Anne-Marie de Parthenay

  New France

  Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months, and Anne-Marie slowly became adjusted to her new life. She was a creature of routine and habit—ever since she was a child, she had been brought up that way. It was comforting, then, that she was able to settle into a new routine, becoming accustomed to all the quirks of her new way of life.

  Every morning, she would wake with the sunrise, to the smell of morning tea. She and Ezekiel’s family would eat a hearty breakfast of beans and squash. Then, Ezekiel would leave to the market in the city, and Anne-Marie would help the girls make the crafts for tomorrow. They had finally begun to let her start helping them. While she wouldn’t quite call it acceptance, there was at least an understanding now, and for that Anne-Marie was thankful.

  Slowly but surely, Anne-Marie found herself integrating into the family. It was still difficult—Ezekiel’s wife had still not forgiven her for what she’d done. But Anne-Marie wasn’t really looking for forgiveness, either, because in her mind, she’d done nothing to earn it. She tried to live by the ideals Ezekiel had instilled in her—nothing in life was free, nor was she entitled to anything. It was a strange ideal for a nobleman’s daughter, born in the lap of luxury. She had grown up being waited on hand and foot, her every need tended to by a dozen servants. Now, she did everything for herself, by herself,

  And yet, despite the difficulty of her new life compared to her old one, she realized she preferred it this way. Before, she had been carefully sheltered from the truths of the world, like she was a delicate flower who would wilt at simply knowing what life really was. Now, it was like a thousand doors had been opened for her, each of them leading to new places. Some were good, and some were bad, but all of them were important. She had never before realized how connected everything was, how human society was a series of tightly woven webs that kept everyone together.

  And it was not just the vast and momentous that compelled her to learn of, but the small and mundane, too. Before, she had never thought of how it came to be that fruit made its way to the bowls in her castle, or the meat to her silver plates, or clean water to her baths. These were all things she had taken for granted, and now, after almost seventeen years, she was starting to understand these things that were so fundamental to everyone else. She scrubbed the dirty clothes and mended their rips and tears with a needle. She peeled the squash and washed the vegetables for boiling. She whittled small statues and carvings of wood with a knife. Her once-dainty hands grew rough and calloused from the work, her waifish arms filling in, stronger and defined. She had no doubt that if she were to return, she’d be taunted for the way she was beginning to look, man-like and unbecoming of a lady of her ‘status’. And yet, she had never been happier.

  While they worked, Adah and Delilah would talk with Anne-Marie. They would try to teach her the Huron tongue, and she in turn would try to teach them French. She found it strange that Ezekiel had not taught them, but then again, he had likely learned it out of necessity. Ezekiel had to go and trade with the French in the city every day, something he would never want his daughters to have to do, so perhaps in his mind there was no need to teach them. Still, they had a desire to learn, and Anne-Marie did, too. They were kind, and Anne-Marie quickly found that they were better friends to her than any she had had before, and certainly better than Jeannine. They didn’t exclude her anymore, or talk behind her back. Though they sometimes spoke in their own tongue, which Anne-Marie couldn’t understand, she never got the sense that they were talking about her, at least.

  Anne-Marie was rather surprised that Adah and Delilah were twins. She should have realized it sooner, perhaps, given how similar they looked to one another. But she had never seen a pair of twins before, and had never seen enough Huron until now to notice the distinctions between them. Unfortunately, she was completely unable to ask them any of the many questions she wanted to about it—despite her attempts to learn, she still fumbled through every word in their tongue. She would try, and the girls would giggle at the attempt, which would embarrass her. Only, then, when it was their turn to try in French, it was her turn to giggle at them. Back and forth they would go, each of them sharing a girlish reciprocity, and it was through it she learned that the twins’ giggles were not malicious or teasing, and that put her at ease.

  Despite their vastly different upbringings and cultures, the twins were more like Anne-Marie than the noble girls she had known before. They liked the same things: pretty dresses and jewelry, good food, and of course, handsome boys. When they would finish their chores for the day, they would all go out to the public square in the center of the slums, where she and Jeannine had once scattered coins like they were feeding birds instead of people. The memories of that day still clung to Anne-Marie with guilt, but she was determined to not let a single day define her.

  In the square, they would watch all the people walking by, talking amongst themselves as best as they could manage, making jokes and giggling. They’d muse about peoples’ stories—how that old man earned his scar, or why that woman had no hair. And whenever a young man their age would come by, they would stop and admire him. Sometimes they would dare one among them to gather up the courage to go and talk to one, but of course, they never did. Anne-Marie got close once, but then her confidence gave out. She buried her reddened face in her hands and ran away, to which the other two fell over in a fit of laughter. Every now and then, Anne-Marie would see a young lady her age, and admired her quietly while the other two looked elsewhere. So too did she think Adah and Delilah were rather pretty, but she never told them so. Some things were best kept a secret, she figured.

  Every Sunday was church. It was the only event Anne-Marie didn’t join the rest of the family for. Not because she didn’t want to, but because the services were ordained by a French Jesuit. She and Ezekiel both feared that if any Frenchman, priest or no, saw her with a Huron family, they would talk, and word would spread. While none of the ghosts from her past life had come back to haunt her yet, she still wasn’t safe. She was, after all, living right outside the city where she had been kept prisoner until only two months ago, and the only thing keeping her safe right now was secrecy and discretion. Even her excursions to the square were done carefully—she wore a veil over her head to hide most of her hair and face, and she visited at less busy hours, when it was unlikely for Jesuits to be stalking about.

  This Sunday was a very special one. It was Christmas Day, and the whole town felt alive, roaring with activity. Most of the Huron living in the slums were Christian converts, and of course practically everyone in the city was Catholic. Christmas, then, was an affair that shook up the whole city, wresting it from its normal, mundane routine. In the morning, Ezekiel and his family dressed in their finest clothes, and headed off to church. Normally, Anne-Marie would do what she always did on Sundays—finish up any chores that needed doing around the place, or just sit and wait for them to return. But today, she had a mission. She woke up at the same time as everyone else, and watched them leave. As soon as they were gone, she put on one of her Huron dresses, wrapped herself in a shawl to cover her face, then stepped out of the hut.

  A cold wind ran through the slums, chilling her to the bone. She shivered, her breath fogging in the Christmas air. Dark gray clouds blotted out the sky overhead, small pellets of snow drifting to the ground one by one. She made her way through the square towards the city. The slums were eerily quiet—almost everyone was in church for the Christmas Day sermon. But Anne-Marie was banking on the hope that there were enough non-Christian Huron still working in the city. She passed through the maze of huts, heading towards the gate to the lower city and the market.

  The gate was open as usual at these times, though the usual bustling crowd was absent. Anne-Marie pushed through into the city, her shoes clacking on the cobblestone of the market square. Each step rang out in empty echoes, the usually-tumultuous place eerily quiet with no one around. Then, she saw something that lifted her spirits: Huron men, tending some of the stalls. They stood there absentmindedly, some of them smoking. Some had abandoned their own stalls to chat up another merchant at theirs, all of them waiting for the service to be over, hoping to get some passersby as people returned to their homes to celebrate the holiday with their families.

  Anne-Marie was practically the only customer here, but this was perfect. She had been waiting for an opportunity to visit this place, but never had the chance—the attendants of the nobility would come here all the time for supplies and trinkets, and even sometimes the nobles themselves. At the same time, Anne-Marie felt compelled to get gifts for everyone in her new adoptive family—it was Christmas, after all, and it just wouldn’t feel right to have nothing to give.

  The first thing she did was sell the last piece of jewelry she had—a fine necklace of silver that her adoptive mother had gotten her. Ezekiel had said to wait until she had earned the right to sell it, but in her mind, she had. She had worked hard these past two months, and she needed the money for the gifts. Once she had some, she went to each of the stalls that were open. Some of them were empty, the French merchants having gone to church. Some were staffed by Huron though, and so she tried her best to remember the words for what she wanted. She was explicit and deliberate about what she was going to get everyone, making a list in her mind beforehand, and had sneakily asked the girls about the right words in the past week or so. Two skirts for the twins: t?ndih yen’khara’. A belt of wampum to offer to Ezekiel’s wife, an olive branch of sorts: ahchara’. She was scrutinous with all three gifts, making sure they were just right. In this time, she felt like she had gotten to know each of them enough to know their tastes, at least to some extent, and she wanted to make sure to get them things they would like.

  There was just one issue: she wasn’t really sure what to get Ezekiel. In a strange way, she knew less about what he liked than any of his family, despite the fact that she had met him first and known him for longer. Her original plan was to get him a pipe, since he often smoked, but he already had a pipe, and giving him another might be insulting. His wife could have made his current one for him, for example, and then all the good will she’d been working for would fall apart. There had to be something else she could get him…

  Then, something caught her eye. There was a man selling fine metal goods from the smith, or perhaps even imported back from the motherland. Normally, she’d expect a stall like this to be helmed by a Frenchman, but there was a Huron merchant here instead. He was a tall and slender man, and of fairer skin than most of his peers. He smiled kindly as she approached.

  “Ndio,” she said, trying to remember the proper greeting.

  The Huron man’s face lit up, impressed.

  “Ndio,” he returned. “Ta’oht ihchiatenhndinon?”

  She looked around his wares, but there was one thing above else that had caught her attention—a fine steel sabre with an engraved handle. It was the kind of sword a gallant knight would wield, and Anne-Marie could think of no better gift for the man that had done so much for her. She motioned to it.

  “Le sabre,” she said, defaulting to French. None of her lessons had taught her how to say ‘sword’, if the Hurons even had a word for it. Still, she tried to do the rest in their tongue—it’d be good practice for talking with the twins. She struggled through the pronunciations:

  “Tho… Tho… ?oh… wihstayeh?”

  “Yaentow?nenh,” he replied with a smile. “Wahia’ ?ohwihstayeh.”

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  “A-ah,” Anne-Marie said, though she had no idea what the man meant. She sat there for a moment, trying to remember what she’d been taught. What number was wahia’ again? It wasn’t three—that was achienhk…

  “C'est bon,” the man said in French. “?a co?te six livres.”

  “Ah, merci beaucoup,” Anne-Marie said, though the man’s answer brought her no relief. After her other shopping, she only had four livre left. But she had to get something for Ezekiel, the finest gift of all of them, one that was fitting to thank him for saving her. After all this time, after all he had done for her, she felt as though she owed him something special, and she wouldn’t leave empty-handed. She stood there awkwardly, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe she could return one of the other gifts and get something cheaper. Maybe she should go back to the hut. If she gathered the rest of her other belongings, perhaps they would sell for enough…

  The merchant waved his hand at her, snapping her out of her trance.

  “Donne-moi les quatre,” the Huron man said, holding out his hand.

  “Q-quoi?” Anne-Marie asked.

  “Ndahk,” he repeated in his tongue, holding up four fingers with his free hand. Anne-Marie remembered what the word meant as he said it, the numbers coming back to her. She handed him the four livre, and he took them, putting them in his pocket. Then he took the sword and handed it to her.

  “Vraiment?” Anne-Marie asked. “Es-tu certain?”

  “Oui,” the man said with a smile. “Joyeux No?l.”

  “M-merci,” Anne-Marie stammered. She bowed, not knowing what else to say. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur! Joyeux No?l!”

  Her new prize in hand, she bowed again, then hustled back to the hut. Her heart brimmed with a newfound hope—perhaps this would be a good Christmas after all.

  When she got back to the hut, it was still empty. That was good—it gave her some time before the others returned. She wrapped each of the gifts up in burlap, tying them off with cords of hemp twine. It wasn’t pretty—she had never wrapped her own gifts, and doing so in plain brown fabric wasn’t exactly sightly, but it’s what she had. She laid them out around the firepit.

  Soon enough, they arrived. Anne-Marie waved as they entered, smiling brightly. Ezekiel walked over to the fire pit, his eyes widening at seeing the presents.

  “What are these?” Ezekiel asked.

  “They’re gifts,” Anne-Marie told him. “For you all. For Christmas.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “I… I snuck off to the market while you were gone. I didn’t take any of your money—paid for it all myself.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” he said. “But this was foolish. You need to be more careful.”

  “I understand. But there wasn’t anyone there. Promise.”

  Ezekiel’s eyebrows furrowed. Clearly, he wasn’t convinced. But he wasn’t about to cause a stink on Christmas, so he let it be.

  All of them sat around the fire pit.

  “Let us take turns, then,” Ezekiel said. “We have gifts for you, too.”

  “Us first,” the twins said. They grabbed a small box and brought it over to Anne-Marie. She took the gifts she had got for them and handed them over, trading with the girls.

  “You first,” Anne-Marie said.

  The girls weren’t about to argue. They tore into the presents, smiling and laughing when they saw the skirts. They held them up over their legs, seeing what they’d look like when worn. They seem to like them, Anne-Marie thought. That’s good.

  “Merci,” they said, one of the first words Anne-Marie had taught them.

  “De rien,” she replied. Now it was her turn. She opened the box. Inside was a beautiful necklace, no doubt hand-crafted by both of the girls. Beads of wampum lined the cord in blue and purple hues, and a beautiful amethyst hung in the center.

  “It’s beautiful,” Marie exclaimed. Then, she remembered who she was speaking to. What were the words again… “Ah. Tiawehnk.”

  The girls just smiled. Next, Anne-Marie took the gift for their mother, and handed it to her. She looked surprised, like she expected one for everyone but herself. But she opened the package anyway, slowly and delicately. Upon seeing the wampum, her eyes widened. She took the belt in her hands, gingerly inspecting each bead. Anne-Marie sat there nervously, a bead of sweat dripping on her forehead. She was the one Anne-Marie needed to impress the most, and therefore this gift came with the highest stakes.

  Then, the woman smiled.

  “Tiawehnk,” she said.

  Anne-Marie smiled, and breathed a sigh of relief. She liked them, then, at least somewhat. That was good. And, to Anne-Marie’s surprise, the mother turned, folding the belt of wampum and putting it away under her bed. She grabbed something else down there, then produced it for Anne-Marie, handing it to her. It was a fine and thick blanket, hand-woven and pristine. Threads of maroon and burgundy inter-weaved with one another to form a grand tapestry across its length. But most importantly, it was warm. Soft and warm. No longer would Anne-Marie be kept awake in the cold nights of winter, struggling to get to sleep as the wind ran through her. She realized the woman must have noticed her conditions, and woven this gift as a result.

  “Tiawehnk,” Anne-Marie said. “Tiawehnk… Ienkwara’?”

  The mother smiled. Her daughters started to giggle, and Anne-Marie’s face grew red, realizing she must have messed something up.

  She felt a comforting hand pat her on the back. It was Ezekiel. He held a book out to her, and placed it on top of the blanket she held. She put it down, and grabbed the book, thumbing through it. It was a bible, all bound in leather.

  “I know you have missed being with us at church,” he said. “This way, at least, you won’t have to neglect your relationship with God.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Anne-Marie said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “We are happy to have you here with us.”

  “Oh, but you must open my gift for you,” Anne-Marie said. She motioned to it at the other end of the firepit. Ezekiel walked over to it, and knelt down. He took it in his hands, and undid the twine gently. He took the handle of the sabre, pulling it out from the burlap. A harsh silence fell in the room, like all the energy from before had suddenly been sucked out. Anne-Marie sat there, wringing her hands. Did she do something wrong?

  Ezekiel looked at the sabre in his hands. He unsheathed the balde, inspecting its sharp edge.

  “This is a weapon,” he said.

  “It’s a sabre,” Anne-Marie stammered. “You know, like an officer’s sword…”

  “What makes you think I have need of a weapon?”

  “Oh, it’s not that. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s really more of an ornamental thing, you know. Like a decoration piece.”

  “What would you have me kill with this?”

  “Nothing! Nothing at all! I don't want you to kill anything with it... I'm... I’m sorry…”

  Her voice trailed off. Clearly, she had made a big mistake, but she had no idea what that was. Ezekiel’s eyes pored over the sword, somber and regretful.

  “In my culture,” he explained. “When you give a weapon to another, it is a declaration of war.”

  “I am so sorry, Ezekiel. I didn’t mean anything like that, I promise. In my culture, they give swords to knights as rewards for great deeds. I wanted to thank you, you know, for everything you’ve done. That’s all I meant by it. I swear it.”

  Ezekiel raised a hand to cut her off.

  “It’s alright,” he said, a sad smile forming on his face. “You didn’t know. It is a kind gesture nonetheless. I apologize for not accepting it with grace.”

  “No, it’s my fault, really,” she said. “I should have thought more about it. It just…. I don’t know. It looked nice, is all. And I think it suits you.”

  Ezekiel held the thing aloft, the wisps of fire glistening off the shiny steel.

  “It does,” he said. “Thank you. I will treasure it.”

  He sheathed the sword, hiding it carefully underneath his bed. Anne-Marie’s heart still wallowed in guilt and apprehension. She had no idea that this would be his reaction. All the good grace he had earned with the others with their gifts seemed to have evaporated at once, the energy in the room stifling and toxic. She cowered into a protective ball, wringing her hands and wishing she would just disappear. This was almost as humiliating as her dance at the ball, and this one was her fault.

  A pat on her shoulder again. She looked up to see Ezekiel standing over her.

  “Come,” he said. “It is a day to celebrate. Let us sing to honor the birth of Jesus.”

  “O–okay,” Anne-Marie replied. She scooted back towards the fire pit, taking her place around it with everyone else. Everyone in their family held out their hands, interlocking with one another in a chain around the fire. Anne-Marie held Adah’s hand to her left, and Delilah’s to her right. Everyone closed their eyes, and Ezekiel began to say a prayer. It was in his own tongue, and Anne-Marie hadn’t learned enough to make out any of it. When he was done, he lifted his face to the sky, and began to sing. The others joined him, and though Anne-Marie didn’t know the words, she recognized the tune soon enough, humming along with them in harmony:

  Iesous ahatonhia

  Iesous ahatonhia

  Estennialon de tsonwe Iesous ahatonhia

  Onnawatewa d'oki n'onwandaskwaentak

  Ennonchien swatrihotat n'onwandilonrachatha

  Iesous ahatonhia, ahatonhia

  Iesous ahatonhia

  A, oki onkinnhach eronhia'eronnon

  Iontonk ontatiande ndio sen tsatonnharonnion

  Warie onnawakweton ndio sen tsatonnharonnion

  Iesous ahatonhia, ahatonhia

  Iesous ahatonhia

  As they sang, their words filled the hut, radiating with warmth and kindness. The brief hostility that Anne-Marie had felt before vanished again, replaced with . As she continued to him, as the warmth from the fire kissed her feet and tickled her face, she couldn’t help but think that she would remember this day for the rest of her life. Everyone had already seemed to get over her accidental transgression, leaving the rest of the day for making merry and celebrating the birth of Christ. And they did. They sang, and talked, and laughed, and ate. And when it was time to settle into bed, Marie tucked herself into her new blanket. Within ten minutes, she was asleep, dreaming soundly of the day, and of better things to come. After sixteen years, Anne-Marie finally had a Christmas worth remembering.