Warbird (9 page)

Satouta's eyes moved along the rampart. Etienne thought they rested on him for a small moment, but perhaps he only wished it. The famous warrior stepped from the ferry with the grace of a deer and held the casket out to Brother Douart.

When Satouta entered the church, the crowd followed.

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” Father Rageuneau pronounced. His eyes shone as he spoke, undisturbed by the gentle voice of Father Brébeuf explaining the words in Huron. “All men will die and be again brought to life,” the Father Superior said. “Heaven keeps very great blessings for the good.”

To this there was much nodding and grunting.

“Shout praises to the Lord, everyone on this earth,” he
said. “Be joyful and sing as you worship the Lord.”

Father Brébeuf closed his eyes and sang the first verse of a hymn in French. The Huron choir sang the next verse in their own language. The priests and the choir sang the third verse in harmony. To Etienne, the sound was truly holy.

Father Mesquin moved to the front of the altar. He nodded for Satouta to join him. “How do you wish to live?” he asked in a booming voice. The silence of expectation filled the church.

“I wish to live and die a Christian,” Satouta responded firmly.

As soon as the sacred waters of baptism touched his body, purifying his soul according to the Christian rite, Mesquin shouted out, “You will be named Samuel.”

There were murmurs and whispers.

Father Rageuneau uncovered the silver chalice of consecrated wine. With a snap he broke the flat piece of unleavened bread over the chalice. He turned to them all and murmured the Latin words of the communion.

Satouta opened his mouth. Father Rageuneau placed the bread on his tongue, and Satouta sipped from the chalice. The Father Superior wiped the chalice with the cloth and replaced it on the altar. “I rejoice to see you among God's children,” he said.

Father Mesquin headed outside to the waiting crowd. Samuel-Satouta followed.

The congregation and spectators gathered around a freshly prepared fire pit. For all to hear, Father Mesquin questioned the warrior. “How do you wish to live?”

Samuel-Satouta responded, “I wish to live and die a Christian.”

From his robes Father Mesquin pulled a small mirror. He held it up for all to see. A hush came over the crowd.

“Many don't know about the reflection stone,” Tsiko whispered to Etienne.

“I have one,” Etienne said and grinned at his friend's great surprise.

“We must live each day with the reflection of our sins, thus ever ready for our Saviour,” Father Mesquin said, moving it about for all to see. Catching a beam of sunlight, he kept it steady on a small pile of brush in the fire pit. “Behold the light of God,” he called out.

To everyone's amazement, a wisp of smoke emerged from the brush.

“Behold the flame of Hell,” thundered Mesquin as a small flame erupted.

The crowd grunted heavily.

Mesquin returned the mirror to his robe while Brother Douart lit the surrounding logs with a torch. Father Bressani appeared at Satouta's side with the open birch-bark casket.

“Cast into the fire the charms you use for hunting,” Mesquin thundered.

Samuel-Satouta lifted out ornaments of fur and bone and threw them in the fire.

Mesquin's face turned a fearsome red. “Burn your magic or burn in hell.”

The warrior cast a turtle rattle and a feathered stick into the fire.

A great intake of breath came from the crowd. This time their eyes were not turned toward heaven. They stared at the flames dancing and jumping about these sacred objects.

“Cast in your drum,” Mesquin demanded. “Drums confuse your devotion to God,” he thundered. “They call up the Devil himself!”

With two hands Samuel-Satouta cast his drum into the fire.

Etienne could feel the wide eyes of Soo-Tai upon him. He turned to see her face register disbelief as the flames consumed the beautiful handmade instrument.

Etienne looked at Father Mesquin. His eyes were wild and his gestures elaborate. “Baptism has given you strength against unseen enemies,” he announced. “But there are still people that want to make war upon you.”

The crowd grunted in agreement.

“The Iroquois want to destroy you,” he said as Father Rageuneau brought two shiny new muskets to his side. “I arm you against them,” Mesquin said. He took the firearms and presented them to Satouta. “Go forth, Samuel,” he said. “Tell your Huron people to embrace the faith which you have received.”

“Name is rich present,” Satouta responded. He held the rifles above his head for all to see. “But firesticks,” he said, “make greater talk.”

The crowd grunted and stamped their feet.

Etienne frowned. He always knew God had two voices. One was the voice of warmth, like his mother's voice when she stroked his forehead. The other was a
thunderous voice, like the voice of his father when he was demanding. But at Sainte-Marie, the voice of God seemed to be a fierce, warmongering one. The more Etienne heard, the more worried he became.

Etienne ran his fingers across the small row of circles on the head post of his bed. The next full moon would make eleven. Any day, Médard and Pierre would paddle down the river.

He made his way down the ladder-like stairs without a candle. He knew the mission grounds well and could get anywhere, no matter how dark it was. As he approached the barn, someone strode towards him. Enveloped in a dark cloak, the man walked with the determination of the lay brother, Jacques Douart.

Etienne moved to the wall. He had no time to listen to Brother Douart's taunts about visiting his Huron friends. He stood as still as death, waiting for the brother to pass. Then he continued on to the longhouse.

His eyes watered in the smoke curling upward towards the roof. Groups of bronzed families were encircling the fires, cooking, eating and talking. He walked to the hearth that belonged to Tsiko's family. Soo-Taie was busy refilling their wooden bowls. Her small son drummed with dried corn cobs, their kernels now in the stew.

Men at the fire beside them shouted and slapped their legs over a game on the packed-earth floor. Etienne watched with interest as they tossed a bowl of wooden tablets that were dark on one side and light on the other. One man held the bowl while the others placed their bets. Then he struck the bowl sharply on the ground. The tablets jumped and clacked. When he dumped them out, they gathered their winnings.

“Time of sun gets longer,” Tsiko told Etienne, looking up at the soot-stained roof. “Soon we will go to the sugar camp.” He rubbed his belly and rolled his eyes.

All the women and children of the Christian longhouse built a spring camp in the maple grove. They tapped the trees and boiled the sap until it became syrup. They ladled the syrup into wooden troughs packed about with snow, where it hardened into sugar. Etienne desperately wanted to go along with them.

“Will you teach me
otsiketa?
” Etienne asked Soo-Taie. If he could show his parents how to make sugar, they would be able to buy something different at the trading post.

Soo-Taie looked at him and shrugged.

Etienne put out his hand, fist down, towards her. The closed hand caught Soo-Tai's interest. She put down her ladle.

“If you teach me,” he said. He turned his hand over but didn't open it.

Soo-Taie took his fist into her two hands. She grunted.

Etienne opened his fingers one by one. The silver scissors sparkled in the firelight. Soo-Taie cocked her
head to one side then the other.

“See,” Etienne said. He put his two fingers in the scissor holes. He pulled a stray wisp of hair from the thick braid that reached her waist. The small scissors sheared right through it. He held the wisp of hair in the air, then let it fall to the floor.

Soo-Taie gasped and opened her palm. Etienne placed the scissors onto it. The bargain had been made.

Tsiko walked back with Etienne in the cool evening air.

A high-pitched cry coming from the other side of the palisade startled them both. Tsiko's body went taut. He raised a hand.

“Is it Iroquois?” Etienne whispered, his heart pounding in fear.

Tsiko put his finger to his lips. He went to the wall and listened. A second cry, like the yelp of a dog, made Etienne cringe. They heard a thud, followed by a groan.

Tsiko ran to the gate, unbolted it and pushed it open.

“What's going on?” yelled the soldier on duty.

A figure lay on the path. From the breeches and boots, it was clearly a Frenchman.

The guard's lantern bounced and swung as he ran towards them. His light illuminated the body. The man lay on his stomach. From beneath the cloak covering his head, a pool of dark, sticky liquid seeped into the ground.

“Ring the bell,” the soldier said to Etienne. “You fetch the doctor,” he told Tsiko.

Master Gendron walked about the body with his lantern aloft. Father Rageuneau and Father Bressani crossed themselves and murmured prayers. The doctor knelt and pressed his fingers to the cold, clammy neck. Then he rolled him over.

Everyone gasped at the great gaping gash across his forehead. Jacques Douart had met his death by tomahawk.

Etienne shuddered. He tried hard to keep a brave face as his throat tightened and his lips went white. All he had to do was look away, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the ghastly sight of Brother Douart's dead body.

“He didn't receive Extreme Unction,” Father Bressani whispered.

“We can never predict when we will be called to God,” Father Rageuneau replied.

The carpenter affixed a wooden cross to the standing lid of the pine box. Nicholas planed the sides of the coffin. His face was as white as the shavings that curled and fell to the floor.

A square of grey blanket covered the single small window. After Master Gendron had washed the caked blood from Douart's scalp, he repaired the gaping wound. The only sound was the buzzing of flies. Jacques Douart's fish-belly grey skin attracted many. Etienne watched the doctor's gentle hands dress the dead man in white linen.

The shrouded corpse rested on the table in the
infirmary. The fire in the hearth lay banked almost to the point of extinction, and candles flickered in wooden stands at each corner. Father Rageuneau approached. He made the sign of the cross over the body. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” he whispered. He crossed himself then dropped to his knees on the hard earth floor. “I ask in the name of the Lord for a place for our brother in eternity.” The Jesuit, with his rosary threaded through his fingers, moved his lips in silence. Etienne had watched his mother kneel and say her beads in the very same way, every day of his life. She would kiss the little wooden cross that hung from the rosary of pearls before she rose. Etienne's eyes brimmed at the memory.

With a groan, Father Rageuneau rose. He wound the strand of blue porcelain beads around the dead man's clasped hands. Then, taking a small wooden brush from a bowl nearby, he sprinkled the body with holy water.

High Mass was to be at dusk. They would bury Brother Douart behind the church. The little cemetery behind St. Joseph would now have a Frenchman among the Christian Hurons.

As news of the murder spread, Hurons came from neighbouring villages to report that the murderers demanded that all Huron who had become Christians return to their old ways. The Jesuits were no longer to visit the Huron villages.

That night the two boys once again watched and listened from the kitchen door as the priests and brothers met.

“How will these murderers be brought to justice?” Father Daniel asked.

Father Rageuneau picked up his quill pen. “We will conform to Huron law,” he said. “They will have to live with the shame of losing some of their possessions. A tribute must be paid.”

Father Mesquin stood in protest. “Murder is a sin. They
must
be punished.”

Father Rageuneau held up his hand. “Taking lives as punishment only leaves fatherless children. We will leave their judgment to the Almighty,” he said.