She gave him a look, half questioning, half amused, then glanced at me. I nodded.
“I see I’ve been gone too long,” she said lightly, and giving Germain a pat on the head vanished on her errand.
It took a bit of force, but I’d been lucky—well, skilled, let us say in all modesty—in placing the saw, and it took only a few minutes to haggle the head off. The last strands of muscle fiber parted and the massive head dropped the few inches to the tabletop with a thunk, limp ears quivering from the impact. I picked it up, estimating the weight at something like thirty pounds—but of course that included the tongue and jowls … I’d take those before setting the head to seethe for brawn … that could be done overnight, though, in the kitchen kettle … I must set the oatmeal to soak the night before, then I could warm the porridge in the ashes … or perhaps fry it with some dried apples?
I was sweating lightly from the work, a welcome relief from the chill. I got the feet off, tossed them into a small bucket to be pickled, then set aside the saw and chose the large knife with the serrated blade; even untanned, pig hide was tough. I was breathing heavily by the time I’d got the carcass half flayed, and, pausing to wipe my face on my apron, I lowered it to discover that Germain was still there, sitting on a cask of salt fish Jamie had got in trade from Georg Feinbeck, one of the Moravians from Salem.
“This isn’t a spectator sport, you know,” I said, and motioned to him to come and help. “Here, take this”—I gave him one of the smaller knives—“and pull back on the skin. You don’t really need to cut much, just use the blade to push the skin away from the body.”
“I ken how, Grannie,” he said patiently, taking the knife. “It’s the same as skinning a squirrel, only bigger.”
“To a point, yes,” I said, taking his wrist to readjust his aim. “But a squirrel, you’re skinning all of a piece, for the pelt. We need to take the hog’s hide off in pieces, but make sure the pieces are big enough to be useful—you can make a pair of shoes from the leather off one haunch.” I traced the line of the cuts, round the haunch, down the inside of the leg, and left him to it whilst I negotiated the forequarters.
We worked in silence for a few minutes—silence being rather uncharacteristic of Germain, but I thought him absorbed in his task—and then he stopped.
“Grannie …” he began, and something in his voice made me stop, too. I actually looked at him, for the first time since he’d come in, and I set down my knife.
“D’ye ken what voulez-vous coucher avec moi means?” he blurted. His face had been white and strained but flooded with color at this, making it fairly evident that he knew.
“Yes,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Did someone say that to you, sweetheart?” Who, I wondered. I hadn’t heard of a French-speaker anywhere in miles of the Ridge. And one who might—
“Well … Fanny,” he blurted again, and went purple. He was still holding his skinning knife, and his small knuckles were white from gripping it. Fanny? I thought, stunned.
“Really,” I said carefully. Reaching out slowly, I took the knife from his hand and set it down next to the half-flayed hog. “It’s a bit close in here. Let’s go outside for a breath of air, shall we?”
I didn’t realize just how oppressive the atmosphere in the smoke shed was until we stepped out into a whirl of wind, fresh and full of yellow leaves. I heard Germain take a deep, gasping breath, and breathed deep, too. In spite of what he’d just told me, I felt a bit better. So did he; his face had gone back to something near its normal color, though still pink in the ears. I smiled at him, and he smiled uncertainly back.
“Let’s go up to the springhouse,” I said, turning toward the path. “I fancy a cup of cold milk, and I daresay Grandda would like some cheese with his supper.
“So,” I went on casually, leading the way up the path. “Where were you and Fanny when she happened to say that to you?”
“Down by the creek, Grannie,” he said readily enough. “She got leeches on her legs and I was pullin’ ’em off for her.”
Well, that’s quite the romantic setting, I thought but didn’t say, envisioning Fanny sitting on a rock with her skirts hiked up, long coltish legs white and leech-spattered.
“See,” he went on, and came up beside me, now anxious to explain, “I was teachin’ her le Français, she wants to learn it, so I was telling her the words for leech, and waterweed, and how to say things like, ‘Give me food, please,’ and ‘Go away, ye wicked sod.’”
“How do you say, ‘Go away, you wicked sod’?” I asked, diverted.
“Va t’en, espèce de méchant,” he said, shrugging.
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “Never know when it might come in handy.”
He didn’t respond; plainly the matter occupying his mind was too serious for diversion. He’d been badly shocked, I saw.
“How did you happen to know what voulez-vous coucher means, Germain?” I asked curiously. “Did Fanny tell you?”
He hunched his shoulders and blew out his cheeks like a bullfrog, then shook his head, letting his breath go.
“No. Papa said it to Maman one night, whilst she was cooking supper, and she laughed and said … something I didna quite hear …” He looked away. “So I asked Papa next day, and he told me.”
“I see.” He probably had, and very directly. Fergus had been born and grown up in a Paris brothel, to the age of nine, when Jamie had inadvertently collected him. He dealt with his past by being honest about it, and I didn’t suppose it would have occurred to him to evade his children’s questions, no matter what they asked.
We’d reached the new springhouse, a squat little stone-built structure straddling a likewise stone-lined ditch through which the water from the House Spring flowed. Buckets of milk and crocks of butter were sunk in the water, keeping cold, and wrapped cheeses sat quietly hardening on a shelf above, out of the reach of occasional muskrats. It was dim inside, and very cold; our breath wisped out when we stepped inside.
I took down the gourd dipper from its nail, squatted, and took the lid off the bucket that held the morning’s milk. I stirred it to mix the risen cream back in, drew a dipperful, and drank. It was cold enough to feel it sliding down my gullet, and delicious. I took a last swallow and handed Germain the dipper.
“Do you think Fanny knew what she was saying?” I asked, watching him as he squatted to draw his own milk. He didn’t look up, but he nodded, the top of his fair head bobbing over the dipper.
“Aye,” he said at last, and stood up, turning away from me as he reached up to hang the dipper on its nail. “Aye, she kent what it meant. She—she … touched me. When she said it.” Dim as it was, I could see the back of his neck darken.
“And what did you say?” I asked, hoping I sounded entirely calm.
He swung round and glared at me, as though it were somehow my fault. He had a mustache of cream, absurdly touching.
“I said awa’ and bile your heid! What else?”
“What indeed?” I said lightly. “I’ll talk to Grand-père about it.”