Warbird

by Jennifer Maruno

“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.

  FOURTEEN

  Ten Moons and a Murder

  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.

  Father Mesquin turned on his heel and left.

  “Was it the Iroquois?” Etienne asked Nicholas in an incredulous whisper.

  “No,” Nicholas said wi
th wide eyes. “It was heathen Huron.”

  FIFTEEN

  The Gifts

  The evening of the eleventh moon, a number of Hurons gathered at the main gates. Four highly-decorated warriors asked to speak with the Father Superior.

  Father Brébeuf rushed to Etienne and Tsiko, his skirts swishing. “Fetch the Fathers.”

  The door to Father Rageuneau’s room sat ajar. Etienne knocked then gave it a small push. Father Rageuneau was working in the yellow glow of a candle at a small wooden table. There was no heat. He only made use of his fireplace when the weather was bitter, in order to set an example to those he directed. Above his desk, the Saviour hung painfully from the cross.

  Etienne coughed, and Father Rageuneau looked up quizzically.

  “There are Huron to see you,” Etienne said.

  The Father Superior returned his pen to the inkwell. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands and tilted his head towards the ceiling in prayer.

  In his own room, Father Mesquin sat on his wooden bench with eyes closed. His prayer book was about to fall from his hand. He woke with a start when Tsiko removed it and placed it on his table. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

  “Father Brébeuf . . .” Tsiko said as Etienne came to his side.

  “You thought it was acceptable to enter without permission?” Mesquin asked.

  “The door was open,” Tsiko said. “We came to tell you . . .” he started to say, but Father Mesquin ignored him.

  “I was praying,” Mesquin said to Tsiko. “Who told you you could come in?”

  “But . . . Father Rageuneau . . .” stammered Tsiko

  The priest adjusted his skirts, muttering about how the Indians were unable to tell the truth.

  Tsiko crossed his arms angrily. “I do not lie,” he said.

  Etienne felt his cheeks grow hot.

  The priest’s eyes blazed like the hot coals of his fire as he stood up. His hand shot out from a long black sleeve. The smack against Tsiko’s cheek startled Etienne. Even though he did not feel the sting, his own eyes filled with tears.

  “You knock,” Father Mesquin said. “If there is no answer, you come back.” Then the priest sighed as if he was very, very tired and turned to Etienne. “What do you wish?

  “There are Huron at the gate,” Etienne said.

  “There are Huron everywhere,” the priest replied, pushing past them both.

  Tsiko raised his chin and spoke through clenched teeth. “You do not know how to speak the truth,” he said to the empty room. He turned to Etienne. “He was asleep.”

  The boys remained near the gate to watch. Nicholas, Ambroise Broulet, the cook, and Louie Gaubert, the blacksmith, joined him. Master Gaubert looked old enough to be Etienne’s grandfather, but there was nothing frail about him. The wizened blacksmith kept Ambroise’s cooking pots in good repair, which is why he got larger helpings than anyone else.

  Father Rageuneau greeted the speaker of the Huron party. From his gown he drew a small bundle of sticks and handed it to the speaker.

  “Why did he give the chief sticks?” Etienne asked in a whisper.

  “It’s the number of gifts the Hurons have to give,” Louise Gaubert said. “It’s the punishment for murder.”

  “I heard each gift is a thousand wampum beads,” said Nicholas.

  “They should ask for one hundred bundles of beaver skins,” Ambroise Broulet replied.

  “Gifts for the murder of a Huron man is thirty presents,” Tsiko informed Etienne. “Ten more for the murder of a woman,” he added.

  “That makes sense,” Etienne said with a nod. It seemed a Huron woman’s work never ended. She gathered the year’s supply of firewood before sowing, tilling and harvesting. She smoked fish, dressed skins, and made clothing. Every day she prepared food. Even Etienne’s mother received help from his father, when he had the time.

  The day for the gift giving ceremony was set. The Huron chiefs left as the sky, feathered with wisps of white, faded to dark.

  The crowd gathered in the field in front of the Mission longhouse. Etienne, Nicholas and Tsiko were to carry the gifts to the special platform built for their display.

  The Hurons presented their first gifts at the gate. Father Brébeuf made a great show of examining the twists of tobacco, leather pouches and braids of sweetgrass.

  “Please enter,” Father Rageuneau finally said.

  The huge procession of moccasins moved past the gate into the clearing. Etienne’s eyes scanned the visitors. Some men wore their hair above their ears in great rolls. Others braided it with feathers and wore it to one side. They walked in clans, wearing skins like cloaks, bodies painted, oiled and greased. Each chief carried a skin bundle, birch-bark casket or basket.

  All was silent. Even the birds had stopped chirping.

  “Did the people of your village come?” Etienne whispered.

  “There are my uncles,” Tsiko said, pointing to two men passing through the gate. Etienne recognized a hunter from the day Tsiko had fallen into the icy water. The other man wore necklaces of animal claws and bones. Tails of fur swung from his eel-skin headband. Etienne knew him to be the medicine-man of the Cord People. The doctor often conferred with him.

  “So you are Cord,” said Etienne.

  “My father was Cord,” Tsiko told him, “my mother, Deer. Uncles said I must be Cord. But Owl Oki gave me great courage. I became Deer to make my mother proud.”

  Etienne shot his friend a look of surprise. It would take great courage indeed to disobey those uncles. Tsiko wanted to please his mother even though she was dead. The thought that Etienne might never be able to please his mother again stabbed him like a knife.

  The ceremony began when the chief of all the clans moved forward and spoke as the three boys carried the gifts to Father Brébeuf.

  “Here is something by which we withdraw the tomahawk from the wound,” Father Brébeuf translated for all. “This present makes it fall from avenging hands,” he added.

  Father Rageuneau accepted three magnificent mink skins dangling from a decorated pole.

  The Huron presenting the gift grunted and moved back. Another chief moved forward.

  “Here is something to wipe the blood from the wound,” Brébeuf called out. The Father Superior accepted a bundle of beaver pelts.

  The next gift, an ice chisel, symbolized the earth cracking at the horror of the crime.

  A magnificent pair of moose hide mittens, trimmed with fur, was for placing a stone over the crack. Then the whole assembly rose. They danced to stamp the earth back into place.

  Etienne, Tsiko and Nicholas joined in, despite Father Mesquin’s scowl of disapproval.

  The gift of matching moccasins was to help make village paths peaceful once again.

  The sixth gift was a three-pound plug of tobacco for the father of the victim. A tobacco pouch, decorated with porcupine quills, was to restore the peace of mind of the offended father.

  These gifts, placed into Etienne’s hands, made his father’s angry face loom before him. How would he restore the peace of mind of his offended father?

  Tsiko passed with an intricately carved wooden bowl. It was to hold a drink for the mother of the victim, for she would suffer and sicken at the death of her son.

  Etienne pictured his mother lugging a pail of water into the kitchen. The thought of her being sick left him cold. Would his disappearance have made her ill?

  A large moose skin, so heavy that it took all three boys to carry it, was a place for the mother to rest during her time of mourning.

  After that, Nicholas tiredly plunked himself down on the grass, but Tsiko pulled at his arm to rise. There was more to come.

  “The next gifts are to help clear the way for the journey to the sun,” Father Brébeuf said, as a warrior laid a deerskin bundle at Father Rageuneau’s feet.

  “Brother Douart won’t be leaving the cemetery,” Nicholas whispered.

  Tsiko shot him a stern look.

  “Don’t say his name,”
Etienne warned.

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.”

  Father Rageuneau unfolded the bundle to reveal four knives, each one different. He carefully examined the small crooked knife, the skinning knife, the hunting knife and the snow knife. He nodded in approval.

  The next warrior carried his bundle to Father Brébeuf himself. The four fox skins were to pillow the dead one’s head.

  As the sky faded to gunpowder grey, the wooden church melted into the shadows. The chiefs of the clans stood silent, waiting. The air filled with expectation in the torches’ glare.

  Father Brébeuf brought a small wooden box and placed it at the Father Superior’s feet. With a wave, he dismissed the boys to the edge of the crowd.

  The headmen of each clan stepped forward. Their upper bodies glistened in the light of the torches. Each presented Father Rageuneau with strings of beadwork to bring the bones of the dead man together.

  Father Rageuneau stretched out his arms, and they laid their gifts across them.

  Father Brébeuf opened the small wooden box. The revered Jesuit brought out a beaded belt. The chief accepted it as recognition of the restored trust between the Huron and the French. He grunted in approval and all withdrew in silence.

  SIXTEEN

  Teanaustaye Destroyed

  Once again Etienne dreamed. This time, he was sitting at the top of a tree overlooking the land. In the middle of the forest a great fire burned. A flock of blue jays on a nearby bough called to him, then they rose and headed for the fire. Some flew around it. Others flew directly into it, but they did not burn. Their feathers turned deep blue, then purple. They became crows.

  Some of the crows returned to the branch where Etienne was sitting. They folded their stiff wings, fixed him with their beady black eyes and cackled. Others surrounded Etienne in a great flurry of dark wings. They scratched at his body with their claws. Some pecked at his chest. Then the attacking crows lifted him out of the tree towards the fire. He felt the heat of the flames as they flew closer and closer. As his body turned black, Etienne lurched awake.