Daughters of the Lake(31)

Long, long ago, on the shores of the greatest inland sea, lived a beautiful girl, the daughter of a French Canadian fur trapper and his young native bride. Her name was Geneviève, after the trapper’s own mother, and with her jet-black hair and shining, deep-blue eyes, she was considered to be the most beautiful girl in their village, not only for her physical beauty but also for her disposition. Life was not easy in that time and place—harsh winds blew off the lake year-round, and snow piled up in the winters, when food was scarce. People worked hard to survive. Yet Geneviève was a sunny little girl, always smiling and laughing, never cross or angry. She brought great joy to her parents—she was the apple of her father’s eye—and to her entire village as well.

As she grew older, Geneviève begged to accompany her father on his trapping trips. She missed him when he was away for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. She wanted to see the world, or at least her corner of it, and she longed to sit in her father’s sleek and sturdy canoe as he paddled across the glistening water. But it was the one thing he denied her.

“You are too small yet,” he would say. “It’s too dangerous for a little one out on the big water. And the land is no better. Bears, Geneviève. Mountain lions!”

She would always accept his denials with good grace and humor, throwing her arms around him and saying, “Maybe next year, Papa.”

“Next year” finally came. Geneviève had grown into a young woman and was being pursued by all the young men in the village. Evening after evening, one or another of them would appear at their door, wanting Geneviève to sit on the porch with them or accompany them on a stroll. Her father grew increasingly worried by this—he thought his girl was much too young for such things—and one evening he spoke to her mother in hushed tones. “I must travel to Wharton, a week’s paddle down the shoreline, to meet with the fur trader there. I know of friendly outposts all along the route with people who will be happy to take us in. Perhaps getting the girl away from here for a time will quiet things down.”

“I know she’ll be safe in your care,” her mother said, and it was decided. The next morning, they set off.

Geneviève sat in the front of her father’s canoe, taking in the water’s fresh scent. She loved how it sparkled as the sun hit its surface, and how the shoreline changed from sandy to rocky to dense woods as they paddled along. She dragged her hand in the cool water and looked at her reflection over the side of the canoe. After several days of travel, they arrived in Wharton, where they sought out the local fur trader, who offered them accommodations in his home. As her father conducted business with the man, Geneviève soaked in a hot bath prepared for her by the fur trader’s wife, who understood that a girl would enjoy such an indulgence after a long trip. Then Geneviève settled into the soft featherbed in her room and fell immediately to sleep, not realizing that her father had not returned.

Later that night, she felt someone shaking her awake. “Get up, my dear,” the wife of the fur trader said to her. “Something has happened. It’s your father. You must come. Quickly.”

She led Geneviève down the stairs to the drawing room, where her father lay sprawled on the floor. A man wearing a black suit knelt over him, and when the man looked into Geneviève’s stricken face, he shook his head, his mouth a thin line.

“Papa!” she cried and fell at her father’s side. “Wake up!” But she knew from the coldness of his skin that he was no longer there.

“He collapsed as we were discussing business,” said the fur trader, running one hand through his hair. “At least you can be comforted by the swiftness of his death, my dear. He did not suffer.”

“But—” Geneviève searched each of their faces in turn. “That’s impossible! We traveled so far to get here . . . He just . . .” But her words were sucked down into an eddy of grief.

“Say your goodbyes, child,” the fur trader’s wife told her. “The undertaker and his men are here now to take him away.”

Geneviève watched, both hands over her mouth, as the men brought a pine coffin into the house through the front door. She watched as they placed her father inside and winced as they closed the lid. And she watched as they began to walk out the door, her father’s coffin on their shoulders.

“This is a mistake,” she murmured, following the men out the door, crying, “Papa! Papa!”

But they put him into their wagon, and the horses clopped off down the street. They turned the corner and were gone. She was alone.

“Come inside, girl!” the fur trader’s wife called to her.

But Geneviève ran into the night, blinded by fear and panic and grief. She had no idea where she was going until she found herself at the water’s edge. There, she fell to her knees and wept for her father and for herself. How could she possibly get home now? Would she ever return to her mother or to the village she loved? What would become of her?

The sheer force of Geneviève’s wail awakened a sleeping spirit, the spirit of the lake itself. What was making this incredible racket? He took a quick breath in when he saw it was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, the same girl that he had watched crossing the lake for the past several days, delighting at the way the sun was glinting on the water. It was the same girl who had smiled so sweetly as she had trailed her hand along the water’s surface while the canoe had skimmed its way toward its destination. The same girl who had marveled aloud at the vastness of the lake, its grandeur, its majesty. Her words of wonder at the lake’s beauty had sounded like a prayer to the spirit of the lake, and he had let them wash over him like a wave. Not many people said them anymore.