The Comfort of a Blanket - 1. Story

The Comfort of a Blanket

By Jack Frost

Jeudi, le 16^ièmenovembre 1689

The pale golden sun lifts itself over the long towering cliff of Lévis, a blooming village observing with passion and jealousy across the mildly ice-choked Saint-Laurent River the glorious city of Québec safety guarded behind her impenetrable smooth stone walls. Snowflakes dance down slowly to land wherever they please giving the landscape a fluffy glimmering white blanket. According to the Sauvages who live beyond the walls and beaten paths on millions of kilometres of fertile lands, this is a sure sign of an annual wintry season where one must cease ploughing the fields, store the bountiful autumnal harvest granted graciously by the Lord, and focus on the children that men hardly entertain during the season of sweat and toil. The faithful wives finish the sewing work for coats and blankets to protect the fragile souls during the ardour of the incoming season.

Well within the timeframe, my gentle servant of sixty-seven years completed a blanket fluffed with goose down, finely sewn to intertwine with embroidery of various geometric and floral designs. It took her three years to accomplish the task and I gladly granted her a day of rest so that she may visit her grandchildren living twenty kilometres away on the Île d’Orléans. It is necessary as in a short amount of time, the mighty river will be unbearable for boat crossings that link the agricultural island to the mother city and the winter will nevertheless urge all fellow folks to shelter in their homes and to better enjoy the magic of familial bonds.

Mother knocks at the door, requesting that I go down to savour the still-warm morning feast prepared by the other servant of twenty-two years. Sadly I must abandon the newly made blanket and the warm comfort of the bed. I lift my body slightly ridden with aches from a peaceful slumber and walk to my chamber pot in the neighbouring room to relieve the collection of liquid within me. After that being achieved, I sit in front of the mirror and washing bin with diverse masking powers, perfumes, and lip colourings. Being nude with only a light cream-coloured undergarment covering my private parts, I brace myself to cleanse my white skin with icy cold water. After years of accustomization, this becomes a ritual that awakes me fully each morning, although Mother would prefer that I use lukewarm water heated by the fire in order not to invite the diseases.

I peek at Mother’s beauty products and think perhaps a sprinkle of white power should hide the small pinkish lump on my left cheek. I pick up the brush, but suddenly Mother cries out.

“Nicolas Lapointe! You have thirty seconds to be at the table. I am not looking to be delighted by a cold meal while awaiting you.”

The unexpected call shakes my arm causing a hit in white to the whole cheek. Cursing under my breath, I douse it off with cold water and answer her quickly.

“Yes, Mother!”

I run to my room to throw on my clothing. Why must it have numerous buttons and strings to attach the darn pieces together?

“Thirty seconds is up. I am going to eat now,” she declares.

Running to the door while attempting to pull up my pants is obviously unwise as I trip and cause a rather noisy thumping on the wooden floor.

“May the Lord whip his behind,” she says in a more calm voice.

I limp slightly down the narrow handcrafted stairs, tending my aching hip. I sit down at the dining table across from Mother.

“I already did grace. Do yours or you shall answer to God when the Day of Judgment arrives,” she says as she takes a helping of buttered grilled black bread.

“Pardon, Mother…,” I begin to speak, but she cuts me off.

“Be blessed that your father is on a two-week duty negotiating with the Sauvages of Mont-Sainte-Anne. Knowing him, he would have thrown you out the door without clothing or a meal insisting you go to school instead.” She looks at the grandfather clock situated at the corner of the room. “Well, eat! You have twenty minutes to prepare yourself for school. Don't forget to say your prayers first.” She catches me reaching for the first bite of my meal.

I eat half of the plate and furiously apologize to the servant for rendering her morning labour of cooking half useless. She smiles and assures me that it is always her pleasure. I go to my room once again to put on a vest and coat. Seeing that I have minutes to leave the home, I grab my Bible and Latin grammar book. The servant reads my mind and already sets out my boots ready to be put on and places the hat on my head. I open the door, letting the blast of morning wind redden my cheeks.

I walk with haste up the steep road that goes up the cliff linking Place Royale to the Upper Town, passing the public square showing a bronze bust of His Majesty King Louis XIV in front of a newly constructed grey stone church, Notre-Dame-de-la-Victoire. I go through the wall gate, greeting the two guarding soldiers on the way, and in five minutes, I enter into the vast courtyard of the Séminaire, making it to class precisely on time preventing a scolding from the Jesuit priest.

The Latin course is such a bore and I daren't correct the priest, named Monseigneur Deschênes, on a couple grammatical tips that he is mudding up. However, in his humble opinion, correcting a priest or servant of the Lord would amount to correcting the righteous Lord himself. So, I shall let it pass as being just on time and appearing modestly unkempt is pushing the strictly set line of academic conduct. The room is tall and narrow, not very unlike the ones in the dungeon, but with decoration and simple architecture. Whitewashed stone walls reflect the sun’s rays poking through the windows, eliminating the need for daylight candle lighting. The crucifix of Jesus adorns the front of the classroom, hovering over the priest while he sits behind mountains of books on his wooden desk.

Monseigneur Deschênes pours black ink into the wells fixed to the tables seating two students each and instructed us to conjugate ten Latin verbs found in the Bible, stressing the importance of the subjunctive mood as the main criteria for receiving a passable grade. I sharpen my quill and scratch the parchment without bothering to preview the biblical verses, knowing that it will suffice to name the verbs commonly used during the Sabbath at the cathedral. It takes twenty minutes to complete the task and I render the parchment to Monseigneur Deschênes. The priest lifts his thick black eyebrows, glancing at the conjugations.

“Lapointe, how can you succeed writing down all ten in a rather speedy manner?” Monseigneur posed the question.

“Latin is the language of the Holy Father, thus my father studiously taught me its beauty as soon as I had uttered the first word off of my infantile tongue,” I reply.

“Very well. You are dismissed.” Monseigneur set my paper on his desk, looking pleased.

“God bless you, Monseigneur.” I nod and leave to gather my items at my table, promptly quitting the classroom. I stop to glance at the scruff covered by a long golden brown hair of a regular boy, named Julien Boucher, who is deeply focused and silently muttering the grammatical endings in his book, crossing elegantly the t's and dotting the i's. He notices my presence and gives me a small smile from his thin lips.

“Is there anything else, Lapointe?” Monseigneur Deschênes wonders.

“No, Monseigneur. I had a question in my mind, but I believe that the answer may find itself in the book,” I suddenly answer as an excuse, nod once again, and exit through the door.

Michel Laporte sits under the middle-aged oak tree in the inner courtyard, keeping his eyes inside of a wooden-bound book about medicine. He peers over the pages to see me standing before him.

“Nicolas...” He closes the book rather a little noisily and places it in his black leather bag. “Do you have any hint that I will be damned this afternoon for a major examination at the hospital?”

“Again?” I smile. “What is the doctor going to write alongside the grade?”

“More personal homework assignments as usual,” he grins. “Come on. I want to harass something to further enhance my unproductivity.”

I follow Michel down the steep street and wooden stairway beyond the walls to the Lower Town where the city's main street, des Meulles, is situated. There, three-storied homes towers over the narrow cobblestoned pavement full of people searching for goods coming from the farmlands. Merchants call out to the crowd about the products that they sell and horse wagons fight through the limited spaces dropping off supplies and essentials.

Michel steps into the fabric shop that his father owns. The materials are well-known to the middle and upper classes to be of the finest quality in New France and no ordinary folk would be able to afford them without parting with a few years worth of salaries.

“Greetings, boys,” Monsieur Laporte called out while he measures a gentleman’s size so that he could figure the correct amount of fabric required to dress him for a ball next month.

“Hello, Father. And hello to you as well, Seigneur de Saint-Michel,” Michel replies politely.

“Hello, young Laporte. Shouldn't you be at school?” he acknowledges Michel's greeting.

“I should be later, but now it is dinnertime and I would prefer to study in the peace of my room.” He proceeds to the narrow stairway. I nod to the gentleman and the father before disappearing with Michel. Madame Lapointe already had set out the sourdough bread, cold cuts, and cheese in a basket draped with a cloth on the table with a note wishing us well and that she is currently out caring for the sick and infirm at Hôtel-Dieu Hospital at the Upper Town.

After we filled our stomach, Michel chuckles, “I must go upstairs to let out a leak. Wait for me in my room. I've got new books to show you.”

“All right.” I gather our bags and proceed to his room on the third floor. I sit down on his bed, musing beyond the windows views of tall ship masts flying His Majesty's royal blue flag decorated with golden fleur-de-lys.

Five minutes pass by and Michel has still not returned to the room. Out of concern, I walk to the washroom and listen through the door to see if all is well. I hear faint panting and guttural gasps. I lightly knock on the door, whispering his name. No response, so I do it once more. Again, nothing comes out of his mouth, except the same sounds that I heard before. I open the door, worried that he might have fallen ill, but I see him in the mirror of the washing bin, shirt pulled up with his left hand cupping the bends of his defined breast and the other hand holding his hardened penis, stroking it up and down. I glare at him, sensing the state of passion to which he submits himself. His closed eyes open and he sees me behind him in the mirror.

“Oops,” we say together.

“Jesus, Nicolas,” he scrambles to shove his penis in his loose undergarments. I turn around to grant him privacy to straighten himself up. I return to his room, focusing on what I have seen.

Michel enters, blushing furiously and pulling his crotch to set it in a more comfortable position while fastening his belt. He sits on his desk chair and sighs, without uttering a word.

“You were in there for too long, so I was checking to see if all was well.” I keep my eyes pointed to the floor.

“You could've knocked.” He looks at me.

“I did and I heard nothing but your panting,” I answer, “I was worried that you fell ill or something.”

“Oh... I suppose I was lost in... everything,” he said as he blushes.

“But what in God's name were you doing?” I am still bewildered.

“It's been a long day and I couldn't resist a free moment of time.” He grins faintly and then realizes my question. “Wait, you don't know what I was doing?”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Well, don't you ever have a build-up sensation around that area?” he asks.

“Yes. Always. It's a little annoying too.” I loosen up the tension in my body and head.

“Well, that's how you let it off the pressure,” he explains. “Want to know how?”

“Maybe.” I conjure up the image of his skin, chest, and exposed nether region. “Can you show me?”

“You must not tell this to anyone,” he hesitates, “this is immoral, but, to me, it is between me and God. No one else.”

“True.” I remember what the priests always have said on this matter of judgment. “I never have betrayed you, my dear friend,” I smile a little to comfort him. “So? It's not like I have never seen you disrobed. We always bathe in the nude in lakes and creeks in the woods.”

“All right, well. Obviously you saw me. That's all you have to do, actually. Get it hard. Stroke it. You'll know when it's done in a few minutes,” he explains.

“That's all?” I look at him all perplexed.

“Just try. It's so basic,” he said as he rolls his eyes. “Well, I must warn you that you'll make a white sticky mess, so keep it away from your clothes.”

“Is it your invention?” I ask.

“No, about all of the men know. You're one of a few who actually hadn't figured it out,” he grins.

“Whatever... It's not like you'll hear it in the halls and courtyards of the Séminaire where the priests and nuns are always breathing down on your neck,” I retort.

“Come on. Dinner break is close to ending now,” he gathers his afternoon school supplies, “Oh here. A philosophy book. Don't let Monseigneur Deschênes see that since he hates them.”

I grab another roll of bread on my way down the stairs and disappearing with Michel into the growing crowd that covers des Meulles street. We take the stairs up the cliffs; a hundred-metre flight that never really tires me as I am well used to it. Wisely we stay away from the blue-uniformed soldiers cleaning up the cannons perched on the walls to protect the city from foreign invasion. The walls are recently half-completed to replace the original wooden works built a few decades ago when the city was merely an outpost. With Britain constantly competing for lands in the Americas, the French are taking advantage of transforming the city on the cliff and, at the point where the majestic river narrows considerably, those cannons are capable of firing the ballasts across it. The backcountry is the only access to lay siege, which is difficult itself because one must scale the cliffs by hand in view of the cannons and of the soldiers protecting the top. Therefore, Québec is becoming one of the best defended cities anywhere under the sovereignty of His Majesty.

We pass by Château Saint-Louis, the seat for the successors of the founder, Samuel Champlain, the first governor of New France. Michel catches a horse driver as time is becoming precious. He must go to Hôtel-Dieu to join his mother and observe the Ursuline nuns and doctors caring for the sick.

“Hop in! He'll drop you off at the Séminaire.” He waves me inside and the carriage immediately rattles with the ruts in the dirt and cobblestoned streets.

“We shall see each other again this evening.” Michel opens the door for me. I exit the carriage and give the driver a tip. I run to the newly built cathedral and silently open the vast door that would usually let in an audible amount of noise due to the air currents, but today is calm and I manage to enter without any rustling sounds. The prayer already has begun, but wisely I sneak in when the priests and bishop turn their backs to the praying group. I kneel to the cross, dip my hand in the holy water, and make the required sign of trinity. I quietly sit next to the same boy, Julien Boucher, that I always have in my Latin course. He smiles and nods in greeting without looking.

He shuts his eyes listening to a prayer rite given by a rather plump bishop, with his head slightly bent down letting his long golden brown hair hang around his face. His thin lips quietly chant with the prayer lines and he seems to be deep into his thoughts. I stop observing his visage in fear that he may catch me doing so. I must resist the unholy imagination in the Lord's house. I turn my head toward the altar and close my eyes, joining with everyone else in prayer. It suffices to summon up his face in my deep thoughts.

After the end of the prayer, Julien walks alongside with me, throwing out a glance and a few words that he so rarely utters to me receiving my full attention; as he almost never speaks with me.

“I must admit that you did not miss anything particular during your brief absence, Nicolas,” he smiles, “the fat priest was preaching about giving food and coins to the poor. Well, he could empty his own kitchen pantry seeing that he could live on his own belly fat for a month.” He looks amused. I look around us to assure myself that no one is eavesdropping upon us, especially over that snide comment of his.

“Quiet yourself a little. Do you want them to put us in the dungeon?” I hiss. “But indeed it's true what you have said just now.” I grin at him.

“Naturally. He's a priest because no fine girl would accept him as husband,” he continues speaking while we walk into the inner courtyard of the Séminaire, which is actually situated next to the cathedral. “I certainly would not either, hence why I jealously guard this fine physique,” he pats his chest. “Besides, not my type either as they're missing something very vital for me.”

“I understand as well why they wouldn't,” I simply reply, not mentioning the possible hidden message that he's just lanced somewhere in that statement. Simply because I do not know what to say and what to understand. I look at him, pondering the expression on his face, but he suddenly grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. He wants to stop me from walking straight into the oak tree in the middle of the courtyard.

“Watch where you're going, Nicolas,” he resists trying not to laugh too much. His hand is still holding mine and I look at it, observing the pale colour and blue veins subtly showing through the skin. I move my eyes to his face and he is looking at me as well. He smiles, but I jerk my hand out of his immediately.

“Sorry, but thanks for saving me from causing unnecessary embarrassment,” I make a small smile.

“Let's go, or we'll be late,” he pats my back to get me walking. We open the door for each other, but Julien insists that I go in first. I humbly accept his and led up the wooden staircase leading to the second floor where the classrooms for older students are situated. We find the room and sit next to each other at the same table with ink already in the well. This is the first time we have ever sat next to each other and I wonder if he purposely held my hand for longer than normal. The priest enters with two books in his hand and his presence is enough to silence the chatter in the room, which looks greatly the same as the one for my Latin course.

After class, I walk home where I see my mother frantically helping the servant repair the hole in her dress that she will wear for the banquet this evening. I took some bread with me to my room and stop halfway up.

“Where are you going, Nicolas?” Mother notices my footsteps.

“I must rest, Mother, or I'll end up sleeping at the table this evening with the guests,” I plead.

“Very well, but I expect you to be at the foyer at quarter of seven o'clock sharp,” she answers while she makes stitches on her dress with the servant. “No, Marie-Ève, you must put the thread over the needle, not through it. Trust me, it still does the same thing, but quicker.”

I undress myself completely, even my undergarments, and sigh loudly from my bed as my naked skin touches the welcoming coolness of the newly made blanket that I had missed so much since my departure this morning. I look out of the window, and while observing the dimming lights turning into darkness, I fall asleep.

The servant awakens me and notifies me that I have a half-hour to prepare myself. I thank her and she leaves the room, closing the door. I rubbed my warm arm against the blanket, feeling it to see what type of fabric my dear old servant used. Silk. It must've cost my mother a fortune to obtain it since silk is hard to find anywhere in New France. I rise out of the bed and put on my undergarment and splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror, grabbing a brush from the makeup power box and dab it on my face. My face is already too white due to the fading sunlight of the season that it is useless to use anything. Perhaps it fits Mother better because her skin always has some colour. Mainly because she hails from the sunny landscapes of Poitou whereas Father hails from usually cloudy Normandie. I take a washcloth and remove the makeup power from my face. I will look better with nothing. I brush my dark brown hair that is shaped oddly from sleeping and neatly pull it back so I can tie it in that position.

The servant has already placed my evening clothes on the chair next to my desk. Dark red, precisely my favourite colour to spend an evening in. I put on the white shirt, then the long tight socks, pants and belt with golden buckle, and finally the overcoat to bring me out in style. I walk downstairs to find my mother sitting in a chair, properly dressed in silvery blue-green and with her coat already on.

“My Lord, Nicolas, no one is going to see that it is not your father with me,” Mother smiles, “Marie-Ève, tell the driver that we are ready to leave.” I put my coat on and follow Mother outside to wait on the doorsteps. The carriage pulls in front of us and I open the door, holding Mother's hand to help her inside.

Fifteen minutes later, we stop in front of the house on an empty des Meulles street. Michel and his mother are waiting for us. I climb out.

“Good evening, Madame Laporte and Michel,” I smile, holding her hand to assist her inside the carriage. Michel follows her without my help, naturally. As soon as our mothers exchange greetings, they immediately go into the abyss of woman chatter. Michel rolls his eyes, looking bemused.

“Don't give me that look, young man,” Madame Laporte lightly hits him with her fan, smiling, “and Lord knows well that He is still making a man out of you.”

“Oh our sons are still part-boys. Let them be since they only experience that once in their lifetime,” Mother adds politely, “So, as you were saying before?”

We go up a road leading to Upper Town and stop at a mansion situated across the Château Saint-Louis. A servant opens the door and offers his hand to Mother and Madame Laporte. Then another servant takes our coats at the huge foyer of the mansion and we walk to the dining room where thirty people already have seated themselves. Monsieur and Madame Boucher are waiting at the doorway to greet all of us. Julien is standing next to them.

“Mother, this is my classmate, Julien,” I introduce her to him. He takes her hand, bows and kisses it.

“I knew from the first moment that you are his mother,” he smiles, “Mainly because he has your beautiful face.”

“Oh, let's keep the flattery until the end of the supper, no?” Mother blushes and accepts the compliment, while I wonder if it is a veiled compliment toward me as well. Julien winks at me. As we are the last guests to arrive, the maid leads all of us to our seats with the Bouchers. Julien sits next to me, as if by chance.

The five maids come out to pour us wine. Mother asks from where it comes. Once she receives the answer, she appears to be mighty pleased to hear it came from the Loire Valley, her homeland. Then we are served garnished broiled quail with potatoes and asparagus. The crowd chatters loudly, with Mother in conversation with Mesdames Boucher and Laporte. Michel appears to be busy charming a young lady sitting next to him. Julien and I are almost quiet, exchanging glances and smiles. I move my hand to rest it on my leg as I no longer need it to hold the knife cutting the quail. It accidentally clashes with Julien's hand. We stare at each other and then at our hands. I look in his eyes, seeing if there is any objection. He just smiles and gently takes my hand, rubbing it for several seconds. I used my thumb to feel the top of the hand, feeling the veins now as pale as his skin around them. I pull back.

“Sorry,” I slightly blush.

“Nothing to fret about,” he assures me.

We finish our supper and slowly the guests one-by-one head to the adjacent room where we could be more comfortable and listen to piano, violin, and cello music. Michel leads the young girl there as well.

“Nicolas, why don't you go join them,” Mother asks me, “I will stay here a little longer to enjoy the dessert and tea that Madame Boucher offered to me and Madame Laporte.”

“Julien, go with him as well,” Madame Boucher beckons her son. “We will be discussing some business matters as well that may be of no interest to you.”

Julien and I nod to our mothers and leave for the common room with the other guests. We take the chairs a little further from the guests and next to the piano. Julien observes my clothing and lets out a small smile. He calls the maid to bring us a glass of wine – this time the one from Bourgogne.

“You look like a deep red rose tonight,” he whispers, saluting his glass toward me. I clink mine against his.

“Thanks,” I humbly accept the kind gesture. I no longer have doubts about my ability to read his opaque remarks. We sit quietly, enjoying each other’s company and throwing out a subject to talk about every few moments as we listen to the music.

After an hour and three glasses of wine, Julien has to go to relieve himself and so do I. I follow him upstairs to a faintly candlelit hallway. I wait next to the closed door while he does his business. Then it is my turn. I inspect the walls, the washing bin, the mirror, and table full of beauty powers and creams. The Bouchers appear to be in a higher social position than my parents and Michel, as they can afford to place wallpapers in the room.

I nearly trip on the carpet, thanks to the effect of the wine. Julien catches me in time and steadied my balance. I thank him and start walking to the stairs, but he takes my hand and pushes me against the wall. He looks at me in his eyes.

“You look mighty fine tonight,” he says, with breath faintly smelling of wine.

“That one is not as veiled as the last ones,” I slyly respond.

“And you are one of the rare ones that know how to answer to them,” he rubs my hand. I lift my other hand to feel his smooth face and put my index finger on his thin lips. He kisses it lightly, sending his energy through my hand, arm, and my body causing it to shudder in delight. He takes my hand from his face and continues to slowly kiss it before moving his eyes to my face. I lean over to feel those lips and soon, we kissed.

He moves me across the hall, without breaking off our kiss, to the door of his room. We go in and we slowly remove our clothes exposing our bodies to the air and each other. We embrace tightly feeling our warm skin and move our hands in exploration. He gently places me on his bed and kisses my chest, and licks my nipples. I groan softly in passion and move his head getting him to kiss my lips again. Our penises rub against each other as we press our bodies together. I take our swollen penises, remembering what Michel has taught me, and stroke them together up and down. He gasps and accepts this pleasure. Wine is still diluting my mind and hormones from the pleasure mixed in to create a strong potion making my body sensitive to everything.

Candlelight flickers on Julien's chest deep in arousal. His penis oozes out a drop of clear white fluid, but I pay no attention to it and keep on stroking our penises together, letting the fluid lube the large heads. He starts to pant every few seconds catching and holding air with his eyes closed. His penis oozes out more drops, which is odd as I make nothing at all despite the fact I am also quite aroused. I feel something warm in my body that explodes in steps, with each becoming stronger than the last. I groan and my penis became too pleasurable to bear, but I never want to stop. Julien's breaths become more erratic and deeper. Suddenly, I gasp a little too loudly and feel liquid travel through my penis, shooting out to cover my chest with warm, white sticky liquid in several streams. I ease my stroking pace as my penis is becoming very sensitive to touch.

“Don't slow down... I'm getting there too,” Julien warns. I obey his order and speed up the pace, despite the slight discomfort to my penis. He gasps too in the same manner, letting several shots of white fluid spurt all over my chest, and it mingles with my mess. He sighs and takes a deep breath.

“Damn, Nicholas, who taught you to work such fine hand?” he asks, grinning.

“No one...” I blush.

“Are you saying you've never done this before?” And he takes my facial expression as an answer. “I must be lucky. Neither have I. Do not worry yourself.”

“Julien... We must not tell anyone of this...” he cuts me off by placing his finger on my lips.

“I know.” He kisses me again after several minutes of keeping our lips apart. He moves to my sticky chest, seeing what the white liquid tastes like. He seems to enjoy it and go on cleaning up the mess and treating my chest like sweet apples. I moan at the renewed tingling of his tongue on my breast and nipples. He returns to kiss me once again and I taste his oversweetened mouth and tongue.

I hear a click and the door flies open with a young man holding a candle in one hand and a young lady in his other. They suddenly pause to stare at me and Julien with our lips still interlocked. My eyes glow in terror and Julien hears them as well. He turns his head to them and swears inaudibly.

“Michel!” I call out.

“What the... Nicolas... Julien...” Michel is at a loss of words, “What are you doing?”

“Please go. Don't speak of this to anyone,” I whimper in horror, “I will explain later... Just go...”

“Demons... Demons...” the young lady chants in a sugary voice and flees from scene. Michel realizes what she is going to do.

“Wait! Come back!” He pulls her dress back to him and wisely closes the door for us, “Get dressed, Nicolas, before anyone notices the ruckus!” I can hear him reasoning with the girl and struggling to hold her back, “Wait, don't run... Sit...”

Without sparing a moment, Julien and I run to our clothes on the floor, figuring out which are mine and which are his. We dress with haste and I open the door to look for Michel. They are gone. I sense so much panic in my mind. Julien understands what I am thinking and takes my hand to lead me to the stairs. He calls out to his servant to get our coats, and I see that girl through the door cracked open very slightly. She is talking to the Bouchers.

“Oh no... Not my parents,” Julien now sees what I am looking at. “Here, your coat. Let's get out of here.” Julien follows me to the carriage. My driver is surprised to see me so soon and opens the door for us.

We stop at my home and quietly open the door in order not to disturb the servant in the kitchen busy prepping the food for breakfast tomorrow. We sneak upstairs to my room and I grab a travelling bag and shove in clothes, basic items like knives, tools, and so on. I also take my blanket. I tell Julien we must not stay here for a while just in case we have been revealed. We again quietly leave the house and walk down a very quiet street, taking a route alongside the river to get away from the city.

“Nicolas...” Michel runs up to me, short of breath, “Where are you going?”

“You know where. I can't stay here or I'll have to deal with the cold, moist dungeon,” I reply, while still walking.

“I didn't tell anyone... I wish I knew what motivates you to do such an ungodly act. Stop...” Michel begs, barely keeping up with my pace, “Stop...” he grabs my arms.

“Remember what you did during dinnertime? You said it's between you and God,” I reminded him of that particular moment, “To be judged, that is between me and God.”

“I don't want to judge you,” he whispered. “I shan't betray you, my friend.”

“What did that whore tell the Bouchers?” I ask and Julien watches for the answer.

“I do not know. I tried to stop her and to reason with her, but she slipped and ran,” Michel apologizes. “Where are you going?”

“Out to the backcountry,” I finally tell him.

“I'll give you my father's wagon and give you a musket. You must not walk on foot unarmed,” Michel warns. “Keep walking, I'll go fetch them and catch up with you.” And he walks toward his house.

“Shhhh.... It will be ok,” Julien takes my hand to calm me down. “Let's go.”

Michel finds us at the edge of the city limits where the farms and woodlands meet the urban scenery. He gives us an open-horse carriage and two sets of muskets for self-protection. While we have a good relations with the Sauvages, it is still a very wild country and only God knows what He created out there. I thank Michel and Julien seconds the gesture by nodding his head. He takes the reins and the horse gallops away.

Cold November air frosts the fallen colourful leaves and pierces our lungs leaving a cloud of breath around us. I pull the blanket out of my travelling bag, sit closer to Julien touching him, and wrap the silk around us. He lets his arm go around me to hold me. I doze in a light sleep in the comfort of his warm body. Not even the screeching of nature would awaken me.

The light of dawn pierces into my eyes and I find myself at the back of the carriage in Julien's grasp in the woods. From behind me, I hear a couple sticks snap. I jump around to find the source of the noise, but I see no one in the woods. My movements are enough to disturb Julien's slumber.

“What is it?” Julien rubs his eyes.

“I thought I heard something,” I whisper. “Who's there?” I take a musket and points.

Then a white-tanned man wearing deer and beaver coats comes out from the bushes. His hair is black and he had tattoos around his face and arms. He greeted us in a native language and sends us a hand gesture of peace.

“I'm sorry, but can you speak French?” I ask curiously. He replies in a very memorized and artificial sentence stating he does not speak French. He points to a tree, where another Sauvage came out and greets us in French. He declares himself to be the communicator between his tribe and the French. He requests my purpose of being on the tribe's lands. I explain the story, with some lies sprinkled in, and say with strong intention that we are not here to pollute or invade the woodlands. The Sauvage offers to take us to the village for a meal and warmth of the fire.

“We rarely do this with any strange people living out in a stone village not far from here,” he speaks with a chanting accent, “But you are the son of Jean-Christophe Lapointe. Your father is a good man to our people and we wish not to cause any harm to his son. Instead, we will treat you as if you are one of us just like the way we treat your father. Likewise your friend will receive the same treatment.”

The two men lead us to the village deep in the woods at the foot where the Laurentides Mountains meet the flat plain of the Saint-Laurent. They introduce us to the chief, who is wearing a distinctive wolf coat over the deer and beaver ones, and they explain the story to him. His eyebrows raise up and he inspects my facial appearance.

“Son of Jean-Christophe Lapointe?” the aged man asks.

“Yes, that is me,” I simply nod in respect.

He then instructs the ladies of the village to fire the deer and he points to a hut covered with tree bark and dried hay.

“This is your home,” the communicator notes the chief's hand gesture.

Julien is still tired from doing all of the driving throughout the night and wishes to nap before the meal. He takes off his clothes, leaving his undergarments on. I do so the same and we lay on the bed covered with fur near a small fire that heated the stone to warm the hut. I pull the blanket over us and we hold each other in place to sleep.

A day’s stay in the village became a whole winter and father arrives to speak to me. He asks me what provoked me to live out in the countryside with the Sauvages. I give him the same answer as the one to Michel; it is between me and the Lord. Father accepts the reasoning and does not wish to push it any further. He simply lets me know that the Bouchers do not believe the lady's word without any more witnesses and Michel Laporte refuses to affirm her story. In other words, it is safe for me and Julien to return with dignity as the situation has been managed. I tell him I would return within a few days and he leave having good faith in my words.

“My parents are wise,” Julien explains. “I figured it would be more likely that they prefer to avoid this sort of scandal in the family. Their position with His Majesty's court and other high officials in the city is not worth tainting. They will not even try to remember all of this.”

I warn Julien that we must not do this at all when people are in the same building as us. We must be more discreet, or otherwise in my vows, I would never touch his body ever again. Someday, I would become like my father and Julien will follow me in the woods, having our privacy, dignity, and the whole unsettled and wild world for us. I kiss his cheek and state my growing love for him. Julien takes my hand and we pull my blanket over us as the stars appear through the hole for the small fire smoke to exit.

Only animals will know our lust and love done under my warm, comfortable blanket.

© 2009 Jack Frost

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