Warbird (8 page)

Etienne looked at the frame of poles lashed together. Pine boughs filled a one-sided roof that slanted to the ground. The fire in front made it a very comfortable dwelling.

“I didn't,” Etienne said. “I prayed to
Hawendio
. He sent strong warriors to bring us here.” He studied Tsiko's face for a reaction as he told him about Satouta and the other men.

Tsiko nodded. It seemed reasonable to him. “What about the beaver?” he asked.

“We'll get them now,” Etienne said, scrambling to his feet.

Tsiko threw his hands in the air, knowing they would probably be gone, then taking his snowshoes from the side of the shelter, he laced them about his legs and leapt to his feet.

The snow, unlike the rain, arrived in silence. It drifted under doors onto the wooden sills and swelled the deerskin panes. Dark red blankets, fringed with icicles, now covered the Jesuits' cloaks. The water in the well was frozen.

Everyone went about shrouded and shivering. Etienne wrapped his feet with rabbit fur and slipped into his new boots, marvelling at their warmth. These boots were not the work of the mission's shoemaker but the needle-woman of Teanaustaye. They had cost him his old pair of boots, his last iron needle and the spool of hemp.

This particular morning, the boots reminded Etienne to inspect the hooves of the pigs and goat. In the weak morning light, a frosty mist swirled about their nostrils. Their nostrils twitched at the scent of him. Etienne gave each of them a pat and spoke to them with good cheer. He knew too well what a day without a kind word was like.

As he left the stable, he saw Brother Douart sinking up to his waist in a drift. It took him several attempts to get up. Etienne smothered a smile.

“I cannot decide which is worse, the snow, the fleas or the dogs,” Douart said to Father Brébeuf, who stood nearby. “Not ten priests in a hundred could bear this winter life with the savages.”

“We are all instruments of God,” Father Brébeuf replied, helping Douart to his feet.

To the haunting chant of the Pater Noster, Etienne followed a path through the snow to the river. The bright sun had melted some of the snow, but it only gave the drifts a tough top crust. He placed his feet with care; it was icy where water from their buckets had slopped.

Using a chisel, Etienne chipped at the ice on the river until he had enough space to dip his bucket. He stared into the black hole and thought about the fish in these very cold times. As he knelt to scoop up the icy water, arrows of cold shot up his knees.

Etienne covered the hole with snow and left the chisel beside it. Not only would he be able to find the hole again, next time it would be easier to use.

Tsiko's winter life took place beside the warm fires of the longhouse. Squash, beans and pumpkins filled the birch bark casks buried in the floor. Ears of corn decked the rafters, and large kettles of fish simmered. There were no set times for meals. Everyone ate when hungry.

At night, Etienne went to the longhouse to visit with Tsiko, to listen to the men's stories and to watch the women make clothes. He grew accustomed to the smells of rotting flesh and tanning hides.

Kneeling on the ground, the women pushed long, sharp bones across a damp hide. Over and over they scraped to
soften the skins. Then they stitched the hides together.

One morning, after exchanging greetings with the French sentries in the guardhouse, Etienne wondered why they continued to patrol the rampart.

“Master Gendron,” he asked as he entered, “why do the soldiers still watch?”

At first the doctor did not answer.

“The rivers are frozen,” Etienne continued. “They cannot be watching for canoes.”

The doctor put down his mortar and pestle. “There is never a time when we are free from the danger of the Iroquois,” he said. He stared into the contents of his mixture and paused. Then he frowned and stared off into the distance.

Etienne moved to the fire and stirred the flames without speaking. He did not want to interrupt Master Gendron's thoughts.

“I was in Trois Rivières,” the doctor said in a low voice, “during the epidemic.”

Etienne held his breath. Nicholas had told him that the first doctor hadn't even made it to the mission. The Iroquois had captured him en route.

“Suddenly they were everywhere, yelping and leaping about like devils.” The doctor looked at the doorway. “Two stopped at my door. One carried a flaming torch.”

Etienne followed the doctor's gaze. He could picture the warriors as Master Gendron described them. Their bodies shone with grease. Bands of blue and white streaked their faces. His heart filled with fear.

“The one with the torch touched the wood pile inside
the door, and it burst into flames,” said the doctor. “The other was advancing when two shots rang out, and they both lay dead at my feet.”

“Then what happened?”

Master Gendron looked at Etienne in surprise. He set about pounding his herbs with great vigour. “I left the cabin, of course,” he said. “It was on fire.”

That day, Etienne learned to make tea from raspberry leaves and sweeten it with a few grains from a
makuk
of rough brown sugar. There were maple trees on his family farm, and Etienne wanted to learn how to collect the sap. Then he could show his father. A smile crossed his lips. How surprised his parents would be at how well he knew his catechism. Even his reading had improved.

“Nicholas holds the Bible in front of him,” Etienne said, “but he says the words differently each time.”

“Not all boys are as clever as you,” the doctor replied.

“The words should always be the same when you are reading,” Etienne continued. “I don't think Nicholas knows how to read.”

“It was not within his realm,” the doctor said. “Your mother gave you an important gift when she taught you to read.”

Etienne looked at the doctor with interest. He had never thought of reading as a gift. But besides the priests and the doctor, he was the only other one who could.

“Tsiko's people do not write things down,” he said. “They tell everything important in story and song.” He picked up the large basket of dried currants and gave it a shake. “Hi-hey, hi-hey, ho,” he said, imitating them. He
shook it again. “Hi-hey, hi-hey, ha.”

The doctor looked up from his immense volume of parchment. Sketches of leaves, plants and flowers filled the margins. His life's work, as he called it, was the lore of medicinal plants. “Don't let Father Mesquin catch you doing that,” he advised. “He won't let you visit the village if you take on the ways of the savages.”

The door was flung open, admitting a wind strong enough to make the massive fire flicker. Etienne and the doctor exchanged glances. It was Father Mesquin himself.

He limped into the room and sat on a wooden chair without speaking. The doctor rose from his desk and placed a wooden basin at the father's feet. Etienne stooped to undo the priest's laces.

“Stir the fire,” the Jesuit told Etienne as he eased his feet from his boots. “I don't have the flesh of your youth on my bones.”

The doctor removed the Jesuit's stocking. His gnarled, bent toes had reddish blisters. Etienne poured water from the fire into the basin. Nervous at being so close, he accidentally splashed the priest's legs.

“Wipe me off,” Mesquin commanded.

Etienne dabbed at the skinny white legs protruding from the black skirts.

The Jesuit lowered his swollen feet into the hot water.

“
Mal de raquette
,” the doctor said as he removed a stopper from a bottle and filled his palm with crushed bits. “It's the snowshoes that cause this.” He sprinkled them into the water. “There's inflammation at the ankle and the tendon that flexes the great toe.”

The priest pulled his cloak up around his shoulders. “There is much work to be done,” he said with a shrug.

“The pain will increase with exercise,” the doctor said. “The only remedy is rest. A hot drink,” he directed Etienne.

As Etienne held the cup out to the priest, he noticed how much paler Father Mesquin had become over the winter. His skin was rough and pitted. There were heavy crow's feet around his eyes. He reminded Etienne of the stone used to build the walls of fortifications.

“Well, the great warrior has agreed at last,” the priest said, taking the hot drink.

“He has?” the doctor repeated in amazement.

“He will be baptized at Easter,” Mesquin announced as he held out his cup for refilling. “First, he challenged me to an ordeal by fire,” he said with a shake of his head. “He suggested we both walk through flames to show the people which God will protect us.”

“Surely you are not thinking . . .” began the doctor, but the priest cut him off.

“I know all their tricks,” he said. He lifted his reddened toes from the water.

“Leave them in,” the doctor warned. “It's going to take some time.”

“I told him I would not be spared by fire,” Mesquin continued. He stirred his feet in the water and grimaced. “The Son of God was not spared on the cross.”

“Then how did you convince him?” the doctor asked. “Such a great warrior must not seem to be less than a Frenchman. He needs a reason of grandeur to participate.”

“And he shall have it,” Mesquin said. “I promised the greatest baptismal ceremony of all time.”

“Well, I can promise you,” the doctor said, “if you do not wear something other than snowshoes, you will lose the very movement God gave you.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Mesquin said, waving a hand in front of his face. “There are new boots for me to wear in the sack by the door.” Like King Louis on the throne, he gestured to Etienne to fetch them.

The doctor slid one of the bearskin moccasins over the priest's stockinged toes. Etienne had seen boots like these before, but where? As he watched the Jesuit limp across the snow, the truth of the matter dawned on him. The great warrior the priest referred to was Satouta. Etienne shook his head. It would indeed be the greatest ceremony ever to take place.

Small streams of water trickled down the bare rock faces of the hills. The melting snow left islands of white amid the trees. The birch stood like bones against the dark forest floor.

Tsiko told Etienne that spring spirits brought the warmth, the birds and the greenery. The winter spirits had left, taking the ice, snow and cold winds north.

Each day, as Etienne passed the church, he heard the fine tenor voice of Father Brébeuf. Then hesitant younger voices sang out. Sometimes he heard the Jesuit and Huron voices together. Day by day, they grew stronger. Today the air resounded with song.

“You sing like a bird,” Etienne told Tsiko when the practice had finished.

“I know the words in both languages,” Tsiko boasted.

From the high, dense canopy, a melodious song broke out. Etienne looked up. He had heard this bird once before. Tsiko furrowed his brows and frowned. After a pause, the-out-of-sight bird once again poured his liquid notes into the air.

Etienne caught a flash of red. “What kind of bird is it?” he asked. “I can't see it.”

“Never try to find the bird with the bleeding heart,” Tsiko told him with a serious face. “When a warbird appears on the trail, the Iroquois are not far behind.”

The grand baptismal ceremony was set for mid-afternoon in the Church of Saint Joseph. Every Huron in the area came to see Satouta of Teanaustaye offer himself to the white man's God. They greased their hair, painted their faces and adorned themselves with beads, feathers and fur. There were so many people in Sainte-Marie, the crowd went back to the gates. The stench of so many unwashed bodies hung in the air like fog, making Etienne's stomach churn.

Under pewter skies, the procession of priests made its way across the grassy common. The Jesuits wore white linen garments with lace-edged sleeves over their cassocks. Wooden crosses swung from the tasselled linen cords about their waists. All carried long, lit tapers.

The crowd fell quiet at their passing. Even the babies lay silent in their mother's slings.

Father Mesquin, the last in line, paused at the wooden threshold. His dark eyes raked the crowd outside. “It is the greatest gathering I have ever seen for a service,” he said.

Despite this declaration, Etienne noticed the Father's look of dissatisfaction. He knew they would not follow
him inside the Church of Saint Joseph. They all waited for Satouta.

A shout from the soldier on the parapet sent Etienne and Nicolas racing up the wooden ladder to watch the mission ferry approach from the rampart.

Satouta, dressed in a fringed deerskin suit, stood between the two men who poled the ferry across the water. A birch-bark casket sat at his feet. Shells and animal claws hung from his neck. His face, painted ochre and red, showed no emotion. Two eagle feathers fluttered in the breeze in the gather of long black hair behind his ear. Those in the longhouse often said he plucked the feathers from an eagle that he had called down from the sky. Everyone agreed great medicine hid in the feathers of a flying bird, much stronger than those found on the forest floor.