Enter, Night (54 page)

It was at this point that I was summoned to meet with Father de
Varennes at Trois-Rivières. I was then still a very young man, all of twentyone, a year in New France since my departure from Chartres, and foolish
in the fearless way of all young men, but determined to serve the will of
God with all of my body and soul. I knew even then that martyrdom for
the greater glory of God would be the highest attainment, and yet my
poor flesh dreaded it, dreaded the agony of the flames of the stake as it
dreaded the butchery of blade and spear. I confess that fear with shame,
but with the openhearted humility that my own unworthiness demands.

Father de Varennes wasted no time in asking me what I knew of the
settlement of St. Barthélemy. Sadly, I told him, I had only heard of it in
passing through the stories of the other young priests. I knew little of
the region or of the mission itself.

“Do you, for instance,” de Varennes asked me, “know anything of the
Ojibwa people, Father Nyon? Do you know their language and customs?”

“I have studied their language, Father,” I replied. “I am not fluent,
but I have tried to prepare myself as best I could in the event that my
service in New France led me there.”

“You know by now, Father Nyon, of the recent destruction of our
mission at Sainte-Berthe and the slaughter of our priests at the hands of
the Hiroquois?”

I nodded, bowing my head. “Yes, Father. A great tragedy.”

“Have you then also heard,” he asked, “of the mystery of our
settlement of St. Barthélemy near the shore of Lac Supérieur which has
been reported as entirely deserted?”

“Yes, Father. But again, only in passing. Only in the form of rumour
and conjecture. Stories from around the campfire in these last weeks.
The gossip of trappers.”

The old priest smiled at that. But again he grew serious. “Father
Nyon,” he said. “We have dispatched one of our priests, Father Lubéron,
in the company of a party of Algonquians, to recover the bodies of our
fallen Fathers at Sainte-Berthe and to give them a Christian burial. It is a
gruesome assignation, but Father Lubéron has volunteered. We can only
pray for his safe return, and that he does not meet the same fate that
befell d’Olivier, Glazier, and d’Uongue.”

“I too will pray for that, Father,” I told him. “I would also have
volunteered if I had known of the assignation.”

Father de Varennes looked hard at me and said, “Is that what is truly
in your heart, Father Nyon?”

I replied that it was, indeed.

“Father Nyon. I would like you to travel north to the region of Sault
de Gaston and visit the site of the St. Barthélemy settlement and see if
what the trappers reported is true. I would like you to find the priest,
Father de Céligny. If the Savages murdered him, I would like you to bury
him and perform the Last Rites. If he is alive, I would like you to bring
him back with you to Trois-Rivières so he may give his own account of
what transpired at the Mission.”

“I accept joyfully, Father,” I said, quite proud of myself for having
been put in charge of such an undertaking. “What can you tell me of
Father de Céligny, Father? I have not heard that name before. Has he
been long in New France?”

“Father de Céligny arrived in New France in 1625 as one of the
priests who answered the appeal of the Recollet friars in order to aid them
in their work with the Indian missions,” Father de Varennes explained.
“The Recollets were insufficient in numbers to successfully cope with the
nature and hardships of evangelizing the Savages.”

“But what of the man?” I persisted. “Who is he?”

“The man?” Father de Varennes laughed. “Ah yes, the man. I know
only the priest, but you ask me about the man. Let us see. Father de
Céligny is descended from a noble family in the Nord-Pas-de-Calais,
the most northerly region of France. He is kinsman to the Vicomte de
Moriève of that region. He took his vows in Paris, at Montmartre. And,
as I said, he came to us here in New France in 1625. By reports it was a
long and terrible voyage from Dieppe to Québec. An unknown wasting sickness descended on crew and passengers alike. Many shrivelled
and died, including some priests. Father de Céligny survived. He was
dispatched to the Ojibwa that very year. He is a learned man. As I recall,
he was also grave in manner and demeanour. In truth, I don’t remember
much of the man. And even now, it is the priest I am concerned with, not
the man.”

“Forgive my impertinence, Father,” I said humbly. “But if he wasn’t
murdered by the Savages, might there have been another reason for his
abandonment of his Mission?”

Father de Varennes sighed at that. “Sadly, I believe we must prepare
ourselves for the worst, Father Nyon.”

With courage I did not feel, I told Father de Varennes that I would do
my duty and meet my fate joyfully, whatever it might be.

“Your journey will take you approximately five weeks,” Father de
Varennes said. “It will be an exceptionally difficult one, and fraught with
hardship. You speak the Algonquian language, I’m told?”

“Not well, Father, but I can understand the language better than I
can speak it.”

“The Algonquians accompanying you will take you to the region
of Sault de Gaston and will delivery you safely to the Mission of St.
Barthélemy. They camp nearby and will wait to bring you back, either
alone, or with Father de Céligny. Do you have any questions, Father?”

“No, Father,” I said. “I understand everything. When will I be
leaving?”

Father de Varennes hesitated, as though considering my youth.
Then he drew himself up to his full height and said, not unkindly, “At
dawn, Father Nyon. And may God be with you.”

At that, we knelt together and prayed for some time in the chapel.
Father de Varennes introduced me to my stoical Algonquian guide,
Askuwheteau. He bade me spend the remainder of the afternoon in
prayer and meditation, and then retire early for my departure from
Trois-Rivières.

After the departure of Father de Varennes, I walked a bit about the
post and then took myself down to the river, feeling the need to see it
once, alone, before my departure at the dawn on the morrow.

As I approached the edge of the dark water, I noticed a man following
me at a cautious distance. He was clearly French, one of those
hommes
du nord,
or
hivernants
as the voyageurs who transport furs by canoe
and overwinter in the regions beyond Montréal and Grand Portage are often called. Like so many of them, a crude and filthy-looking man who,
through long exposure to the Savages and carnal knowledge of the vilest
sort with Savage women, had begun to resemble the Indians more than
he resembled a white man. By coincidence, I did know this man’s name:
he was called Dumont, and was known to be of low moral character, over
fond of spirits, a dishonest dealer with the Savages and an unrepentant
consort of their women.

I paused by the water and waited, my intention being to ask him
what he wanted. I had no fear of him, for what Frenchman here in TroisRivières would harm a priest? But he spoke first, and most strangely.

He asked me, “You are the priest who will be going to St. Barthélemy
with the Algonquians?”

I told him yes, and I asked him what business it was of his. He
laughed and showed me a reeking mouthful of rotten teeth. The stench
issuing from his open mouth was a horror in its own right.

“Do you know what awaits you at St. Barthélemy? Do you know
what is there?”

“I expect to recover the body of Father de Céligny of that Mission,” I
said. “Though my heartiest prayers are that I will find him alive and well,
and safely in the service of Our Lord.”

At that, Dumont laughed again. But it was not a laugh of joy, or even
one of malice. It was a forced laugh, one in which I thought I detected a
trace of something akin to fear. And yet this man Dumont had already
openly lived a rough and vile life. I could not fathom what could have
made him afraid of speaking openly about the Mission.

“What do you know of the Mission at St. Barthélemy?” I asked him,
with a boldness I did not feel. “What do you know of the fate of Father de
Céligny? If you have something to share, share it now or keep your peace.”

He shrugged again. “I know nothing,” said he. “I speak of nothing.”

“Not true, Dumont,” I replied. “Tomorrow I am leaving for St.
Barthélemy. If there is something you know, or have heard, I charge you
to tell me—and indeed to tell me now and in all haste.”

At that, Dumont leaned close to me and said, “The Indians of LacSuperiéur, they fear him.”

“Who,” I demanded. “Father de Céligny?”

“Yes, him.” Dumont crossed himself. The reverent gesture, so
earnestly performed, seemed so incongruous in that setting, and from
that man, that I fear I laughed.

“Of course they fear him,” I scoffed. “The Indians blame us for everything. These countries, and these poor, ignorant people, are in
Lucifer’s thrall. They blame us when there is an outbreak of the pox.
They blame us when there is a famine. They blame us when there is a
drought. They call the Rite of Baptism water-sorcery. They accuse us of
performing witchcraft in our chapels. They call us demons in black robes.”

“No,” Dumont whispered. “They fear
de Céligny himself
.” He looked
all around as though to make sure no one was listening. “They call him
Weetigo
. An eater of human flesh and a drinker of blood. Human in form,
but
mji-manidoo,
a demon.”

“The Savages do not understand the Rite of Communion,” I explained
as patiently as I could, trying not to show my irritation. “They confuse it
with their own barbarism, or the barbarism of the Hiroquois.”

“No,” Dumont insisted. “It is more than that. The Savages of which I
speak have no quarrel with the Black Robes. But they give the mission of
St. Barthélemy in Sault de Gaston a wide berth.”

“Then perhaps those are the Savages who have killed Father
de Céligny,” I said in outrage. “If you have information about his fate,
Dumont, you will come with me now to Father de Varennes, and you will
tell him what you know, or what you have heard from the Savages.”

“I know nothing,” Dumont said. “I have heard nothing. And I will tell
Father de Varennes nothing.”

“If you know nothing, my son, then what is your purpose here? Why
did you seek me out today?” I asked him in bafflement. “Do you have
something to confess? Do you not wish to be granted absolution? I can
absolve you, but before I do, you must confess to me.”

Dumont again grew pale. Again, he crossed himself. This time, I did
not laugh, for a mask of such dread and tragedy contorted his face that
Melpomene herself would have recoiled from it. He seemed suddenly in
the throes of a deep and profound spiritual terror. Were he not so clearly
a man of a dissolute and profane reputation, I would have even said that
he feared that his very soul was in peril from something he had done, or
seen. So awful was Dumont’s expression that I had but one thought: that
he had, himself, witnessed the awful martyrdom of Father de Céligny
at the hands of the Savages and that it had been a most fearsome and
terrible death. In his eyes, I found every nightmare that had tormented
me, as a young priest in Chartres, about the terrible and agonizing fate
that might await me here in New France.

“I need no absolution, Father,” Dumont said. “But perhaps God will
grant you the strength and knowledge to conquer what awaits you in St.
Barthélemy. We have brought terrible things to New France. There are
worse things now walking in the forests at night than the Savages.” He
knelt and took my crucifix in his filthy hands, and kissed it. “I will pray
for you, Father. Pray for me, also.”

With that, Dumont rose to his feet. He looked around him, and then
quickly took his leave from my company by a trail that I knew led to the
other side of the post where some of the
hivernants
kept their canoes. He
did not turn or look back as he hurried along his way before disappearing
from view behind the trees.

The cold I felt in the wake of Dumont’s leave-taking was due only
in part to the sinking of the sun in the sky, or the freezing egress of the
coming night. I looked all around me and saw anew the cruel beauty
of this wild country of white rivers and black lakes and forests. I saw
afresh the savagery here; in nature as in man. Truly, I thought, this is
the Devil’s own dominion. Even poor, mad Dumont, in all of his fear and
confusion, knew it.
There are worse things now walking in the forests at
night than the Savages, Father,
he’d said. I realized again that we soldiers
of God were little more than pinpricks of His light in the vast darkness of
this terrible place, and the only beacons by which the Indians might be
guided, with Christ’s help, away from Satan and into God’s glorious light.
I puzzled over his statement that we, meaning the French, had brought
those things here, for surely the light we brought with us has been not
only the light of God, but also the light of civilization and knowledge.
But ultimately I ascribed the words to his confusion. Perhaps, ultimately,
Dumont, after so many godless years among them, had become Savage
himself. I swore to pray for him.

And pray I did, that night, though not only for Dumont, or Father de
Céligny. Sleep was reluctant to claim me, but eventually it did. It seemed
I had barely closed my eyes before Askuwheteau was shaking me awake
with the utmost force and impatience to begin the journey upriver to the
Mission of St. Barthélemy among the Ojibwa in Sault de Gaston.

We departed in two canoes
into a dark grey dawn wreathed in heavy fog
and a lowering sky threatening rain. The rains of that first autumn of
mine in Trois-Rivières were unlike any I had known as a boy coming to
maturity in Beauce. It was of a particular, piercing cold, as though the
angels themselves were hurling frozen nails from a celestial height to
pierce and humble the proud and unaccustomed. The rivers here also
bore no resemblance to any of the three branches of the gentle Eure, near
my family’s home near Chartres. Instead, they were wild and serpentine,
wending through the rocks and the forests to, it seemed, the very edge
of the world.