“When we set sail, I was convinced we would all die,” Hélène replied. “I jumped overboard, thinking it was better to drown close to Dieppe than out in the ocean, for at least near shore they might recover my body rather than leave me to be taken by sea monsters. One of the sailors rescued me.”
“You’re the mermaid!” Élisabeth exclaimed, drawing the attention of the other neighbours. She was forced to explain that she had heard the story of a girl who jumped into the sea from the sailor who rescued her, and how he thoughtof her as his mermaid still. Dufossé stepped in to jeer at his wife and told everyone assembled that she was a mooncalf, not a mermaid. Hélène hunched her shoulders, closing in upon herself, and the men continued their talk of how to convince the seigneurs of the need to build a grist mill. Once their backs were turned, she took a step closer to Élisabeth.
“You met Michel?”
“Yes,” Élisabeth nodded. “And I believe he must be in love with you, for he left the ship in Québec to search for you. He has a notion you might be a widow and free to marry him.”
“He loves me still?” Hélène’s eyes had widened.
Élisabeth had looked at her pale face, thinking what it would be like to have a friend in the lonely stretch of near-unbroken forest she now called home. She and this woman might meet again at her table and share stories of the lovers they left behind. Then Élisabeth thought of Rémy. Had he tired of her, as Jeanne Roy said? Thrown her away, like an apple core for the pigs? If so,why? He said she had too many freckles, was that the reason? She should have scrubbed her face with apple cider and honey. She agonized over what she had done wrong and fell headlong into silence.
After that, Hélène had retreated, shrinking further into herself until she became so invisible that no one seemed to notice her sitting alone by the hearth, staring into the fire.
Francoeur soon gave up trying to foist companionship upon her, and she and Marcosi were left alone. Until the spoon slipped through her hand on the morning of Epiphany, and she knew something was about to change.
The two old soldiers stomped their feet at the door, letting thick chunks of snow fall from their boots.
“Élisabeth, what can we offer our guests?” Francoeur said. He had no foreboding; he seemed delighted by their unexpected company, eagerly taking his comrades’ coats to hang them on pegs by the door.
“There’s spruce beer. Or the blueberry wine.”
“Good Lord, no!” Short, stocky Jambon smacked his palm to his forehead. “Mistress, has he tried to make you drink the blue vinegar?”
The one with the baby face who had married Rose chuckled. “He bought it from a pretty maid at market,” Lajeunesse said. “He never manages to finish a bottle, yet he always goes back for more.”
“Now lads, you’ll land me in trouble with my wife,” Francoeur said hastily. “Sheis the most beautiful woman on this island. Although she pretends she’s only passably pretty.”
He tried to catch her eye so that she might share in their private joke, but Élisabeth looked at the floor. Why could she not smile back? Laugh at his little joke, touch his shoulder when he passed by, draw him close to her at night, as Marcosi urged her to do?
No, no, no. If the witch would not help her, she would fight the demon by not giving into sin. She must be as pious as the Holy Virgin. It was the only way to keep the demon down.
Consider, just consider, that witchcraft does not exist.
Impossible. If witches didnotexist and magic was nothing more than wishes, then she was neither cursed nor barren. If the Winter Witch were merely an old woman looking for firewood, then Élisabeth could have stayed in Saint-Philbert and accused Rémy of seduction. The courts might have forced him to marry her. If witchcraft did not exist and Rémy was a liar, then he was not her true love. She had thrown her life away for nothing.
If witchcraft did not exist, she could lay with her husband without sin.
Stupid, ignorant peasant. Harebrained fool.
Jeanne Roy’s words were as poisonous as an adder’s bite. Who was she to call Élisabeth stupid? She might not be able to read or write her name, but which of them was living in a warm house with an able husband, and which of them was living alone in a hut made from little more than brambles? She felt Marcosi stretch and dig his sharpened claws deep into her belly. She grimaced.The ache inside of her was all the proof she needed. What else could explain her gut-wrenching spasms if demons did not exist?
No, she was not stupid or harebrained. Witches were real. Demons walked among them.
She knew it for certain, for she lived with one every day.
“Give us the blue vinegar, then. We shall drink a toast to our wives.” Jambon clapped his hand on Francoeur’s shoulder, bringing Élisabeth out of her thoughts. She stepped away to fetch the wine.
“My friend, we have come to you for your counsel,” Jambon said. “I am sorry to say we have bad news about Lafredière.”
Élisabeth poured the blueberry wine into tin mugs and placed one in front of each of the men. Francoeur placed his forearms on the table, staring straight at Jambon.
“What’s he done now?”
Jambon looked at Élisabeth uneasily. “He attacked one of the village wives.”
“Tell me.” The words shot out of Francoeur’s mouth.
“Lafredière fell upon her and choked her until she nearly lost breath. It happened a few months back. We only learned of it when we went into town to sell firewood a few days ago.”
