Blood
by William Lloyd
God that hurts.
I stick my knife back into its tattered sheath, then wrap my bleeding finger in my sleeve. The blood seeps through and drips down, ruining the perfect bed of leaves that cover the frosty shore. “Pierre, réveille-toi, on va partir maintenant.” My breath encircles my body as I cautiously whisper to my confederate, not wanting to wake the slumbering pines. Crawling out from beneath our birch bark canoe, tipped over with a tarp draped on top, I look out across the river to the opposite bank.
“Tabernac, Henri, le soleil n’a même pas levé!” Pierre sits up, exposing his rugged face, which is covered with an untamed beard and a series of deep scars which run across it like cracks in a sheet of ice As I load our packs into the canoe, Pierre sits over the fire, tending to our meal. His rough hands are cupped around his face, in an attempt to fight back against the cool morning air.
Our canoe glides down the river, bouncing back and forth. The sun has begun its patient ascent, illuminating the previously dark forests to our left and right. We are heading northwest. As we paddle, eerie silence surrounds us like a thick early morning mist. The only sound is the dip of the paddle in its constant battle against the water. After some hours, we stop. I pull my chestnut pipe out of my pocket and clench it hard between my teeth. It is my most well-kept possession. The marbled shaft is unscratched, a testament to my care.
Our paddle is cut short today. My legs tremble as I pull the canoe into the shore, the icy water rushing around me like a stampede. It is late October now, and there is not much time left. The snow will begin to fall soon, and we won’t last long after that. We set off last April, the eighth to be exact. Two days earlier, we had been commissioned by Compagnie des Indes Occidentales. As of now, we have very little to show for our time, our deprivations.
I creep through the woods in my deerskin moccasins, trying to muffle the crumpling of the leaves under me. I turn my head slightly to the right to find Pierre motioning for me to move up. He is kneeling down behind a wide oak tree, the bark of which has been stripped off in spots. Pierre bites open the top of his powder horn. He then proceeds to empty powder into his flintlock musket. We have been following this mammoth for a week now, carefully stalking it from a good distance back. Moose are dangerous creatures that can switch from the majestic state that I see him in now, to a ferocious beast storming at you, rack down, in an instant. It is important not to miss your shot, and even if you do hit the target, it’s not going down with just that. That is the interesting part of hunting a moose. Anyone can take a good first shot, when the animal is entirely unaware of the fate that awaits it, but the ability to be able to load your musket correctly, while the enraged moose charges towards you, is something special. If you are fortunate enough to not have your musket misfire, then you may be lucky enough to take it down.
I wedge the butt of my musket into my shoulder, and rest my cheek against it, closing my left eye. I hold my breath and try to steady my trembling hands. Pierre is holding up three fingers, now two, now -
Boom. Boom.
Two shots ring out in the forest breaking the perfect calm. I reach into my pouch and pull out my powder horn and another ball. Fifteen seconds later my musket is on my shoulder once again, but this time not for long enough to take in my surroundings. I look across to Pierre.
Boom.
A lone shot rings out as a puff of smoke masks Pierre. “Merde, Henri, allez!” I look down the barrel of my musket and feel the steel trigger up against my second finger.
Boom.
The beast stumbles and then falls, a process that takes hours in my mind. I look across to Pierre, and he nods to me. I reach for my knife once again. Pierre and I celebrated that night over a roaring fire, emptying the very last drops of our supply of whisky into our mugs.
We spend another five days at that site, tediously cutting free and preparing the moose’s thick shaggy hair for the last leg of our journey. It is hard labour, and we are under the heavy weight of time. If we don’t begin our journey back to the post soon enough we will face the increasing perils of mother nature. Throughout the work, the thought of entering the post with my furs is ever present, carrying me through. The moose meat is almost all we eat during this time. We cook and dry as much as we can bring with us, but nonetheless, we are forced to reluctantly leave the remains to the scavengers.
“Alors, il y a quatre cents kilomètres, Pierre, donc si nous pagayons vingt kilomètres par jour, nous allons arriver en vingt jours, le premier décembre.”
“C’est assez ambitieux, non? Avec le paquet?”
“C’est faisable.”
Our new routine is a gruelling one. We paddle for eighteen hours a day, sleep for four, and plan out our route, set up and take down camp, and cook with the scraps of food that we have left for the two remaining. I wake up every morning to aches and pains that stretch from my feet, to my worn- out shoulders. Every morning, they try to convince me to spare them from the treacherous paddle ahead, but every time as I get back into the canoe, they reluctantly concede. On top of the increased hours, the thick packs of furs that now accompany us weigh us down tremendously. Pierre and I hardly talk anymore. We have nothing left to say. We both know our respective job.
We are nearing the end of our paddle and a shrill, bone-chilling cry pierces our silence, tearing it apart with its sharp talons. It resonates across the river, and through the dark, empty woods that flank us. Pierre hastily reaches for his musket that is positioned reliably at his side. I hesitantly steer us towards the shore which the scream has come from. Pierre’s face is solemn, empty, as if all his previous memories, recollections of joy and despair, heartbreak and love have been forgotten. I have never seen him this way before.
As we reach the bank, Pierre jumps out, quickly pulling our canoe up onto the shore. I stay behind for a second as I fish around for my musket, my hands shaking. I rub my sweaty hands against my rough jacket, and then set out after Pierre. A light snowfall has cast itself across the empty forest, covering the remaining shrubbery. Pierre and I walk slowly, our muskets loaded, placed against our hips, our crisp breath circling around each of us. I look down to see a single drop of scarlet red against the blanket of snow. Looking ahead, I see the trail of blood continue, the single drops spread out a good distance apart at first, but then becoming progressively more frequent and larger in size, tainting the perfect white snow.
“Pierre.” He turns to me and immediately sees the lonely trail of blood. He walks over slowly, cautiously, his eyes glued to the trail. Pierre kneels down and tentatively dips his finger in the blood.
“C’est frais, Henri.”
My grip on my musket tightens. We continue walking, and the blood transforms from a series of single drops, to a steady stream across the white canopy. I see the point where the victim had undoubtedly collapsed, where we stand now, and started to pull his way across the snow. The snow is red from his blood, and indented from the weight of his body. It is a frightening sight to behold, and one that makes me sick to look at.
We finally reach the end of the trail of blood, to find the man lying down in a red pool. I hold my breath, and the sole sound is the man reaching for another breath, each one a terrible struggle. We stand there, caught in this horrible silence.
“Putain merde,” is all I can manage. A look of anguish has cast itself over Pierre’s face.
All of a sudden I spring into action, taking off my jacket and tightly bandaging the gaping hole in the man’s chest. I whip out my handkerchief, unrecognizable from its original colour, and feeling his forehead at the same time, wipe the thick drops of blood from his face. The man looks up at me, his eyes transfixed on mine. I see my younger brother who died in the forest on an earlier voyage and am consumed with the idea of saving this man’s life.
“Pierre, viens ici!” I yell. Pierre stands there, unmoving and unresponsive to my plea. “Pierre!” I cry at the top of my lungs. I pick up the man in my arms, and his eyes continue to be focused on my own, glued. Running through the snow, I struggle under the weight of the man draped helplessly over my shoulder. Pierre begins to run after me and in a short while has caught up. We reach the canoe and I lay the man down on the rocky shore.
“Quoi on va faire maintenant, Henri?” Pierre says, his voice calm, sure. “Nous sommes toujours cent kilomètres avant d'atteindre le fort.”
“Nous devons le prendre avec nous.”
“Donc nous pouvons mourir aussi? Il va mourir, mais nous ne devons pas.”
I wonder if he can hear us. I wonder what he would say?
Pierre points to the packs of furs. “J’ai risqué ma vie pour ces fourrures.” I don’t respond. “Henri, est-ce-que tu m’écoutes?”
Now it is I who blocks out the noise as I pull out my knife. Pierre slowly raises his musket in response, placing it on his shoulder. The barrel is bouncing around, as he struggles to steady it. He pulls back the cock, which clicks into place. I stand there. He points it at the man, and then at me, and then at the man, and then at me, going back and forth, debating the scenario carefully in his head.
Boom.
A lone shot rings out, and blood begins to flow.