“Iroquois have never been on this part of the St. Lawrence,” scoffed the Jesuit. “In all my years as a missionary . . .” he said, just as a war-whoop erupted across the water.
Tsiko flashed from the water like a trout eating a fly. He grabbed the hem of the priest’s cassock and yanked him down.
Father Bressani floundered about in the river
Etienne dragged the confused Jesuit into the canoe. Tsiko leaped in behind. The boys dipped their paddles deep and sent the canoe surging forward to the shelter of the fallen tree.
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.
TWENTY-ONE
The Trader
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 un
der 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.
TWENTY-TWO
Home
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
“It’s from the sun,” was all he could think to say.
The boy entered the house first. Etienne’s glance took in his clean linen shirt and woollen breeches. The boy’s face, no longer gaunt, looked round and full.
Etienne’s father followed.
François Chouart stopped short. He ran his hand down his greying beard. Etienne watched his father’s face. He was so very pale, with great shadows under his eyes. Would it change like the sky into a cloud of thunder, black with anger?
“You are so rough and brown. I would have taken you for a savage,” was all he said.
The orphan boy could only stare.
The steam rising from the iron pot caught Etienne’s eye. He turned to it. His mother, seeing the hunger in his eyes, quickly filled a bowl. “Here,” she said, pressing it into his hands and guiding him to the table.
The first mouthful burned his lips, but he was so hungry, he kept on. He hadn’t tasted food this good in a long time. When finished, he held on to the bowl, as tense as an animal and waited.
Without speaking, his father walked back outside. He retrieved the bundles Etienne had left on the ground and carried them into the farmhouse.
Etienne put down his bowl and left the table. He opened the drawstring bag and handed his mother a small square birch-bark basket. “A few grains will go well in your pumpkin loaf,” he said with a smile. “You can add dried berries too.”
She looked up at him in surprise.
“And the leaves of the raspberry bush make a very good tea,” he added.
Her face broke into a wide smile.
“Fishing is a failure in Kebec,” his father said unexpectedly, “and a bad year for crops.”
Etienne untied the blanket around the bundle of furs. “These should help us this winter.”
His father lifted the pack, weighing it in his mind. Then he shook his head in wonder. “Longer than this winter,” he said.
The silver case with the mirror Etienne handed back to the boy. “I’ve got a good story about a mirror,” he said. Then he paused. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I never told you,” the boy said. “It is Thomas.”
This time it was Etienne’s turn to stare.
“Your mother blamed herself for your leaving,” his father said, with an edge to his voice. “I would return to the house to find her with a spoon in her hand, staring off at the heavens.”
“You took my place to serve God,” Thomas said, hanging his head.
Etienne’s heart softened. Although touched by their belief that he was so pious, he had to tell the truth.
“I ran off to find adventure,” Etienne said. “You were right,” he said. “Life at the mission . . .” he paused to search for the right words, “was not as one would expect.”
“Is it true that fingers and toes freeze in the night?” Thomas asked.
“Which is why I have these,” Etienne said pulling out the deerskin mittens and moccasins.
His mother gasped and took them to examine the work.
Etienne took off his cap, decorated with braids of animal hair, claws, paws and feathers, and handed it to his father.
“You have returned in time to save us from a dire winter,” his father said.
“Not as
dire as the one I had,” Etienne replied.
To everyone’s surprise, his father threw back his head and laughed out loud.
Etienne stared at him in relief. His father’s mirth drained much of the anxiety from his heart. Tomorrow, Etienne would tell him about planting beans, corn and squash all together. He would explain how placing small fish in the soil would feed the young plants. There would be talk of hunting beaver, maple sugar and so much more. How shocked his mother would be to hear of how the voyageurs opened the flour bag and made a small hollow with their fist. After cracking an egg into the hole, along with a bit of river water, they mixed the dough with unwashed hands to make small flat cakes, which they baked by the fire.
“We must thank God for your safe arrival,” his mother said. She pulled the family to their knees in front of the fire.
Etienne closed his eyes. He thanked God heartily then prayed that Tsiko would reach his Tobacco Brothers. He would miss the boy who had taught him how to keep his eyes open to all the little things that happened around him. Then he grinned. His friend would be able to use his yellow-feathered drum to celebrate his own safe arrival and for dancing under the moon with his new family.
Author’s Note
The French Jesuits founded the great mission of Sainte-Marie in 1639. This important historical site was in the heart of the land of the Huron people. Written reports from Father Paul Rageuneau, Father Superior of the mission, provided the information about the priests, donnés and lay brothers. Father Francesco Bressani, Father Antoine Daniel and Father Jean de Brébeuf all served at the mission. The Huron Carol is a Christmas hymn written in 1643 by Father Jean de Brébeuf. Brother Jacques Douart, murdered in April 1648, lies in the tiny cemetery.
Ambroise Broulet, cook, Louis Gaubert, blacksmith, François Gendron, doctor and apothecary, Robert Le Coq, business manager, and Pierre Masson, tailor, all worked at the mission.
Voyageur Médard Chouart des Groseilliers was an engagé at Sainte-Marie from 1640 to 1646 before returning to live in Quebec. At the mission he acquired valuable experience necessary for his later travels of discovery.
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