Hold Tight the Thread by Jane Kirkpatrick

Author:Jane Kirkpatrick [Kirkpatrick, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-56873-1
Publisher: The Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2004-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

The long-faced Sister wiped crumbs from her chin. “Your daughter is a fine baker,” she said as she sat next to Marie. Marie nodded. “I’m Sister Celeste,” she said. “And there is no upper age to the school. Someone who has lived as many years as you may still attend.” She crossed her hands in her lap. Such calm hands. Such a peaceful voice. “I confess,” she said. Marie looked up at the word. “Oh no, not like that.” Sister Celeste smiled. “I confess to being a little nervous about meeting you. I so want to hear your version of the Hunt journey. I have read some portions, including what the American named Irving wrote of it. But to hear your words…to have you write them down for others, this would be a true gift to leave behind.”

“This Irving wasn’t there,” Marie said. “How could he write of it?”

“Oui. He reads things written by Hunt and Franchere, a Company clerk who published his report in France years before. Irving reads Mackenzie and Alexander Ross’s journals, too. He reads his own ideas, from a distance of people and years, but writers still find truths there. And readers, too, when we are given the story later. It is a fine gift to read of someone we know. Finer still to meet you.”

“Those men all wrote about mother?” Baptiste asked. He stood beside his mother now, one of Marianne’s cups dwarfed in his wide hand.

“You are in the story too,” Sister Celeste said. “Two boys came with Hunt, Irving says. You’re one of those, oui?”

“It speaks well that a mother is still tended by her sons as she grows older,” a wrinkled-face Sister said. She pulled a stool closer to where Marie sat. “Does your other son live near too?”

A simple question she couldn’t answer. Marie stared at the dust at the bottom of the Sister’s hems. They were all dusty. Long dresses of cloth gathered up dust in this country.

“Baptiste’s boys will go to the school too, Mother,” Marianne said then, reaching to touch her mothers arm. Marianne spoke fast, and her cheeks had red spots on them, Marie noticed when she looked up.

“You come, Kasa. You come,” Denise said.

“I gather a crowd,” Marie said.

“Its always been so,” Jean told her, and he laughed. “They want to hear what you have to say.”

A femme. Who would want to hear a woman’s story, even if she could write it down?

“Its so far,” Marie said. “A long ride from home.” She looked at Jean.

“You’ll be the same age next year at this time whether you go to school or not,” he said. “Why not live doing something you told your granddaughter you would do one day, eh? Learn to read.”

“I read,” she said. “I read the seasons and the Lake and—”

“In English and French,” Marianne said. “There are tests, lessons to memorize, and—”

“Keep talking, and she’ll be too frightened to go to school,” Francois said. “I’m getting that way.”

Marie’s head felt light, and she took in a deep breath, glad she wore leather that let her breathe deeply.

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