To his delight, Godfrey found them comfortable and versatile.
They're definitely suited for the purpose.
When the snow finally came, he'd be ready.
Chapter Sixteen
The following Sunday. The Leduc's and the Lapalme's are enjoying their usual post-Mass brunch. Antonia Leduc has just expressed her disgust at an editorial she'd read that lambasted federal and provincial governments for funding Catholic schools.
"Well, I just don't think it's anyone's business but our own as to how we want our children educated," Antonia huffed.
"It's just an editorial," Diana countered. "Some Orangemen from Ontario who just want to stir up trouble. Probably haven't set foot in Alberta."
"No! They probably haven't! And that's what makes me so angry!"
"Antonia..."
"No, Isaac! We haven't even begun building the new school yet and already the damned square heads are making trouble! Catholics have a right to a Catholic school."
Isaac looked at his wife. "Says who?"
"Says our government!" Antonia seethed, her cheeks growing redder and her eyes becoming more fierce by the minute.
"Really?" asked Godfrey with genuine surprise.
"Yes, really," said Henri, answering for Antonia as he sawed off a piece of his steak and popped it into his mouth. "The government even provides funding to Catholic schools - if you can believe that - "
"I can't."
Henri shrugged. "Well, they do. And that's what all the fuss is about."
"What's the fuss?"
"Those bloody Orangemen in Ontario - and they've got a lodge here now too - did you see, Diana? Did you see that in the paper? They've got a lodge in Edmonton now! The nerve!"
"Alright, Antonia..."
"And those square heads have the gall to say that Catholic schools are a waste of their tax dollars."
"Antonia..."
"I say, what about our tax dollars!? We pay for their factories and their lumber mills and their public works projects and they...they...they can't even give us a school!"
"We're going to get our school, Antonia," said Henri gently. "Another year or two and we'll have it. We just have to be patient. These things take time. Especially in a new province."
"Yes, but the nerve, Henri! The audacity of those ignorant, Protestant - "
"Alright, alright," said Diana, interrupting her friend, "let's discuss something else, shall we? Godfrey, your English really has been improving. I know last weekend you had mentioned - "
"And we pay more in taxes than they do, I'll bet!" Antonia screeched. "Isaac. What did we pay in taxes last year? More than a thousand dollars, wasn't it?"
Godfrey glanced at his older brother, who coughed uncomfortably.
"It was about that, yes..."
"Well? And those scumbags in Toronto - "
"Alright, the food's getting cold!" Diana implored, rapping a spoon against the salad bowl.
"You know, Antonia," said Henri, ignoring his wife's efforts to steer the conversation to smoother ground, "seventy years ago, before eighteen sixty three, having a Catholic school in a rural area like this would have been practicaly impossible -"
"Please, can we eat!?"
" - because there had to be twelve Catholic families residing within three miles of the school house in order for it to receive government funding. Those were the rules prior to the Scott Act. And that rule applied, oddly enough, to Catholics living in both urban and rural areas. Such a rule wouldn't have been a problem anywhere in Quebec - the population's ninety five percent Catholic - but out here...phew...you'd be hard pressed to find twelve Catholic families in a three mile radius. Even with all the Poles and Ukies included."
"Oh, heavens, please stop calling them Ukies, Henri. They don't like that."
"Pass the salt, would you?"
"I still don't know why we haven't already got a Catholic school here," Antonia muttered. "Isn't it time we got ourselves a Catholic school? There's got to be at least two hundred Catholic kids in the County and yet, it's still just Battle Heights."
Godfrey glanced warily at Diana. She looked thoroughly exhausted as she dished up Henri's plate.
"I don't know," said Henri, as he took his plate, piled high with a second helping of potatoes, from his wife, "if you ask me, there isn't much point to having a Catholic school in Wainwright if it isn't French as well."
"How do you mean?" asked Antonia, bewildered.
Henri looked at her. "Well, think about it. I see French kids speaking English in town with their friends because their friends speak German or Ukrainian or whatever."
"So?"
Henri shook some pepper onto his potatoes. "Well, they speak English at school. They speak English at the store. It's English in the newspaper, it's English on the radio - once our generation is gone, who's going to keep the language alive? If we have a Catholic school where French is the language of instruction - "
Antonia rolled her eyes. "That's never going to happen, Henri."
"And why not? We have our own church."
"That's different. School - parents want their kids to speak the language of the land. And English, not French, is the language spoken in these parts."
"If we let it be that way," Henri countered, his tone defiant. "Schools where they speak French in the classroom. Schools where the teachers speak French - there are certainly enough new graduates back home to fill those teaching positions. Heck, my younger cousin Adelaide just graduated last year from teacher's college. She could come out."
The conviction with which Henri Lapalme spoke stirred Godfrey to murmur his agreement. Even Antonia seemed to come on board.
"I suppose...in a way...you make a good argument there, Henri."
Henri shrugged as he speared a carrot with his fork. "I'm just saying."
"I agree completely," said Godfrey, feeling somewhat left out of the conversation.
"Excellent," said Diana cheerily, "so we're all agreed then. Can we please eat in peace, now?"
Polite chatter followed the passionate debate - more for Diana's sake than anything else. Wine was sipped, the meal was savoured, and when all stomachs had been filled to content, the friends moved to the living room where they lounged until it was time for everyone to go home.
Chapter Seventeen
Snow. White. Cold. Reflective. Spindly, skeletal trees powdered like fancy desserts. The river, no longer blue, but a pale grey. Miles and miles of farm land - a checkerboard of white. The sky, clear. Hardly a cloud in sight. In town, people hurry to and fro - it's too cold to dawdle. They emerge from the pharmacy, the livery, and the post office with rosy cheeks and chapped lips. Clothed in toques and scarves and heavy mitts, children shriek with eager delight as friends engage them in a snowball fight. Back at home, nice and warm. Feet by the stove and hot cocoa in hand, families gather together. Winter's here and so's the cold weather.
"That's not too bad," Leo mused as Godfrey crossed the snow covered space in front of him, his snowshoes strapped tightly to his boots. "Still. Don't see the need. The sled'll get me where I need to go."
Godfrey shrugged. "You never know. They might be good to have someday."
Chapter Eighteen
Two weeks later a winter storm walloped Wainwright, dumping three feet of snow on the town, and the surrounding hamlets and villages, in just twenty four hours.
Gazing out the window at the winter wonderland, the frosted pane numbing his nose and fogging up because of his breath, Godfrey was itching to get out. Stuck inside the entire time, he'd passed the hours counting spots on the wall, studying English, and eating more than a man's fair share of eggs and bacon.
But now, as the snow seemed to stop and the sky seemed to clear, he resolved to get some air.
He dressed quickly, taking care to bundle up, and once he'd finished, took up his snowshoes from their resting place beside the door. Then, lashing the leather laces to his boots until the snowshoes were nice and tight, he
stamped his feet and stepped outside.
Instantly hit by a cold, arctic blast, Godfrey pulled his toque down further over his ears before setting off across the field.
The snow was dense and powdery - perfect for snowshoeing - and the ease with which he was able to walk impressed him.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
He crossed the field in record time and when he came to the fence that bordered his property, he casually stepped rigt over it, the snow being high enough for the purpose.
Stepping down into the ditch before climbing the embankment, Godfrey made it onto the road. With the entire landscape looking the same under three feet of snow, he figured it best to stick to the road as this would keep him from getting lost.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Godfrey enjoyed the sensation of walking on snow.
Surely if it were possible to walk on clouds, it would be like this...
An ivory-white hare, barely visible against the snow, darted across his path. This caused him to jump and he laughed at his fear as the long-legged rodent zigzagged away, bounding left and right until it disappeared out of sight.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
As he walked, Godfrey determined that being outdoors, in the fresh air, was decidedly better than being cooped up inside and he was happy he'd chosen to get a pair of snowshoes.
Smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
The young man paused and inhaled deeply, rotating his arms twice in each direction to loosen his shoulders. The cold was invigorating, the fresh air inspiring.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Godfrey walked for nearly an hour before he decided it was time to turn around. The sun, still faint behind a dense mass of grey cloud, was slowly sinking on the horizon and it would soon be dark.
Taking one last look at the snowy, frozen landscape - mystical and celestial under the dying throes of the setting sun - Godfrey turned and headed back in the direction from which he had come.
Smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Several minutes later, it began to snow. The flakes were slow and teasing at first, drifting slowly to the ground like leaves from a tree. But after another minute, the flakes became heavier and began to fall faster.
This isn't good.
Sopping wet flakes, the size of fifty cent coins, slapped him the face. He brushed them from his nose and licked the damp from his gloves, carefully so as to avoid the dirt.
Refreshing. Cool and refreshing. A welcome sensation for his dry tongue and chapped lips.
And then, suddenly, as though some unseen giant released a chestful of air in his direction, the snow began to swirl. Churning, blowing, dizzying snow. He felt like he was stuck in a snow globe being shook by a toddler.
Damn it.
Visibility was virtually nil now - he couldn't see more than ten feet past his nose - whether left or right or straight ahead.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
He had to get a move on.
Godfrey glanced downwards at the tracks left by his snowshoes earlier. They were still there - he could follow them to get back. Though, with the snow falling so fast now...
His pace quickened as the precariousness of his situation dawned on him.
No food. No water. Miles from home.
His eyes strained to see his tracks now - they were half covered and would be completely invisible in a matter of minutes. Gone. Erased. Like him if he didn't get home soon.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
How had he gotten himself into this mess? More importantly, why? Why couldn't he have just stayed inside!? He could be seated by the stove right now, warm and toasty, with a mug of rosehip tea in one hand and a magazine in the other. Instead, he was stuck this cruel, aftershock of a snowstorm.
Why, why, why? Stupid!
Pull yourself together man! You'll be alright. Just keep going straight. One foot in front of the other.
He wiped the wet snow from his face, the wool from his gloves reacting with the moisture to leave his cheeks and forehead feeling burnt and itchy.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Is this how it's going to be? What a way to go. Caught in a blizzard.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Didn't they tell you, Godfrey? Didn't they tell you to never go out in a storm?
It was calm and sunny when I set out!
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
Jesus, Godfrey. You're in for it now, boy.
He stopped to catch his breath.
Maybe it'll stop soon.
Swirling snow all around. Walls of white on all sides, an open air death chamber.
Not likely.
What would they think when they found him? Found his frozen corpse.
He could hear them now.
"Can you believe that dumb greenhorn? Went out in a blizzard like some city slicker."
"Poor fellow. Just wasn't cut out to be a farmer."
He thought of his mother. How would she take it?
Terribly of course...get those thoughts out of your head! Or you definitely won't make it!
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
He resumed walking, his legs heavy and cased in wet snow.
His thoughts turned to Clément Lalonde, a former classmate. They'd graduated from their one room school house together. Grade eight. Just thirteen years old, the winter following, he and his father had gotten trapped in a blizzard near Ormstown. Both had perished and this had left Madame Lalonde permanently distraught and mournful.
One, two, three.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
One foot in front of the other.
One, two, three.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
Come on! You can do this!
But how would he know when to turn off the road? Was he even still on the road?
His house was half a mile in from the road. Would he be able to tell when he'd reached his farm with all this blinding, blowing snow mucking things up?
He should have left a lamp on and put it in the window.
But you didn't think of that, did you Godfrey?
He shut his eyes against the heavy, wet flakes of snow assaulting his face.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
And the fire he'd left burning in the stove. Embers. They'd be completely burned out by now.
There'll be no smoke from the chimney.
No smoke. No light. Nothing to guide him.
Idiot!
Not that he'd have been able to see anything anyway, his visibility having been reduced even further over the course of the past quarter hour so that he could barely see three feet ahead.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He was going to die. Thirty. Fifty. A hundred yards from his house. Caught in a storm like some city slicker...
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
Please, God...
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
He wasn't sure how far he'd gone. He'd walked at least three miles when he'd set out...surely he hadn't walked three miles back by now? There was no way to tell.
The wind picked up in that moment and Godfrey had to turn his head to avoid the worst of the cold blast. The previously soft and wet flakes gradually became hard, cutting pieces of glass. Sleet-like snow that pierced the exposed flesh of his forehead. A thousand tiny pin pricks.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
He staggered forwards, one foot in front of the other.
Come on.
His heart pounded in his chest. He drew in lungfuls of air, coughing when the cold shocked his lungs.
On and on he went. Trudging forwards, shoulder against the wind, blinding snow lashing at him all the while.
&nb
sp; I'm not going to make it...
This can't be...
This can't be how I die...
It was difficult to open his eyes - the cutting snow blowing directly into his face. He stopped and glanced down at himself.
Covered in snow. From head to toe.
He could hardly make out his feet. Big white, frozen blocks, cased in heavy snow.
His mouth was dry. He'd not given any thought to bringing water. He licked a snowflake from his lips.
Well, that's something at least.
Huge snowdrifts had begun to take shape. Pearl-white dunes reminding him of his hostile environment.
The blowing, howling wind was a further reminder, leaving him with little else to think about.
This is it. I'm sorry, maman.
Would they send his body back to St. Timothée or would they bury him here?
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
He couldn't be sure which direction he was walking in now.
Was he still on the road? Or had he wandered into a field?
Fields were bordered by fences - usually. But he hadn't walked into a fence. Or, if he had, the three feet of snow might have meant he walked right over it as he'd done earlier.
Stupid...
He was now thoroughly and completely disoriented.
This is it.
He strained his eyes against the blowing snow. It was still impossible to see anything beyond a few feet.
Would it hurt? Or would he just lie down and fall asleep and not wake up?
Of all the ways he'd ever pictured himself dying, he'd never imagined this.
Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh.
This is it.
Should he say a prayer to St. Jude? Such was the remedy for desperate cases like his. And there were stories. Many stories. From back home. When the saints had, in fact, answered prayers.
Monsieur Boutin, laid up in bed for two weeks with terrible pain and swelling in his legs. Up and walking an hour after Madame Boutin had said a prayer to St. Anthony. Old Madame Richard - her daughter, feverish and dying. A prayer to St. Theresa and the next day young Sophie was miraculously cured.
The sky. Grey and black, dotted with a million specks of white. That's all he could see now.
If I'd just stayed inside!
Smoosh, smoosh. Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh.
His legs were getting heavier. He couldn't walk as fast. He wasn't sweating anymore - but shivering now - the dampness of his skin adding to the icy chill coursing through him.
It's got to be left here. Turn left here. Oh, boy, if this isn't it...