11th July, evening; A riverside bounty

Can't you just say a rosary or some'at? she wanted to ask, but didn't. He seemed to know much more about these things than she did, and if the answer was really that simple, then he doubtless would not still be kneeling in cold water. Instead she asked timidly, "Do you mind if I look for Kazhig?"

It seemed disrespectful somehow to simply go about her business in the presence of one being punished by God. But she had to find Kazhig. Surely God would understand that?

"No," said Stéphane, admirably keeping his tone neutral.

That would be alright, then? Wouldn't it? Creeping back to her basket, Mathilde began to cast about for the kitten, calling in a soft, sing-song voice which seemed to grow more plaintive with each repetition.

The kitten, on the other hand, having gorged himself on fish was by now sound asleep just beyond the reach of the firelight.

He stayed perfectly still until he was satisfied she had gone. Then, with a sharp exhalation, Stéphane curled himself abruptly forward and buried his head in the shallow water. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then came up for air, spraying water in every direction. The brief dunking left him feeling only slightly less unsettled. And now his hair and stocking hat were both soaked.

What he should do was get up and return to his little camp fire, but with the girl and her kitten still nearby, he was in no hurry for a second meeting with them.

Straining her ears for any sign of Kazhig, Mathilde heard instead what sounded like approaching footsteps. She stopped, going as still and silent as a stone. Sure enough, someone was coming. But there was something else, a name, her name being called. It was a voice she would have known anywhere. "Paol!"

Now was the time to move, if only as far as the bank. Stéphane could hear names being called out and recognised both of them. That meant whatever hope for peace he might have had was lost. It was disastrously obvious now what had happened and he was all too aware that he'd made a complete fool of himself.

For an instant, he considered deserting, but he had learned a lot since Oporto and the one most important thing was never to be alone anywhere more than a pistol shot away from the army. If that. And he did not even have his musket.

Sighing, Stéphane sat down heavily onto the uneven river bank, his saturated shoes barely an inch above the edge of the water. He was wet and swiftly growing cold, but he found that he didn't care. Discomfort was a small enough thing next to the knowledge that he had been driven to terrified flight by a girl.

"Rozennig!" he called back happily. Now she could see the tall, familiar figure crossing the strand towards her, and she ran to him, burying her face in his coat.

"Little one?"

Strong arms wrapped around her -- she was safe -- and she found herself blurting out the whole sorry mess, beginning and ending with -- and frequently returning to -- the loss of the kitten.

He remained sitting only for a minute or two before again shifting, back onto his knees. It was clear he had erred, though he was not sure in what ways, and that meant praying to be forgiven. This wasn't something he did often and perhaps that might be part of why he was now in disgrace, as he saw it.

What would Thérèse think of him, were she to see him now?

Paol listened to the distressed babble with mounting confusion and unease. He'd been glad, at first, to find her well, but now he wasn't so sure that was the case; she was soaked to the skin and her voice was edged with tears. "Easy, little one," he soothed. "Slow down. Who was out here?"

"I dunno... The man, the cross one with the red hat."

Proulx. Paol looked around, noticing the fire properly for the first time, noticing also that there was no one beside it. "Do you know where he is now?"

Mathilde pulled away, turning back towards the water. "He's right--oh. He was kneeling in the water just a moment ago."

"What?"

"He said God was punishing him for something. He must not be punishing him anymore."

She spoke almost casually, but Paol felt only a sick sense of foreboding.

"Mathilde, he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. Well... no. He threw something at me, but it didn't hit me. I just fell over."

"And he didn't..." he faltered, unsure how to ask without making things worse, "He didn't... lay hands on you did he?"

"No..." she answered, though there was a touch of uncertainty in her voice now. "Paol, what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

Christ. "No, no you ain't done nothing wrong. I'm sorry. Don't -- Here," he added suddenly, "You're soaked through. Let's get you over ot the fire, aye?"

"But won't he be cross?"

Just let him try. "Nah, he won't mind. C'mon,."

A few moments later she was huddled in front of the small blaze, Paol's coat round her shoulders. There was a fish roasting above it. It smelled impossibly good and Mathilde could not help her mouth watering. She had not realized until now how hungry she was, but a sound from the darkness just beyond the firelight immediately dispelled any such thoughts: a faint, trilling mew.

"Kazhig!" she gasped, jumping to her feet. And sure enough, there he was, only a few steps away, his belly round and full of fish. "Ah! Wicked little thing!" she chided, all the while nuzzling her face against his and kissing his head.

Her smile as she at back down at the fire almost convinced him that all was truly well. She looked so happy and relieved that he couldn't help but smile back. But the deep sense of unease refused to leave him.

"Mathilde," he asked again after a moment, "You really aren't hurt? You swear?"

She looked at him strangely. "Yes."

He nodded, forcing a smile, "Wait here a minute, alright?"

The smile vanished from Mathilde's face and her eyes widened in sudden distress. "No, please. I'm sorry! It was my fault. I just -- I didn't understand and I was afraid and he was acting so strangely... But nothing happened. Please don't be angry!"

"Easy, little one. No one's angry. I just want to see if he's still around, is all. Alright?"

She gave him a mournful -- and not a little distrustful -- frown, but nodded.

Reaching over, he tucked the coat round her shoulders once more and pushed to his feet, moving a short distance away from the fire. Even in the darkness he thought he could make out a trail heading towards the bank. He followed it. Despite her reassurances, Mathilde's last words had only heightened his suspicions -- of what might have happened, if not of what had actually occurred.

"Proulx?"

Stéphane heard his name but, at first, did not respond. He had sank back onto his haunches, still mostly kneeling, and his gaze was fixed on a point well away across the river. With his rational mind now fully returned, he only felt tired. Drained, clumsy, and stupid. None of these were things he was accustomed to feeling, which made it all that much worse.

He was properly cold now as well, he realised. His shoes, trousers, and half his coat were soaked, as was his hat. The sodden clothes clung uncomfortably to him and his long plait, also wet, stuck awkwardly to his coat and the back of his neck. What he should do was go back to his fire, but this newcomer had come from that direction, which suggested there were others, the girl most likely, at the fire. It was thus not a place he could retreat to warm himself again.

"What?" Stéphane said presently, heaving the word out more as a sigh than a question.

Paol stopped. It was not quite the surly response he would have expected, but then he wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting, and finding Proulx skulking in the dark was less than reassuring. A few paces closed the distance between them.

"You want to tell me what the hell's goin' on?"

That could be answered in a couple of ways. At least. It might be best to spare Kerjean - and himself - the long version. Thus, with a shrug, Stéphane simply said, "God wished for me to be afraid, and I was."

What? For a moment Paol simply stared at Proulx, left entirely at a loss by the response. That Mathilde had been afraid of Proulx was clear enough, but Proulx afraid? of And, possibly more strange still, admitting to it, and to Paol.

"Wh-- afraid of what?" he asked carefully. And what, demanded suspicion, disentangling itself from confusion, had he done that God wanted him punished for?

"Les Lavandières."

Admitting it made him feel as though he was inviting those demons to visit, this time for real, and he hastily crossed himself.

"Les Lav-- ar gannerez-noz?" he asked in bewilderment not unmixed with fear. And then suddenly recalling something. "Mathilde?" Hadn't she said something about washing?

After a short pause, Stéphane nodded, albeit somewhat jerkily. "Aye." It helped a little that Kerjean appeared to understand. This evening had been bad enough without adding the need to explain himself more fully. He was not sure he could do that in any way that would make sense to anyone except himself.

He exhaled a curse, suddenly so relieved he could have sagged to the ground beside Proulx. "I thought--" Flushing, he broke off, not a little ashamed of his suspicions. "Nevermind. Guess it's been a night for misunderstandings."

Paol jerked his head back towards the fire. "C'mon."

Any other time, Stéphane might have demanded to know the rest of the interrupted sentence, to be sure no slight had been meant, but now he could not bring himself to care. His mind was too busy grappling with the reasons for his recent actions and the likely consequences for them.

It took a moment, therefore, for him to realise he had been invited back to his own camp fire. Blinking, he glanced up, either unable or unwilling to conceal his confusion. "Back there?"

Paol held out a hand. "Aye."

He hesitated for a long moment before reaching up to accept the offered hand. Being on his feet again was a relief, however, as was the thought that it might be safe to go back to the fireside. His damp clothes needed drying out - and his fish, Stéphane remembered. They'd be ruined now. A shame.

"There will not be trouble?" Or any more trouble, really. There had been enough of that this evening and he held himself responsible for causing it in the first place.

"Trouble? No." He started to move back towards the fire, adding awkwardly, "Her mother scared the flaming hell outta me that way once."

There was a second figure at the campfire now and, recognizing the familiar outline, Paol grinned. "Rosy!"

Well, that helped a little. Stéphane trailed wordlessly after Kerjean, not having anything to say. He halted just outside the firelight, however, when he realised there was another newcomer present. Uncertainty kept him where he was; in his present mood, he was not sure he really cared for this much company.

~



Jérémie looked up, momentarily taking his attention away from the two kittens he had been teasing with a piece of string. "Hullo Paol," he greeted and promptly followed that with "Ow, little bugger!" when Kazhig latched onto his fingers with sharp little claws in his zeal to catch the string. The fleeting sting was a welcome respite to the throbbing ache in his head, though, so he didn't mind it.

It was a moment before he realized Proulx was no longer following, and he half turned to see what was wrong. The light thrown by the fire was weak, but it was enough to see how heavily the other man's clothing was hanging. "Christ, you're soaking. Sit down and dry off."

A few more steps brought him to the small fire and he dropped down opposite Jeremie and Mathilde. All quiet tonight? It was what he had meant to ask, but the discolored mark on Blanchard's face stopped him cold. He had to check himself from plunging immediately in to the next question; he could not be as direct as he would have liked with Mathilde and Proulx there.

"What's been goin' on?" He managed to keep the concern out of his voice, but not out of his face.