost in the center of their property was a quarter of a mile from the nearest neighbor. In a proud testimony to its construction the old cabin remained sturdy after all these years. A new section had been built to accommodate the children. Thankfully, an extra-strengthened roof easily sustained any accumulating snow.

 

Everyone knew their Quebec heater would soon be red hot, and they could relax in its warmth. Anxious breaths exhaled impatiently for wet clothes to be hung close to its hot metal to dry. Ah-Ri might even have time for a game of checkers with Grand Papa, before retiring for the night.

 

Tall pine trees and birch near their home grew in bunches and provided cooking and heating needs over many years. First, the log home was built, then the barn; afterwards a shelter for storage of firewood. The hammering of any chopping axe was a familiar sound as echoes of strength against the hills.

 

Deer used to be cautious near the log cabin, now comfortably lingering as they became familiar with this new family. Often a raccoon or bear watched from the shelter of a favorite tree. Before long, wildlife had accepted their new neighbors and the children bonded with these natural surroundings. Brother and sister simply watching did not disturb the animals any more.

 

“Finally,” Monique said as both horses stamped noisily in front of an almost empty wood shelter, a short distance from their home. Moonlight once again highlighted each building’s silhouette.

 

Everyone shook off layers of snow, scrambled from the wagon and began moving their precious wood cargo inside. Inactive bodies had a chance to warm up through busy bending and carrying armloads to place by the heater. As usual Ah-Ri tried to carry more than his young arms should attempt, dropping pieces of wood along the way.

 

“Wait, my little one,” said Grand Papa. “We are four here. You must let us help together in dis task.” Soon, both horses were unhitched, placed in their stalls, and given fresh water and hay.

 

“I go fill de ‘eater so we soon be like warm toast,” Grand Papa promised. He knew everyone had similar thoughts. Soon, it did become very warm, as melting snow-drenched clothes hissed and smoked as everyone gathered close.

 

The evening progressed through various stages. From excitement over Monique’s snack of sugar cookies and Grand Mama’s hot chocolate, to ghost stories around the hot stove. As eyelids faltered, cups were returned to the sink and crumbs swept up. Grand Papa’s snoring from the couch signaled it was time for everyone to be sleeping, and to succumb to peaceful dreams.  A forceful wind whistled and grunted against the log cabin, its front door almost overwhelmed by drifting snow.

 

~

 

Henry awakened sometime during the late night. Something did not seem right. An alertness triggered fear, and heart beats pounded anxiously within his chest. A variety of half-completed thoughts raced through his mind. Some seemed silly. Right now he didn’t really care about how anyone pronounced his name. He smelled something. Yes…oh no, it was smoke.

 

On the other side of his bedroom wall, crackling sounds were much different than those within the security of a stove. Surely it was not a house fire as he was used to hearing tales about during cookouts in the woods? In school Henry also 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. Henry hit the floor with enough noise to wake everyone up. He was certain their dog was barking outside their home. Covering his mouth, he tried to shake his sister awake. Monique was not moving at first, until he slapped her face several times, finally stirring her as she lay on the lower level. 

 

“Why did you do that, Ah-Ri?” she asked. Her brother had never done this before. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

 

“Hush Monique. Listen…listen.” Henry didn’t wish to make her afraid. But, it was getting very hot in here. The word “Fire!!” escaped his lips with a thunderous shout. Now she completely understood the panic both began to share. Where are his grandparents? The loud crash Henri made falling out of bed, should have had them rushing into their room.

 

The children were coughing as they crawled across the floor, bumping into furniture. It was difficult heading in the proper direction beneath a blanket of smoke. In the next room they discovered Grand Papa and Grand Mama in a final embrace, on the floor. Nothing the children did could get any movement from their much-loved surrogate parents. It was dark in their grandparent’s room until suddenly a flash of red advanced towards them.

 

Henry knew he and Monique must get out, and very quickly, too. He pulled his sister close and flung her onto his back like a sack of flour, surprised at his strength. Then he paused for a brief moment in prayer before making a hurried dash hoping to penetrate the wall of flame, and make it to the front door. “If only…” Henry thought, not realizing his life was but a memory in the instant he and his sister were more like pieces 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. She sensed somehow never again would she feel the sure hands of her master, when her rich milk could spill into a waiting bucket.

 

Barely able to bark from smoke-filled lungs, the dog tore off down the road seeking help. He too sensed never again would the laughter of children enjoy days playing with him.

 

Saddened neighbors felt it proper to leave the cabin ruins as a sanctuary for the four lives lost that winter night. Years passed swiftly through seasons of natural outdoor growth. Whispers of conversation traveled throughout the valley. About grandparents and two children, who lived on a winding road that climbed Onslow Mountain. The tale of tragedy even developed into a popular skipping rope song sung by area Elementary School children.

 

The message used was not disrespectful. It became part of the history in the hills. During playtime the short rhyme resonated in a frankness that translated tragedy into an epic:

 

“Ah-Ri and Monigue,” they said.

“One, two, three and four. Fire! Fire!

Please, don’t burn me any more.”

 

No one desired to purchase the acreage, allowing the house to collapse into its final resting place. Now all that is left from years of hard work is the outline of a stone foundation. Passing eyes soon noticed tiny shoots within the ancient foundation. Each season of moisture and sunshine encouraged a stubborn upward growth.

 

One evening during a hike with his own grandparents, a child noticed something different on the old farm. “Look” the boy said. “Four trees all together.”

 

Closer observation revealed a large tree with two sets of branches, growing inside the remnants of a foundation. The larger set was named after Grand Papa and Grand Mama. The shorter set was named after Henry, a loving brother, and his dear sister, Monique.

 

Four silhouettes now meet at dusk, a reminder of a family who once lived here.