Order of Good Cheer

by Bill Gaston

  This evening Lescarbot, in mocking their food and their manners (it is a wary mocking, for he is still afraid of them), remarked on their ignorance of “God’s etiquette,” as if there is such a thing, as if He wastes His evenings sitting in judgement of whether one stabs with one’s fork or eases it under. Lescarbot is a fool. God doesn’t dine, except perhaps on our good sense and cheer, which works to alert rather than tire Him, if He deigns notice us at all.

  In any event I would now propose a hybrid menu, a way to get the men to eat of the savages’ fresh food, especially their strange berries and herbaceous small vegetables, most of which they save by drying. I claim it is no accident that, for want of fresh food, our common men sicken — as several seem to be sickening now — while the savages do not. Nor do we nobles sicken who sit at Poutrincourt’s table, a table adorned more often than not with whatever the savages have killed and brought to us, fresh, for barter.

  I have seen the equation too often to ignore it yet longer. It is now not a question but a truth. Lescarbot laughs at the idea and, since he owns wit, he also owns Poutrincourt’s ear. Through this whole talk, our priest Fr. Vermoulu does not blink but rather chews along with the rest of the cattle. He continually pronounces savage food as profane. And so the men turn away at the thought of savage food — the thought, more so than the food itself. But nor are the savages themselves free of lunacy, for of all the world’s food, they savour most our dry biscuit.

  Not many deserve the tongue God gave us.

  After putting down and cleaning his pens, Samuel finds he is breathing almost hard, and needs must rise and walk, though it is late. Striding the courtyard, and passing through the gate, and even so long as he is in sight of the walls, he feels that every man awake knows the words he has written and carries in his pocket, in a crumpled ball.

  SOME THREE DAYS before Yule, Samuel’s friend the good sagamore Membertou is finally granted his wish. He and his family (and some whom Samuel suspects are not his family) are invited into the Christian faith.

  The politics of this manoeuvre have not been simple. Membertou has all along piped his plea loudly and like a boy to any who would listen, even the common men. But of late Lescarbot — who now maintains that, in the eyes of the King, the more savage souls saved the better (that is, better for them and their enterprise here) — has been seeding the ear of the Sieur. Samuel cares not one way or the other, except that he finds it repugnant to witness Lescarbot’s entreaties for they are based solely on connivance, and only a little on religion. Lescarbot clearly believes the savages are no more capable of holding the Scripture’s truth than an unbunged cask can hold wine. And now Poutrincourt has beseeched the unsmiling Vermoulu to carry out this conversion and give birth to two score of new Catholics. Poutrincourt’s motivation here is that the priest has fallen ill with the scurve, and so the good noble thinks to do it now, or do it never.

  At the door to the dining hall, Fougeray blows a trumpet and pulls the horn away to reveal a smile of condescension. So much for the earnest solemnity of saving New France’s souls, thinks Samuel, sitting at table, watching the Mi’qmah troop in. Though some would argue that what matters most is the power of the rite and not the readiness of the supplicants.

  The evening is cause for merriment if nothing else, and some of the Mi’qmah, the children in particular, seem transported and have been made marvellously happy, jumping up where they are and laughing at the ceiling, and so maybe this is justification enough. Barging in bellicose, and wearing a live bird attached in his hair, Membertou himself is like a child oaf. Samuel would dare say the old sagamore has lately come to welcome the next goblet as heartily as a common French sailor; indeed he knows most of their songs now and is in a hurry to lead in their singing. At the same time — something Samuel has noticed before tonight — even at the height of his bellowing, Membertou steals knowing and capricious glances at his wives and sons, and though their bodies’ vocabulary does not include winking, his bemused eyes flash the equivalent. It is as though he is suggesting to his followers that it is the French who are the children, and he their guide, and moreover that his manipulations take place without their knowledge.

  Membertou shouts his habitual “Ho-ho!” to the table of nobles, and greets them first with an upward flourish of a hand, pausing in this savage salute, and then moves to them each in turn to shake their hand.

  Vermoulu stands before them all, seemingly at the ready, and yet also unclear how to proceed. He is young, and how many conversions, or even baptisms, could a young priest have conducted in a land of priests? Vermoulu has said nothing about his health, but he was spotted two days ago leaving both the apothecary’s and the surgeon’s quarters, his countenance glum. Samuel can see the signs. The priest appears dizzy on his feet and walks with pain, as if his legs feel twice their bulk, and he chews timidly, in fear of eating the swollen meat of his cheeks. More and more, Samuel marks the marriage of food and ill humour — this is a man whose privilege allows him to have his own garden and eat at the nobles’ table but he won’t. In a gesture of humility and poverty that appears only prideful, he insists on nothing but beef and biscuit, and not much of it. Moreover, his condemnation of many of the savage foodstuffs as profane has put many of the men off these good, though strange, foods too. The deer’s stomach, for instance, which was one fortnight ago boiled in its entirety and the green contents divided and eaten, and which tasted near as good as a spinach purée, was declared by him a blasphemy because, in his words, “it is food already swallowed, and therefore almost excrement.” It was the only green stuff they had seen in two months, save the skins of some small tubers. Samuel lightly challenged and queried him, and Vermoulu could not substantiate his claim with a citing of book and verse. Samuel has seen other men of the church become as this one: to them, their own insight becomes dogma. Indeed it seems a perversion common to all leadership, especially, Samuel would venture, in an isolated settlement.

  Smoke from the abundance of celebratory candles, lamps, and an overstoked fire stings his eyes as he watches the savages line up. Apparently the children will become Christians first. Poutrincourt sits to the side, smiling regally, a proxy king. Samuel does not know why he is finding this distasteful, seeing as it is all meant to quench Membertou’s thirst for God. But when Lescarbot, who looks dressed as for his own marriage, stands and begins to speak, Samuel drinks deeply from his goblet and then with nary a pause lifts it to catch a server’s eye. He refuses to listen to the speech but does note the lawyer’s skill in giving the words King and God and Poutrincourt equal measure.

  Father Vermoulu, glaring through the damp cowl of his dis-ease, spills water on the savage children’s heads in turn, whispering what Samuel assumes is proper Latin while, seated centre stage at a desk with pen and parchment, Lescarbot announces and records the new Christian names. Brave with brandy, of his own accord he chooses the names of the French Royal Family to bestow on the savages upon their birth as Christians. Membertou’s grandchildren are now Prince Louis, Princess Charlotte, Princess Marie. Membertou’s eldest son, perhaps because of the shape and posture of his skin headdress, is given their Pope’s name, Paul, and for this Fr. Vermoulu gathers enough energy to send the lawyer a withering look. (Samuel is mostly relieved to see that the other son, the keel-less one, has chosen, or been forced, to be absent.)

  The gathered men drink with purpose, and they cheer and toast each new Christian in turn. The savages drink too, and they arrive now at the stage willy-nilly. Membertou’s wife gets the name of King Henri’s present wife, and she is announced as Queen Marie, and while none of the savages are any the wiser, the men know the name’s import and cheer this new queen. One of Membertou’s younger daughters — Samuel thinks she is a daughter, but in any event she is the carpenter Lucien’s paramour — is given the name of King Henri’s earlier wife, Queen Marguerite, and her response is to glare at the supercilious Lescarbot and then say something bold and harsh-sounding to Membertou, whose own response is
already Christian, for here he turns his cheek. At this juncture some of the men call out such as, Hear Lucien’s lady! and, Aha for the carpenter’s bitch! at which Poutrincourt perks up, and then looks concerned, and also perhaps embarrassed to be apparently the lone one in the room to know nothing of this affair; and then he turns this way and that to ask quick questions. Samuel wonders what will come of this, for the Sieur is one who lives by, and indeed believes in, the word and rule of both Bible and King.

  Samuel checks, but cannot locate Lucien’s face in the crowded room.

  For the most part the evening moves apace, and each child, young or old, receives their religion and their new name with a pride that is defeated by wonder, for they would hear their name, a kind of gibberish to them merely, and instantly look to Membertou for confirmation that something good has just been done. And their sagamore, kingly himself tonight, uniformly nods and smiles, and with raised goblet toasts them like a Frenchman.

  For Samuel, the Mi’qmahs’ innocence and wonder help this evening by giving it honesty and, he confesses, a kind of entertainment, the likes of which they have not yet seen in their modest compound. But at the same time there is taint to it: each time Lescarbot says a name his posture is the caricature of a king granting favours, and his smile is as curved as his hair. He is patronizing even to Membertou, who at last has now stood and come forward. Lescarbot delays, sensing everyone’s wait, the sagamore’s most of all, and when he finally says, “Henri,” he shines with a look so self-proud it suggests that he, Lescarbot, owned the power to make kings.

  Good Membertou leaps to leave his feet with earnest surprise and happiness when learning he has been given their French King’s name. And not just his age makes this a lunatic sight, for it looks like the finch tied to his hair is trying once more for heaven, and this time succeeds, if but for a second, in pulling the old chief up. At this same time all the men break into a sonorous Te Deum, giving the hymn their full lungs and hearts. And the sum of all this catches up the hairs on Samuel’s neck, and swells his throat, and makes him smile and wonder if perhaps this is not a most fortunate evening after all.

  But then it is unfortunate that the new king now begins to act rather too kingly, as though the name he now owns has some serious import beyond being merely a name. Even before the men have stopped their singing, and then their cheering, first and instantly Henri Membertou loudly seeks wine, and Poutrincourt’s boy reluctantly scurries to do his bidding. But when the sagamore calls loudly that a chair like Sieur Poutrincourt’s be set beside the Sieur’s, no one seems to heed him, and Poutrincourt merely turns away. And Lescarbot’s smile loses its curl.

  Samuel turns away himself. He feels unsteady in mood, and he has sought more comfort in wine than is usually the case. He can pretend it is tonic for the blood (as the surgeon, though not the apothecary, insists it is). But the night lifted his spirits not a bit. The winter weather is hardening without, and all of their lamps and candles seem innocent of this fact, as does their raucous and hypocritical glee. He is not the most religious man here, but he feels that something is dangerously wrong, this room filled with the face, but not the heart, of belief. One should not tempt God in this way. With the priest, three men are now ill, though they are still on their feet. Only Samuel and some few others know what their death will look like, and again tonight’s naive jollity seems ill-advised.

  And one wonders what will be the effect upon their Mi’qmah friends, this conferring of the name, but not the sense, of Christianity. The rites being done, the no-longer savages stand with dripping heads listening to the last of Lescarbot’s florid speech about the Trinity, Christian duty, responsibility, and privilege. The speech makes up for Father Vermoulu’s lack of volubility and then some.

  Now, striding forward to stand an inch from Lescarbot’s small shoulder, beginning with Ho-ho, Membertou respeaks the lawyer’s words in his own tongue for the benefit of his tribe; and what strikes Samuel is this: customarily, the savage tongue needs five minutes’ time to explain what the French explains in one. Why is it, then, that Membertou’s speech to his people takes but one minute, when Lescarbot’s took five? Possibly the answer is that the chief speaks of privilege only. Why else would they help themselves to all of the bread, as they do now, from both bowls? Little Princess Charlotte, bread stuffed in both cheeks, fills the front of her skins with more. Likewise, Membertou’s son, his face newly hardened, demands wine from the good jug. Samuel is not certain if Poutrincourt has noticed this. Clearly Lescarbot has, for he laughs, but he does not care. In future he will simply deny them.

  Samuel knows that these new Christians will never darken the door of church. And they still have not been taught how to pray.

  LUCIEN WAITS FOR HER in the courtyard cold, pacing by the well, and it’s his good luck that Ndene is the first to emerge, appearing black in silhouette to all the celebratory light issuing from the doorframe.

  One arm is up, her hand moving on her head, and Lucien sees she is trying to rub her wet hair dry. So the priest has baptized her with water. She looks severe. Such is the chill this night that she should not be out with wet hair.

  Lucien steps forward and offers Ndene his hat, but she aims her head away from it. She mumbles something and Lucien believes he has been told not to worry because the water will freeze. He smells wine on her breath, and she has never had wine. He notes that, while the other women and girls, some of whom he saw go in, are wearing especial finery tonight, Ndene wears her skins unadorned. They walk the distance of the courtyard, then approach Poutrincourt’s boy, who has preceded them and is already at the gate. Under the smoking torch he looks miserable and sick, and he shoves one stuck gate door open for them with a frustrated bellow of breath.

  Lucien and Ndene walk the trodden snow of the main path for a time without speaking until Lucien feels it might be time for the game they play, which is to nudge her with his shoulder, gently breaking her stride, a trick that always makes her laugh, or at the very least smile, and shake her head at her own stupidity for being so clumsy and foolish to have been taken by surprise yet again. And then wait until he has forgotten his jest before taking her turn to put her shoulder to his and send him into the brambles, or a drift.

  This time, she merely regains her stride, takes his arm, and squeezes it, as if to say that no such jesting fits this night, please stop, it is enough merely to walk.

  So they walk, the half-moon on the snow more than ample to guide their eyes, for it makes the snow almost bright and the tree trunks black. There is a breeze, adding a double cold, but the walking quickly warms them. In all likelihood they won’t make love on the ground tonight, though Ndene has surprised him before. And perhaps she is leading him to another of the hidden barked domes that appear, it seems, everywhere, not that Lucien likes them. They smell, even in winter, because those that stay upright through five or ten or however many winters have been used for every human purpose, time and again. Though, in winter, at least the bugs are dormant. (Repugnant as it is, Ndene has told him that sometimes during the very leanest times these domes are ripped apart and toppled in clumsy attempts to get at these insects’ frozen nests, which are plundered as a scant meal.)

  They walk on in the night, having instinctively taken the fork in the path that turns uphill, away from the bay, for it is coldest next to water. (He has touched her head and those newly sacred strands of hair are indeed frozen. Long, bendable twigs.) They walk some more and now Lucien feels her shoulders ease down and her breathing slow. At long last she pauses beside a sheltering wall of rock and speaks, and what she says has some humour to it as she tells him that her new French name is Queen Marguerite.

  Lucien laughs and falls to a knee, takes up one of her hands in both of his, and kisses it. “My Queen,” he says, in so honeyed a courtly French that she may be able to distinguish it from his ordinary voice and know that he is play-acting. She does seem to understand the entire gesture, for she is queenly in manner as she pulls him to his feet. She
leans against the rock wall and she is nothing but royal in her command that he lean in against her. She moves quickly with both of their belts, and he can tell that it will be fast, even beyond the need for haste demanded in such weather, and that there is still anger in her.

  WHEN LUCIEN HEARD that Membertou’s request had finally been granted, and that the sagamore and his family would be made Christian, he was surprised only to learn that this conversion would include his own Ndene. Up until that time he had no knowledge that they were related, let alone closely. He still is not clear on it, but Ndene is either the sagamore’s niece or great-niece. According to Ndene herself, Membertou favours her like a daughter because she is honest with him and tells him what he is doing wrong, a quality he either likes or doesn’t like in others, or perhaps just women. It is hard for Lucien to get these sorts of things clear, and eventually he and Ndene give up trying. Tilts of the head, widening eyes, encouraging laughter, fingers sculpting the air: this language works better than the spoken, but it travels down the road of subtlety only so far, and accuracy is never a certain thing, and often they fall to a silence unsure of what, if anything, has been understood. Had she seen the hummingbird nest and its eggs, or desired to see it?