Warbird (14 page)

Tsiko's warning gave the Huron time to remove their caskets of corn and nuts, bundles of fur and other trade goods from the canoe and prepare for battle.

The Iroquois scouts appeared in the narrows

The Hurons paddled fiercely. They rammed the Iroquois canoes and sent them spinning.

One scout dove into the water as his canoe swung up onto the rocks. The other leaped into the Huron canoe brandishing his tomahawk. A Huron warrior raised a
gleaming knife. The Huron threw the attacker's body over the side.

Shots rang out as the French soldiers moved up river. The Huron canoe moved deftly around the warcraft, forcing it towards the soldiers, just as a second Iroquois warcraft, hidden round the bend, made its appearance.

Etienne, Tsiko and Father Bressani watched its arrival through their screen of branches.

“We'll have to go by land,” Tsiko said from their branchy cover. “We can rejoin the river around the bend.”

Etienne agreed. If they could get past the Iroquois, the trading post was only leagues away,

“Take Father Bressani as prisoner,” Etienne directed. “If you are seen, they will think you are Iroquois.”

The priest nodded.

“I will bring the canoe.”

Tsiko bound the priest's hands behind his back with strips of willow. He led the way into the forest. The priest followed without a word.

There was just enough space for Etienne to push their canoe beneath the toppled tree trunk. He had to make it look abandoned as it floated downstream. If spotted, he would be killed or captured. He swallowed his fear and placed a water-soaked log, the same thickness and length as his body, inside, next to the paddles. If an Iroquois bullet cut through the side, he wanted it in the log, not his body.

Etienne slipped into the dark water, hiding alongside the canoe, and watched the battle with nose and eyes just above the surface. The canoe of French soldiers fought directly across from the Iroquois craft. The deafening
discharge of muskets close by made him turn. Someone was shooting from the rocks.

Médard stood on the rocks, in the open, firing at the Iroquois from behind. Louise Gaubert, barricaded by the trading goods, aimed for their hull. The enemy war-canoe began to sink.

Etienne let the current carry him and his canoe past the second pair of battling craft. Wounded Hurons and Iroquois dropped into the water amid the smoke that drifted to shore.

“I hear something,” Tsiko whispered as he and Father Bressani emerged from the trees near the point. They stopped, letting their bodies blend into the dense foliage. The way to the river seemed impossible.

A wet Iroquois climbed the rocky bank to the grassy verge. Tsiko pulled back his bow and shot him in the chest. He cut Father Bressani's bonds so he could lift his skirts to run.

The small birch-bark canoe shone silver in the late afternoon sun as it floated into a marshy cove. Something beside it flashed like fish at play.

Tsiko placed his hands to his mouth and made the sound of an owl.

Etienne rose to an upright position. He tossed the log over the side and climbed in.

They paddled quickly away from the din of shouts and shooting, heading downstream to the trading post.

The passageway of white, red and green blankets tossed over poles along the riverbank signalled the approach to the trading post. Its stern-faced wooden church rose above the warehouse, tents and log buildings. The muggy air held the stench of fish, smoke and garbage. Here, the flies were fatter.

Médard des Groseilliers, Louis Gaubert and the Hurons arrived much later, tired and bloodied. They had taken Iroquois prisoners. Father Bressani, Tsiko and Etienne watched them force their attackers to kneel before the cross.

A beardless man in a threadbare coat also watched. His greasy hair smeared the crown of his head in an attempt to hide his baldness. When he smiled at the discomfort of the Iroquois, Etienne recognized the pock-marked face, scarred nostril and broken, blackened teeth.

Etienne moved behind Tsiko. The trader approached them with a smile. “We meet again,” he said to Etienne.

“I don't think we have met before,” Etienne replied.

“You have your mother's eyes,” the man said. “Days ago, I spoke with your father.”

Etienne was desperate to ask what they had spoken about. He wanted to know about the farm, the animals, and most of all about his mother, but he couldn't with Father Bressani so close.

“Was he alone?” Etienne asked.

The trader scratched his chin in thought. “Come to think of it, there was a boy with him,” he said. “He looked about your age.”

“You see, you are mistaken,” Etienne said with feigned indignation. “It must have been another man and his son that you met.”

“But I know François Chouart well,” the trader continued. “I hoped he'd invite me to his house for a meal, as he did once before. His wife is a fine cook.”

Father Bressani moved closer.

“Matter of fact,” the trader continued, “he said he would have done, but his wife was feeling poorly.” He looked directly into Etienne's eyes, waiting for a reaction.

Tsiko stepped between them. “You want to make a good trade?” he asked. He took the man by the arm and led him away. “My brothers brought many things to the trading post.”

“We'll meet again,” the trader said, shooting a glance over his shoulder.

Etienne went to his small wooden bed in the bunkhouse. He drew out the silver mirrored case and opened it. “Our parents live within us,” his mother often said. He used to think she meant like ghosts, but when he looked into the mirror, he understood. He did have his mother's eyes. He stroked the mirror with a finger, imagining it was her face looking back at him. His throat felt tight at the thought of her not being well.

A creak in the plank floor interrupted his thoughts. Tsiko stood in front of him.

“This trader,” he said in a low voice, “do you know him?”

Etienne stared at his feet.

“I watched the way he looked at you,” Tsiko continued. “He knew you.”

Etienne still did not reply.

“You met him some other time?” Tsiko asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

Etienne nodded. “Yes,” he said, “a long, long time ago.”

Tsiko touched the tomahawk at his waist. “Enemy?”

Etienne shook his head. “No,” he said, “my father brought him home. My mother cooked for him, and he told us stories.”

Tsiko's brow furrowed. “I don't understand,” he said.

“He knew me by a different name,” Etienne said, snapping the mirrored case shut.

“What other name?” Tsiko asked in harsh whisper.

“My mother's name is Marie Catharine Chouart,” Etienne said as he stood.

Tsiko's eyes widened, but, before he could protest, Etienne put his fingers to his friend's lips. “I can say her name out loud,” he said, “because she is not dead, nor is my father.”

Etienne watched the truth dawn on his friend.

“Then he really saw your father,” Tsiko said. He stamped his feet in anger. “Why did you keep this great secret?” But before Etienne could explain, Tsiko stormed out of the room.

Etienne knew he should have told Tsiko the truth long before, but he felt foolish admitting he was nothing but a runaway. He pulled the drawstring bag out from under his bunk and put the mirror back. His fingers touched the skin bundle, the other secret he had kept hidden for so long.

He found Tsiko sitting beside his canoe along the water's edge. He handed the bundle to the sulking Huron boy. “This is to repair the crack in our friendship,” Etienne said.

The Huron boy took the bundle. His eyes opened wide at the surprise of seeing his grandmother's yellow-feathered drum.

“Sometimes when you give a friend a secret,” Etienne said, “it burns a hole in their heart.” He slumped down beside his friend. “I ran away for adventure.”

Tsiko carefully rewrapped the drum and placed it on his lap. “Iroquois make plenty adventure.”

They erupted into laughter.

“You will return to your parents now?” When Etienne nodded, Tsiko removed his pouch and gave it to Etienne. “May the Lord watch over you,” he said.

“May Hawendio keep your paddle strong,” Etienne replied, accepting the gift. “You could come back with me,” he said with a smile, “and help to feed the chickens.”

“I prefer warbird over chicken,” the Huron boy said, thumping his chest and smiling.

Etienne heard the swish of Father Bressani's cassock from behind. The Jesuit placed his gnarled hand on Etienne's shoulder. “My prayers have been answered,” he said. “You are not going to continue the journey to the Tobacco Nations with Thomas after all.”

Etienne took a deep breath. “I won't be returning to Sainte-Marie with you, either.”

“You prefer to travel back with Samuel-Satouta?” Father Bressani asked.

“I am going home,” Etienne said. His eyes glistened as he spoke. “My real name is Etienne Chouart,” he blurted out. “My parents, Marie and François Chouart, live near Kebec. I am not an orphan.” He let out a great sigh, the burden of his lie finally lifted.

The priest regarded him for a second as if expecting further explanation. But Etienne had no more to say.

“Well then,” Father Bressani said, letting out a deep breath, “you must be dismissed from your duties.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned and walked away. But he stopped and looked back.

Their eyes met. Etienne braced himself for a tongue-lashing. But the priest's face did not show anger. He flashed a tired smile and made the sign of the cross. His last words were, “I thank thee, Heavenly Father, for your great mercy to me, Etienne and Thomas. Hold them forever in thy precious keeping.”

Etienne felt his face grow hot.

That night his hands trembled as he packed his few remaining things.

Silver poplars sparkled among the maple trees. As the canoe approached the hillsides of fruit trees, Etienne noticed a new dyke along the north bank of the river.

“Well, my little one,” Médard said, holding his paddle to shore, “back to the beginning.”

“Will you pass this way again?” Etienne asked, hauling his packs from the canoe.

The voyageur smiled. “
Mais oui
,” he said, shaking the boy's hand. “I will see you again.”

Etienne walked along a roadside lined with golden ragweed, bull rushes and clumps of purple pokers. In the dust were signs that a snake had passed this way and he could see the tiny prints of a raccoon. He stopped to examine a patch of yellow flowers.
What name do they go by?
he wondered.
What is their medicine?
He decided he would keep a book of plants, like the doctor.

Fluffy white clouds with flat grey bottoms moved across the bright blue sky. The breeze brought him the smell of sheep, pigs and cattle.

His heart pounded at a sudden thought that dropped
into his heart like a stone.
What if they are no longer here?
He raced down the slope.

The sound of an axe echoed across the land. Etienne stared at the lone figure in the field. The axe hit a rock, and a loud voice peppered the air with curses. “That's my father,” Etienne cried out, feeling his blood rush to his face, as he ran towards the house.

Etienne stopped at the small kitchen window to peer inside. The fire in the grate was small. His mother bustled about the kitchen, setting out three bowls and spoons. Then, as if she sensed something in the breeze, like a doe, she looked up with eyes that had lost their sparkle.

Etienne dropped his packs and pushed open the door. “
Me voici, mère
,” he said. “It's me.”

Marie Chouart's hands went first to her mouth. Then her arms shot out. She looked at Etienne in surprise then pulled him to her.

Sobbing, she broke her embrace, placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down onto the wooden bench. “Sit down,” she said, “I want to look at you.” She touched one cheek then the other. “Your skin is so dark,” she said, her eyes searching his face