In the Forests of New France
Considering the tales you've heard, voyaging down the St. Laurence and into the Great Lakes as a trader seems a promisingly exciting existence. But knowing yourself, you would not last long if you simply showed up as you are.
On the tall side, but lean and rather lanky, still clean-chinned even without effort, your body still looks very adolescent. Not entirely inaccurate, as you've not quite finished off your last growth, but you're very nearly eighteen and old enough to seek such work. Older than many of the boys and young men who set off, but you're honest with yourself. You look young, and lack the air of toughness that someone like Jacques so easily exudes.
Shifting your weight in the saddle, you halt the little mare for an instant before guiding her in the direction of Jacques' home. You can only hope he's actually there, not off wandering somewhere on his own. You haven't heard from him for some time, but that in and of itself is not unusual. Contact even between neighboring families is often questionable at best, and for all you know he's already set off to make his own way in the world.
The path to his home is quite well-maintained, however, raising your confidence in the possibility of his presence. You reach the rough wooden fence--you remember helping to build it three summers ago--and dismount the mare smoothly. Smoke rises from the chimney of the little house, and you smile. Someone, at least, is home. Fastening the mare to one of the more solid parts of the fence, you approach the house.
You know that Jacques' mother will doubtless be inside, probably working on sewing while minding a pot of whatever she intended on feeding her family for supper. You can hear quite clearly the sounds of someone chopping wood behind the house, however, and think that might be a more likely job for Jacques. Still, it is generally customary to visit the house before venturing into the yard.
On the tall side, but lean and rather lanky, still clean-chinned even without effort, your body still looks very adolescent. Not entirely inaccurate, as you've not quite finished off your last growth, but you're very nearly eighteen and old enough to seek such work. Older than many of the boys and young men who set off, but you're honest with yourself. You look young, and lack the air of toughness that someone like Jacques so easily exudes.
Shifting your weight in the saddle, you halt the little mare for an instant before guiding her in the direction of Jacques' home. You can only hope he's actually there, not off wandering somewhere on his own. You haven't heard from him for some time, but that in and of itself is not unusual. Contact even between neighboring families is often questionable at best, and for all you know he's already set off to make his own way in the world.
The path to his home is quite well-maintained, however, raising your confidence in the possibility of his presence. You reach the rough wooden fence--you remember helping to build it three summers ago--and dismount the mare smoothly. Smoke rises from the chimney of the little house, and you smile. Someone, at least, is home. Fastening the mare to one of the more solid parts of the fence, you approach the house.
You know that Jacques' mother will doubtless be inside, probably working on sewing while minding a pot of whatever she intended on feeding her family for supper. You can hear quite clearly the sounds of someone chopping wood behind the house, however, and think that might be a more likely job for Jacques. Still, it is generally customary to visit the house before venturing into the yard.