Blood Brothers in Louisbourg Read Online Free PDF Page B

said Two-feathers.
    â€œNo!” they screamed. “This is good drink! This is very good drink! Who do you think you are, taking our drink away? Give it back. This is ours. Who are you?”
    â€œI am Mi’kmaq,” said Two-feathers. “Like you.”
    â€œNo!” said an older warrior. “You are not Mi’kmaq. You are Métis. Your father is a Frenchman. I see it in your face. Your blue eyes.”
    â€œI am looking for my father,” said Two-feathers. “That is why I have come.”
    The men started to laugh. “You are looking for your father? Amongst the French? You will have to look at many men, my son. Perhaps you will find that you have many fathers.”
    They laughed harder. Two-feathers felt insulted but did not want to show it. He had never seen Mi’kmaq behave this way. He felt embarrassed for them and wanted to leave.
    â€œAh, come and have a drink with us, young warrior. Come and taste the French drink. You will like it. Come! Come and drink with us!”
    â€œNo!” said Two-feathers. “I will not drink that poison. I will leave now. I wish you many safe days of travel and many blessings.”
    â€œBut we are not going anywhere! Come! Come and drink with us!”
    Two-feathers waved respectfully and walked away. He was upset and confused. He had never seen Mi’kmaq warriors act this way before. They had called him “Métis,” which meant “mixed blood.” It was true; he was of mixed blood. But no Mi’kmaq had ever said that to his face before. No one had ever suggested he didn’t belong. It was a disturbing thought. If he didn’t belong with the Mi’kmaq, with whom did he belong? It surely wasn’t the bluecoats.
    He crossed a hill and picked up the taste of salt in the air. Climbing to the top of a tree, he saw the great water spread out at the base of the sky. In the distance were little huts here and there with fires burning. More distantly, jutting into the great water was the bluecoats’ village. From a distance it didn’t seem so impressive, but what was impressive was how much of the woods had been consumed. Fields of stumps spread out as far as he could see and beyond. New, fledgling trees had sprouted. From field to field he could judge the age of the cutting by the height of the new trees. The bluecoats had been cutting trees for twice his age.
    To the right, closest to the great water, was a swamp where no trees grew at all. This would be the least desirable approach to the village. No one would ever camp there. This was the way he would go.

Chapter Seven
    S he sat stiffly, held the bow too tightly and cradled the violoncello so awkwardly between her knees she looked like she was trying to climb a tree. Yet she put her heart and soul into playing a little song by an old French master that might have sounded pleasant if the bow had been tightened enough, rosined enough and she didn’t pull it crookedly across the strings so that the tone was dry and shallow, like the breathing of a dying invalid. She was trying so hard. How on earth she had managed to stay sane at Louisbourg was beyond me. She had courage.
    â€œIt makes me feel happy when I play,” she said nervously, “but I’m not very good at it.”
    I smiled politely. “You’re not so bad. Would you mind if I tried it?”
    â€œPlease! I would love to hear what it is supposed to sound like.”
    I picked up the violoncello. It was light, delicate and designed like a perfect pear. I saw from the inscription inside the belly that it had been made by one of the best craftsmen in Paris. I tuned it, tightened the bow, rosined it, took a seat opposite her and held the instrument between my knees. The memory of my father throwing my own violoncello into the sea flooded me as I shut my eyes and pulled the bow across the strings. It sang! Sound emerged from its belly and echoed around the room like a booming