Free Anxious Hearts by Tucker Shaw Page A

ships whose existence he so vigorously wished to deny. He felt for his birchbark in his foresleeve, lashed tightly against his veins. Its presence soothed him.
    At the entrance to the Bellefontaine orchard, bathed in the cloudless, late-morning light, the assembled population of Pré-du-sel and the surrounding hills, every Cadian that Gabriel and Evangeline knew and many they did not, awaited the arrival of the groom and his father. Women wore wood lilies in their hair, brushing lint from their husbands’ felt tunics. Children in knickers and sundresses wriggled through the crowd, hiding-and-seeking among the skirts and pantaloons of their elders. The older women tended the feast, baskets of bread and apples and pears and cheese laid out carefully on sheets of linen, and buckets of cider for after the vows were exchanged. Noisy groups of neighbors and relatives chattered and gossiped and laughed. None spoke outwardly of the ships, though all knew of them. All knew that this could be the last wedding in Pré-du-sel, but none said so.
    Michael the fiddler, with a long shock of white hair and elastic legs and arms, struck a merry tune on his strings, a lively, vibrant melody that complemented the birdcalls from the woods and the squeals of laughter from the children. Garlands of autumn flowers were wrapped around the apple trees like ribbons on maypoles, and petals were scattered around the grass. At the sound of Michael’s song, the guests scurried to the orchard, dancing in circles.
    Père Felician looked up from the crowd to see Gabriel andBasil approaching. He beseeched the crowd to part, to open a path in the middle of the apple orchard, a path to the stone altar where awaited Gabriel’s intended. Abruptly, Michael stopped his jovial tune. The crowd answered with a rustle as they moved aside. Gabriel drew a sharp, strengthening breath and steadied himself on his horse.
    The crowd parted to reveal the stone altar. There was Père Felician, who would preside over the exchange, his high-collared parson’s cloak stiff and severe beneath his youthful face, his expression brimming with vitality and conviction, with delight in the moment and faith in the future. Benedict was there, too, balanced on his cane and draped in the embroidered stole worn by him, and his own father, and his father’s father, on their wedding days, and which he would pass to Gabriel today.
    And there, between the priest and her father, stood Evangeline, enrobed in layers of airy white silk and lace that flowed weightlessly from her veil to the graceful fluid sleeves that swayed below her hands to the richly embroidered overlay atop the skirt caressing the grassy ground at her feet.
    Even through her veil, Evangeline’s eyes of midnight sapphire, reflecting every color the sun showered on them, commanded Gabriel’s notice.
    Spellbound, Gabriel could do no more than stare, inpassion and thankfulness, astonished at the indescribable hues of her eyes, the eyes into which she, today, would grant him indefinite allowance to stare, endlessly, forever. Could it truly be? Gabriel willed this image of Evangeline into his memory, determined never to forget this moment.
    Michael struck a new tone on his strings, a sober melody passed down from the ancients, the traditional wedding music that signified the arrival of the groom to collect his bride from her father. All eyes turned toward Gabriel and his father. They dismounted, handing their steeds over to a boy who walked them to the barn. Basil, beaming in the attention, smoothed flat his coat and led his son down the orchard-aisle, tipping his head at all he knew, which was nearly everyone.
    Gabriel followed several paces behind, stalwart and steady and serious, eyes focused forward, only forward, grateful and humbled by Evangeline’s adoring gaze.

eva

    I am with Gabe again, only this time we are somewhere different, somewhere higher. There is no tide, no fog. We are in the mountains, high mountains I’ve