Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

I felt a little sick, but I clutched the Bible to my chest and smiled at them.

‘ Oui ,’ I said simply. ‘ Oui .’

The mountains were the most obvious difference. Isabelle gazed at the surrounding slopes; the bare slice of rock near the summit looked as if it might tumble down at any moment. The trees were foreign, bunched together like moss, allowing here and there a bright flash of meadow.

The Cevenol mountains are like a woman's belly, she thought. These mountains of the Jura are like her shoulders. Sharper, more defined, less welcoming. My life will be different in mountains like these. She shivered.

They were standing by a river at the edge of Moutier, part of a group travelling from Geneva in search of a place to settle. Isabelle wanted to beg them not to stop here, to keep going until they found a gentler home. No one else shared her uneasiness. Etienne and two other men left them by the river and went to the village inn to ask about work.

The river running through the valley was small and dark and lined with silver birches. Except for the trees, the Birse was not so different from the Tarn, but looked unfriendly. Though low now, it would triple in size in the spring. While the adults debated, the children ran down to the water, Petit Jean and Marie dipping their hands in it while Jacob crouched by the edge, staring at the pebbles on the bottom. He reached in carefully and pulled out a black stone in the shape of a lopsided heart, holding it up between two fingers for them to see.

– Eh, bravo, mon petit! shouted Gaspard, a jovial man blinded in one eye. He and his daughter, Pascale, had run an inn in Lyons and escaped with a cart of food they shared with anyone who needed it. The Tourniers met them on the road from Geneva when their chestnuts were gone and they had only enough potatoes to last another day. Gaspard and Pascale fed them, refusing all thanks or offers of repayment.

– God wills it, Gaspard said, and laughed as if he had just told a joke. Pascale simply smiled, reminding Isabelle of Susanne, with her quiet face and gentle ways.

The men came back from the inn, a puzzled look on Etienne's face, his eyes wide and wild without lashes or brows to anchor them.

– There is no Duc de l'Aigle here, he said, shaking his head. No estate to lease land from or work for.

– Who do they work for? Isabelle demanded.

– Themselves. He sounded dubious. Some of the farmers need help with their hemp crop. We could stay for a time.

– What's hemp, Papa? Petit Jean asked.

Etienne shrugged.

He doesn't want to admit he doesn't know, Isabelle thought.

They stopped in Moutier. In the time left before the snow came, the Tourniers were hired by one farmer after another. On the first day they were led into a field of hemp that they were to cut and leave to dry. They stared at the tough, fibrous plants as tall as Etienne.

Finally Marie said what they had all been thinking.

– Maman, how do you eat those plants?

The farmer laughed.

– Non, non, ma petite fleur , he said, this plant is not for eating. We spin thread from it, for cloth and rope. Do you see this shirt? He pointed to the grey shirt he wore. This is made from hemp. Go on, touch it!

Isabelle and Marie rubbed the cloth between their fingers. It was thick and scratchy.

– This shirt will last until my grandson has children!

He explained that they would cut and dry the hemp, soak it in a pit of water to soften and separate the fibre from the wood, and dry it again before beating the plants to separate the fibre completely. Then the fibre would be carded and spun.

– That is what you will do all winter. He nodded at Isabelle and Hannah. Makes your hands strong.

– But what do you eat Marie persisted.

– Plenty! We trade hemp at the market in Bienne for wheat and goats and pigs and other things. Fear not, fleurette , you won't go hungry.

Etienne and Isabelle were silent. In the Cévennes they had rarely traded at market: they sold their surplus to the Duc de l'Aigle. Isabelle clutched her neck. It didn't seem right, growing things that could not be eaten.

– We have kitchen gardens, the farmer assured them. And some grow winter wheat. Don't worry, there is plenty here. Look at this village – do you see hunger? Are there poor people here? God provides. We work hard and He provides.

It was true that Moutier was wealthier than their old village. Isabelle picked up a scythe and stepped into the field. She felt as if she were lying on her back in the river and had to trust that she would float.

East of Moutier the Birse turned north, cutting through the mountain range, leaving behind a towering gorge of yellow-grey rock, solid in places, crumbling at the edges. The first time Isabelle saw it she wanted to drop to her knees; it reminded her of a church.

The farm they moved to was not by the Birse, but by a stream further east. They passed the gorge whenever they walked to or from Moutier. When Isabelle passed it alone she crossed herself.

Their house was built of stone they did not recognize, lighter and softer than Cevenol granite. There were gaps where mortar had crumbled away, making the house draughty and damp. The window and door frames were made of wood, as was the low ceiling, and Isabelle feared the house would catch fire. The Tournier farm had been built entirely of stone.

Strangest of all, it had no chimney; nor did any of the farms in the valley. Instead the low wood ceiling was false, and smoke gathered in the space between it and the roof, dispersing through small holes cut under the eaves. Meat was hung there to smoke, but that seemed to be its only benefit. Everything in the house was covered with a layer of soot and the air became dark and stuffy whenever windows and doors were closed.

Sometimes during that first winter, when Isabelle wrapped her hair in greasy, grey linen, or spun endlessly, trying to keep her bloody fingers from staining the coarse hemp thread, or sat at the table in the dim smoke, coughing and gasping, knowing the sky outside was low and heavy with snow and would remain so for months, she thought she would go mad. She missed the sun on the rocks, the frozen broom, the clear cold days, the huge Tournier hearth that had radiated warmth and sent the smoke outside. She said nothing. They were lucky to have a house at all.

– Someday I will build a chimney, Etienne promised on a dark winter day when the children could not stop coughing. He glanced at Hannah, who nodded.

– A house needs a chimney and a proper hearth, he continued. But first we must grow crops. When I can I will build it, and the house will be complete. And safe. He stared into the corner, not meeting Isabelle's eye.

She left the room, entering the devant-huis , an open area between the house, barn and stable, all covered by the same roof. There she could stand and look outside without being buffeted by the wind or swept with snow. She took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. The door faced south but there was no brightening, warming sun. She gazed across at the white slopes opposite and saw a grey figure crouched in the snow. Stepping back into the darker shadows of the devant-huis , she watched as it loped into the woods.

– I feel safe now, she said under her breath to Etienne and Hannah. And it has nothing to do with your magic.

Every few days Isabelle walked the frozen path past the yellow gorge to Moutier's communal oven. At home she had always baked bread in the Tournier chimney or at her father's house, but here it was baked in one place. She waited for the oven door to open, for the wave of heat to reach her as she slid her loaves inside. Around her women wearing round wool caps talked quietly. One smiled at her.