Chapter 38 Where Silence Breaks #2
“Gracious God, we commend the souls of our brothers and sisters to your care. You are the master of the ocean and the calm in every storm. We remember their lives at sea, their service, and their dedication. We ask you to grant them eternal peace, to welcome them into your loving embrace, though their deaths came long ago. May their descendants find solace in the vastness of your love and remember those who were lost here. Through your infinite mercy and grace, Amen.”
Four days later, the Halcyon turned east, rounding its way between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.
Lark sat on the aft deck behind the skipper at the wheel, hugging her knees, with Harlan standing at the rail to her back.
She’d started wearing a jacket outside the cabin.
Though the temperature wasn’t that low, the constant wind cut through her.
She’d never been gladder she’d cut her hair.
Skye kept hers in her traditional long tail, while Azaleen and Secretary Navarro tried various arrangements, including tying scarves over their heads.
“Don’t let the name fool you, my queen,” Pike said with a crusty half-grin. “The St. Lawrence is no stream. Eight hundred kilometers of tide and temper—and she always takes her due before letting you. We’re in Frostlands waters now.”
“How much further to Aurora?” Azaleen asked.
Gazing at her made Lark smile—the sun gleaming over her white-gold hair, wound into a single luxurious braid, eyes bluer than the ocean, skin still white as cream. She wore a hip-length wool coat, pine-needle green with broad wooden buttons.
“Depends on tides and weather, but four or five days,” he answered as he puffed his pipe, the trail of sweet smoke wafting past Lark’s nose.
“We’ll make a staging stop at Tadoussac, a village at the mouth of the Saguenay River.
There’ll be an inn with showers where everyone can freshen up before we arrive in Aurora.
I know you don’t want to meet the high chief looking like you’ve been at sea for two weeks. ”
“That’s for sure!” Lark chimed in, beating everyone else to the punch.
“And here I’ve finally grown my sea legs,” Wes quipped. Lark hadn’t seen him hurl in at least two days, and the sickly green had finally faded from his cheeks.
“Just make sure you keep them for the trip back,” Diego advised, leaning out from the galley entrance.
Lark soaked in a coastline stretched in wilderness untouched for centuries, a sweep of spruce and fir layered in shadowed emerald.
The trees pressed close, a battalion of giants shouldering the wind, their branches knitting a roof that swallowed the sky.
It was a land older than memory, breathing secrets with every hush of breeze.
Every trunk was a pillar in some forgotten temple, every gust a whisper carrying the weight of old stories.
The Frostlands did not welcome; they endured, vast and vigilant.
“Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec City were bombed into oblivion,” Luke noted, “but most of this country remained unbothered. I’d wager the Inuit north of Hudson Bay have carried on as always, barely aware of the apocalypse.”
An air of anticipation spread through the crew as they neared their destination.
By day, they watched the water, the shore, swapping jokes and stories.
At night, the sea glowed faintly with plankton light, Halcyon’s wake painting a comet-trail through the black water.
In their cabin, Azaleen’s nearness kept Lark awake—picking out her breathing from the others, imagining what it would feel like to share her bed instead of Skye’s, wondering if she ever thought the same.
Was it just a by-product of forced proximity?
No, this had started weeks ago—actually, months ago.
Even when she’d hated the queen, desire had sparked the moment she first saw her.
Yet only after she learned the truth about the medicine did Lark entertain friendly thoughts toward Azaleen.
And they’d only grown. She admired her, was intrigued by her, and, at times, felt sorry for her.
She needed someone in her life to help bear her burdens, someone she could trust, a friend, a partner.
As much as Lark hoped it could be her, such an assumption was absurd.
After eleven days on the Stream—marked by fog, the ship-grave silence, and a jellyfish rescue—the fjord walls of Tadoussac finally rose ahead, where the Saguenay spilled into the Seaway.
An infectious joy rippled through the crew as they disembarked, walked, skipped, and jogged up the dock planks into a lively village.
Lark made a point of not letting Azaleen out of her sight.
The summer sun slanted through birch and pine, dappling the open clearing where the village market sprawled.
Smoke curled from long communal fire pits, the smell of moose stew mingling with fried bannock and sweet maple cakes.
Voices rose in Cree, French, and English, punctuated by the rhythmic thrum of a hand drum somewhere among the tents.
A Métis trader unrolled a blanket woven in red and indigo chevrons, its edges beaded with salvaged glass.
Beside him, a Cree woman offered smoked whitefish wrapped in birch bark, while her daughter strung beads of carved bone and copper wire into a new wampum belt that shimmered with both memory and machine.
Men and women moved easily in layered hides and wool, sashes of bright arrow-pattern weave binding their waists.
Some wore ponchos striped in earth tones, others, cloaks lined with fox or beaver.
Children darted between stalls in patched denim trousers, hair braided tight with quills and ribbons salvaged from the old world.
At the edge of the market, an elder sat cross-legged before a circle of listeners, her hair silver and long, draped in a green blanket patterned with pine trees.
Her voice rose above the hum: “When the Great Fire split the sky, we remembered the old ways. That is why we stand here still.” The listeners murmured assent, heads nodding, bowls of stew paused in their hands.
A young man bowed a fiddle while another beat time with a drum, and laughter broke out as a dance line formed—boots stamping, moccasins sliding, ceinture fléchée sashes twirling with each step.
Through it all, the Frostlands pulsed with abundance—a rare corner of Ashland where survival had ripened into something more enduring: community.
“Welcome. Bienvenue!” A man with short blond hair and a beard greeted them with arms wide. “I’m Francois Corbier. You must be the party from Verdancia. We were told to expect you.” He performed a deep bow before Azaleen, who couldn’t hide her royal bearing if she’d tried.
“Thank you, Mr. Corbier,” the queen replied. “You have a thriving town here, so many sounds, colors, and delicious smells.”
“You will spend the night as our honored guests, browse the market, taste the cuisine, no?” he invited, then grinned broadly. “Yes.” Shifting to Lark, he hugged her, kissed her cheeks, and proceeded to greet every other member of the party in the same manner.
A shy-looking, shorter woman, her black hair in braids framing tanned cheeks, bowed to Azaleen. “Please excuse my husband if he behaves more familiarly than you are accustomed. He is a free spirit. I’m Dove, and I’ll show you to the inn. Then, please come back and enjoy our hospitality.”
Azaleen took the short woman’s hands and squeezed them, smiling. “Thank you so much, Dove. Hospitality is a core value in our society as well. We humbly thank you for extending yours to us.”
After settling into their rooms and taking overdue showers, Lark ventured out onto the porch of the Lodge Pine Inn and breathed in the aroma of smoked meat and fried bannock.
The sun hung lower in the sky, the air fresh and invigorating.
She drifted into thought, wondering what tomorrow’s meeting with the high chief would bring.
Azaleen’s footsteps had been so soft she hadn’t noticed her approach until she joined her at the split rail.
“Will you accompany me to browse the market?” she asked. “I promised the boys I’d bring them gifts from the Frostlands.”
Warm appreciation flooded Lark’s heart, and she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her lips. “I would be honored.” She crooked her arm, expecting Azaleen to laugh. Instead, the queen slipped her hand in, like a lady at a cotillion escorted by her favorite beau.