1 views
Robertson
“What do you think they’re talking about?” asked Henry, nodding his head toward Riel and Dumont, conversing near the front of the church.
“I think it’s best if it stays between them,” answered René. Dumont had tears streaming down his face, while Riel was stoic as ever. They reached to shake hands, then Dumont pulled them into an embrace. The larger man’s weeps shook him against his friend.
“It’s hard to see him like this,” said Henry.
“Wii, he’s a good kommandant. It must be hard for him to see us like this too.” René wriggled around, unable to get comfortable. The bullet burned deep within his belly. He looked down at his sayncheur, old brown blood staining the white threads, the fresh red blood blending into the red threads.
“A wound like that is a death sentence, my friend,” said Henry, wincing as he watched René clutch his stomach.
“True, but that’s what the British are bringing come morning. Either this wound takes me, or I’ll be hanging within the week.”
Henry looked at the floor with despair. Dumont, finished with his farewells, thundered down past the pews, throwing the doors open to steal away into the still night air.
“It’s not too late for you either, Henry,” said René. “There’s no shame in running to see a new day.”
“No, no. It was my choice to follow Louis. It’s still my choice, following him until the end.” Henry watched Riel as he knelt at the altar in prayer. “He’s a good man; he always wanted the best for his people.”
“He’s always loved the Lord, that Louis.” René felt at the frayed fabric wrapped around his belly. His hand found the thinned-out fringes at the end, played with the remaining threads while he remembered comforting, familiar words. “’Make right with the Lord, and He will lead you in the right paths,’ nipaapaa and nimooshoom always told us so. I believed it true.”
“Your father and grandfather, they sound like they were good men. It’s not that I doubt our Lord, but how? How can you believe He’s leading us right?”
“I do, simple as that. Look at Louis, he weeps not for what comes. He’s at peace, and so am I.”
They sat together, hushed conversations of other pairs and groups buzzing quiet.
“You know,” said Henry, “you speak good English for being Michif.”
“And you, my friend, are actually good company. Considering that you’re English-born.” They laughed together, pain forgotten until René gave into a coughing fit, the bullet burning again. “I’m glad to have met and fought alongside you, Henry. What’s your family name?”
“Robertson. My grandfather, his father was a Scotchman. Signed with the company, chasing ‘adventure.’ He fell for an Ojibwe woman while working the Lakes. You?”
“Primeau. My grandfather landed at Québec City. He heard about Lord Selkirk’s little project, so he headed west. He fell in love with a Michif woman, marrying her as soon as he could.” They sat silent again a moment. “Primeau, it means ‘first’ in English; yet I'm the last of my friends to die. This battle’s been hard.”
© PVP NOW ™
“I think it’s best if it stays between them,” answered René. Dumont had tears streaming down his face, while Riel was stoic as ever. They reached to shake hands, then Dumont pulled them into an embrace. The larger man’s weeps shook him against his friend.
“It’s hard to see him like this,” said Henry.
“Wii, he’s a good kommandant. It must be hard for him to see us like this too.” René wriggled around, unable to get comfortable. The bullet burned deep within his belly. He looked down at his sayncheur, old brown blood staining the white threads, the fresh red blood blending into the red threads.
“A wound like that is a death sentence, my friend,” said Henry, wincing as he watched René clutch his stomach.
“True, but that’s what the British are bringing come morning. Either this wound takes me, or I’ll be hanging within the week.”
Henry looked at the floor with despair. Dumont, finished with his farewells, thundered down past the pews, throwing the doors open to steal away into the still night air.
“It’s not too late for you either, Henry,” said René. “There’s no shame in running to see a new day.”
“No, no. It was my choice to follow Louis. It’s still my choice, following him until the end.” Henry watched Riel as he knelt at the altar in prayer. “He’s a good man; he always wanted the best for his people.”
“He’s always loved the Lord, that Louis.” René felt at the frayed fabric wrapped around his belly. His hand found the thinned-out fringes at the end, played with the remaining threads while he remembered comforting, familiar words. “’Make right with the Lord, and He will lead you in the right paths,’ nipaapaa and nimooshoom always told us so. I believed it true.”
“Your father and grandfather, they sound like they were good men. It’s not that I doubt our Lord, but how? How can you believe He’s leading us right?”
“I do, simple as that. Look at Louis, he weeps not for what comes. He’s at peace, and so am I.”
They sat together, hushed conversations of other pairs and groups buzzing quiet.
“You know,” said Henry, “you speak good English for being Michif.”
“And you, my friend, are actually good company. Considering that you’re English-born.” They laughed together, pain forgotten until René gave into a coughing fit, the bullet burning again. “I’m glad to have met and fought alongside you, Henry. What’s your family name?”
“Robertson. My grandfather, his father was a Scotchman. Signed with the company, chasing ‘adventure.’ He fell for an Ojibwe woman while working the Lakes. You?”
“Primeau. My grandfather landed at Québec City. He heard about Lord Selkirk’s little project, so he headed west. He fell in love with a Michif woman, marrying her as soon as he could.” They sat silent again a moment. “Primeau, it means ‘first’ in English; yet I'm the last of my friends to die. This battle’s been hard.”
© PVP NOW ™
