The Emerald Key - By Christopher Dinsdale Page 0,33
to the plots of vegetables behind their homes looked up and smiled at her as she passed, some even shared a comment or two with her in a language Jamie did not understand. Those, however, who glanced at Jamie, eyed him with silent suspicion. He couldn’t blame them. Hadn’t he eyed the English back in Ireland with the same prejudiced stare? European strangers had taken their land and inflicted them with disease. It was Ireland all over again, wasn’t it? What other welcome could he possibly expect? All he could do was nod a humble thank-you in French.
Soon, they left the village and trees once again curtained the sky above the dirt road. Tutuyak leaned forward and whispered something to Colin, then she suddenly whooped and kicked Dreamer in the ribs. The stallion launched into a blurring gallop. Jamie was nearly thrown from the saddle as Falcon lowered her head and launched herself forward to keep pace. Terrified, Jamie did everything in his power to keep from falling off the galloping mare. Breathing hard, the two horses flew through the emerald tunnel of vegetation. It slowly dawned on Jamie that there was a recognizable rhythm to the horse’s gallop. His legs started to match the bouncing by raising himself up in the stirrups with each beat of the hooves. He hunched his shoulders like Tutuyak and leaned forward. The wind whistled past his cheeks. Jamie could see why the horse was named Falcon. He felt as if he were flying low to the ground like an iron ball just launched from a cannon. For just a moment, he forgot all of his troubles, tilted back his head, and enjoyed the ride.
They galloped the horses hard until the forest finally began to thin. Tutuyak reined in Dreamer and the snorting horses slowed once again to a bouncy trot. Jamie couldn’t stop grinning. He gave Falcon a good pat on her sweaty neck.
“Thanks for the ride of a lifetime, girl.”
Jamie took a deep breath to clear his head then took in his new surroundings. On either side of the path, small plots of land had been hacked out of the pristine forest. Tiny one-room log cabins had been erected in a corner of each plot. Summer gardens were growing in the tilled fields. Jamie had no doubt that these were newly arrived settlers. The homes resembled the tiny farmhouses that littered the Irish countryside, except they were made of wood instead of sod or stone.
Tutuyak pulled up next to Jamie. Colin, sitting in her lap, was smiling from ear to ear. Jamie reached over and poked him.
“I take it you enjoyed the galloping.”
“Can we do that again, Tutuyak?’ Colin asked, looking up. Jamie translated.
“The horses need a rest now,” she explained. “And the road will get busier as we get closer to Quebec. Sorry, Colin. No more galloping.”
They passed several more farms. These were larger and more established. Women were in the field, either pulling out weeds or planting late seeds. Men were busy splitting wood for the coming winter. As they passed, some of them stopped their work to stare at them as they trotted past.
“Why are they staring at us?” asked Jamie.
“Because we are riding together,” she explained. “An Irish man and a Native woman are rarely seen together. There is a tradition of French men and Native women marrying, especially further north along the trading routes. Their descendants are called Métis. But you are obviously Irish, and I have an Irish child on my lap. They are trying to understand why we are together.”
“Do they think we are married?” asked Jamie.
Tutuyak looked to him, questioningly. “Possibly. Why? Does that bother you?”
He smiled. “Actually, I barely know you, but from what I’ve experienced so far, you’re the first woman I’ve ever met that I’d consider marrying.”
Surprised, she blushed, then smiled. “Sorry, Jamie. You’re too young for me … and I’m not leaving Canada to live a life with you in Ireland.”
At the next farm, Jamie waved and shouted at the staring woodchopper, “Bonjour! Comment allez-vous? Isn’t my wife beautiful?”
Confused, the farmer shook his head and went back to work.
She shoved him, laughing. “Stop it! They know me.”
Several children were working with a dark-haired woman in the next field. The children all had flaming red hair and freckles.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say those kids were Irish.”
“They are,” she confirmed.
“But I read that once the Irish arrive in Canada, most settlers move either to Canada West or travel south to