Blood Relation

by Michael Rowe

  BLOOD RELATION

  MICHAEL ROWE

  ChiZine Publications

  COPYRIGHT

  “Blood Relation” © 2012 by Michael Rowe

  All rights reserved.

  Published by ChiZine Publications

  This short story was originally published in Enter, Night by Michael Rowe, first published in print form in 2011, and in an ePub edition in 2011, by ChiZine Publications.

  Original ePub edition (in Enter, Night) October 2011 ISBN: 9781927469033.

  This ePub edition November 2012 ISBN: 978-1-927469-61-3.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

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  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Blood Relation

  About the Author

  More Dark Fiction from ChiZine Publications

  BLOOD RELATION

  From the notes of Professor Phenius Osborne

  Department of Anthropology, University of Toronto

  Sidney Smith Hall, 100 St. George Street, Toronto

  Fall Term, 1971

  Note:The text that follows is my translation of an original document held by Professor Victor Kleinschmit of the Department of History at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. The document itself, written in French, dates from the seventeenth century and appears to be a letter from a Jesuit missionary on his deathbed, addressed to his superiors in Rome. I have cross-referenced both this document with every available edition of The Jesuit Relations, but have found no reference to it, nor to the priest mentioned (Fr. Nyon) in any available record pertaining to the history of the Jesuits in Canada.

  Dr. Kleinschmit, upon hearing of my work on the St. Barthélemy dig in Parr’s Landing in the summer of 1952, invited me to come to Michigan to read it and to translate, which I did.

  It is worth noting that I did not share any of the specific events surrounding the excavation of the St. Barthélemy site during the summer of 1952 with Dr. Kleinschmit, so his delivery of this document into my hands was in no way intended to support any “fantastical” notions of what might have occurred there that summer. The story, as read here, presents a plausible theory of the origin of the Wendigo legend of St. Barthélemy by a writer obviously familiar with myths and legends of that period.

  In 1968, I forwarded a copy of my translation to Fr. Pedro Arrupe, SJ, (the twenty-eighth and current) Superior General of the Society of Jesus in Rome to enquire as to why it had not been included among the official records of the Jesuit missions to New France.

  On February 12th, I received a brief, very courteous reply (see later notes, attached) from the Superior General’s secretary thanking me for my letter, assuring me that the Reverend Father had enjoyed reading the document I sent him and thanking me for my “assiduous scholarship” and my “interest in the glorious history of the Jesuit martyrs” but asserting that, owing to both its “fantastical and lurid” subject matter as well as its length, the document was clearly a forgery, though it had already been examined on both palaeographic and material grounds by Professor Kleinschmit, and found to be consistent, even if the subject matter itself was not. It’s not surprising to me that the SG would find this embarrassing if fictional; and mortifying if it was proven to be an authentic record of the delusions of a Jesuit missionary likely driven mad by the isolation of northern Ontario in the seventeenth century. The Jesuit motto, “Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam”—to the greater glory of God—is repeated several times in this narrative, which struck me as unusual, since one can infer that both the writer and the recipient were already well familiar with its meaning. There is an earnestness to its use here that seems noteworthy, especially in context of the narrative, as becomes obvious.

  NB: Must forward a copy to Billy. He will find this entertaining, esp. in light of our “adventures” with good Dick Weal that summer!

  —P. K. O., Ph. D. 09/12/71

  Being the Last True Testament and Relation of Father Alphonse Nyon;

  Given at Montréal, Québec in the form of a Letter to the Very Reverend Father Vincenzo Caraffa, Superior General of the Society of Jesus, at Rome

  Anno Domini 1650

  Very Reverend Father in Christ,

  Pax Christi

  I send this last Relation in the hopes that it will reach Your Reverence by the ship returning to France before the ice in this bitter region renders entirely compromised the passage of our vessels across the ocean.

  I fear that my time here in this land is short, as the pox that has plagued hundreds of the Savages, thankfully a goodly number of them baptized and brought to our Christian Faith and now resting in the arms of Our Lord Jesus Christ in Heaven, has taken me into its embrace as well.

  I write with difficulty and have entrusted the care and delivery of this Relation to Your Reverence into the hands of my friend Father Charles Vimont. He has sworn to seal this document and not to cast his eyes upon its contents, which are for the eyes of Your Reverence alone, on the peril of his Immortal Soul.

  For my part, my vain prayers that I should again see the shores of my homeland or the beautiful cathedral of Notre-Dame de Chartres where I first heard Our Lord’s call as a young man, or indeed once again touch the face of my beloved mother, have been denied by Our Lord, and I submit myself joyfully to His will.

  My one true regret during these many years of service to the Savages of New France is that I should have been spared the great honour of martyrdom, the great blessing enjoined upon so many of our fallen Fathers at the bloody hands of the Hiroquois—most lately Father de Brébeuf, Father Chabanel, and Father de Lalande, who died so horribly at Sainte-Marie among the Hurons last year, praising the name of Christ and giving absolution to their Barbarian tormentors with their last breath, even after their tongues were cut out, for they kept preaching till death released them.

  I pray for Your Reverence’s understanding, prayers, and meditation upon the reading of this, my last Relation and Testament, for it is with a heavy heart that I set down the strange and terrible events I witnessed at St. Barthélemy among the Ojibwa in the northern Lac Superiéur region of the country in the winter of the Year of Our Lord 1632.

  These secrets I have kept to myself for nearly twenty years, confiding them not even in the Sacrament of Confession, though I regularly opened my heart to God and begged His forgiveness, not only for the blasphemies I have seen, but also for those I have wrought myself in my sad and pitiable effort to do His will as best as could be done by one so unworthy.

  In the autumn of that dark year of which I write, word was received by Monsieur de Champlain at Trois-Rivières of the destruction of two of our settlements near Sault de Gaston, in Huronia, and the martyrdom of three of our Jesuit Fathers in what could only have been an attack by the Hiroquois, for their fiendish handiwork leaves a spoor as unmistakable as the handiwork of Satan himself.

  In the first, the Mission of Sainte-Berthe, the martyrs were, by name, Father Renaud d’Olivier, Father Mathieu Glazier, and Father Nausson d’Uongue. The Fathers had travelled from France together and, it was reported, had been as close as brothers. I pray they found comfort in their brotherhood at the end. The Indian trappers reported the hideous sight of the maimed and tortured bodies of d’Olivier, Glazier, and d’Uongue. Their scorched bodies still hung from the stakes to which they were tied and left for carrion. The Savages, it was reported, had po
ured boiling water over their heads in mockery of Baptism and cut out their eyes and tongues, placing live coals in the sockets.

  Likewise, they reported the smoke still heavy and foul over the burned village, and many dead, including a number of baptized Savages. We wept at this news, even though we knew that our fallen Brothers had attained the heights of Heaven, having died in the greatest possible service to Our Lord Jesus Christ. Never have the words of our Jesuit motto, Ad majorem Dei gloriam, comforted me more than they did in the hours that followed the news of the Fathers’ martyrdom.

  In the second instance, the strange news was of the mission of St. Barthélemy deep in the Ojibwa region of that country, a region noted for the cruelty of the terrain itself and of the strangeness of its customs, superstitions and legends. So tight, it is said, is the Devil’s hold upon these poor people that establishing a mission in this particular region had long been an ambition of the Crown in its support of our work here in New France.

  In the case of the mission of St. Barthélemy, the trappers related that the mission seemed entirely abandoned.

  Unlike the mission of Sainte-Berthe, which had clearly fallen to an attack by the Hiroquois, the mission at St. Barthélemy appeared deserted, as though the inhabitants, both Christian and Savage, had all departed freely and of their own volition.

  The trappers observed this and more and related it to Monsieur de Champlain, who in turn related it to Father de Varennes, who was then the representative responsible for dispatching our Fathers on their missions upriver in the company of their Huron guides.

  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.”