She approached the witch slowly with her eyes averted. She was about to hand the skirts over when she caught sight of a lump on Jeanne Roy’s mattress.
A baby’s grey corpse.
Élisabeth gasped and dropped the skirts on the floor. She looked to the witch—a snarl spreading across her face—and then back to the dead child.
It was nothing but a homespun cloth doll. Élisabeth exhaled so forcefully she thought she might fall to the ground. She gazed at the witch’s familiar more carefully. The shock of tangled soot-coloured yarn on the poppet’s head was a rival for its mistress’s own black hair. The eyes had been poorly stitched and its arms flopped over its head, while the legs were rigid, ending in heavy stumps, as if Jeanne Roy had not the time nor the inclination to turn the heel and givethe poor creature feet. It was so hideous that it was bewitching. Élisabeth could not stop herself from reaching out towards the doll.
“Don’t touch it,” Jeanne Roy warned.
Élisabeth stumbled backwards as surely as if she had been struck. She turned and started to scamper across the room, squeezing her holy water vessel tightly.
“Wait,” the witch called out. Élisabeth felt her legs go rigid, and then experienced an added jolt of fear—for did the priest not say stiffness was an indication of demonic possession? Fixed to the spot, she cringed and turned her shoulders towards Jeanne Roy.
“Thank you,” the witch said clutching the skirts in her hand. “For the clothes.”
Élisabeth dared to meet her eye. The witch’s face was tense, as if she was trying to control her pride—or her fury. Élisabeth did not wait to find out. She dropped her eyes and hurried back to the safety of her own trunk.
8
The brides’ spirits were high as they walked into the village that afternoon. They gaped and pointed at the marvels all around them: bright orange lilies, paler than the hawkweed they knew at home but more brilliant for their size and height; yellow marguerites with furry brown centres that resembled small sunflowers; stalks topped by tiny clusters of white flowers perfect for an elf’s bouquet; tall grasses sprouting violets. Bees looped around the flowers in coy circles as some of the brides tried to stop and pick what they could. Sister Gagnon scolded them all for dallying.
Marthe held Rose’s and Lou’s hands and swung them back and forth as they traipsed through the meadow and across a little creek. She felt oddly seasick from walking on the land, as if she had been so long at sea that she could not stand straight. They skipped ahead and then stopped, waiting for the dizziness to overtake them, then fell to the ground laughing. It was the first day of their new lives and they had everything that they needed: sunshine, friendship, and a generous fifty-livre dowry from the king.
Behind them Élisabeth paused to examine the ground every few steps. She had seemed so anxious to be allowed to visit Ville-Marie, Marthe couldn’t understand why she was dawdling now.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Élisabeth looked up at her, her brows furrowed.
“Checking her footprints.” Élisabeth nodded in the direction of Jeanne Roy. “To see if toadstools sprout where she treads.”
Marthe bent over. She did not see any fungus.
“Do you hear that?” Élisabeth whispered. Marthe tilted her head. There was a piercing hum of what might have been a bird or a cricket, or some kind of otherworldly creature calling out to them. Élisabeth crossed herself and slipped her hands into her pockets, pulling her rosary from one, her holy water vessel from the other. She held them tightly in her fists.
“Can you believe the heat of the day?” Marthe smiled, more as a means to distract Élisabeth than a desire to discuss the weather. “I do believe the sailors’ tales of eyelashes turning to icicles and toes freezing black were exaggerations meant to frighten us rather than a true reflection of what this island is like.”
“This heat can’t last. A storm must surely come,” Élisabeth murmured.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the summers here will be glorious, and the winters mild. Did you see the size of the crops? Everything is so tall.”
Her sister did not reply. She squinted into the distance to where Jeanne Roy was leaning over to pick wildflowers. When she moved on, Élisabeth silently followed to inspect the ground. Marthe knew she should keep an eye on her, but enchanted by the delights of the day, she ran to catch up with her friends instead.
They did not meet their first Canadian until they reached a dirt track that Sister Brodeur said bore the grand name of Rue Saint-Paul. A middle-aged man with his chemise open at the neck and a pipe in his mouth lifted his hat and crossed the road to speak to Sister Gagnon. The procession slowed to a halt, which gave Marthe a chance to peer down the road and up a little side street. The roads were earthen, in some places packed hard from use. The few houses in the village had pigs rooting around in the front gardens. Farther down Rue Saint-Paul she could see several figures dressed in black. Jesuit or Récollet priests? Or perhaps like Father de Sancy, from the order of Saint-Sulpice? Marthe had learned the Sulpicians were not just clerics but also the lords of Montréal Island, controlling everything as far as the eye could see.
A pair of nuns in a slightly different habit from Sister Gagnon’s also stopped to talk, and Marthe heard Sister Brodeur explain that these were Ursulines, not to be confused with the Hospitalières, who ran the Hôtel Dieu and cared for both the bodies and souls of the needy. She was amazed at the many religious orders and was thinking that Élisabeth could be right about the sanctity of the island, when Lou nudged her.
“Look! A dog pulling a cart.”
There was all manner of conveyances on the road: two-wheeled, four-wheeled, some with a place for a carter to sit, others so small they were only fit to move a few goods. All but one was pulled by an ox or a cow; the smallest, filled to the brim with hay, was being led by a mongrel, though the dog was distracted by a feathered lump of carrion he’d discovered in the street, causing his master to strike him with a stick as the cart veered off its path.
“Why does no one have a horse?” Marthe asked Sister Brodeur. The young nun was being pestered with other questions too.
“Is this all there is? There do not seem to be many homes,” said Françoise.
“Where are the shops?” Thérèse asked.
“Why is there no proper church?” Apolline frowned.
“There are now as many as fifty houses,” Sister Brodeur explained, taking the questions in her stride. “Each artisan has his shingle outside his home so you may know his trade. Few have horses, though I’m sure that will change as our colony grows. Our Lady’s church will be built right up that street. Until then, we use the chapel. All things take time.”
