Order of Good Cheer (11 page)

Worse, Vermoulu doubts the savages are capable of belief at all. Samuel thinks he is only wrong. Twice during past voyages and summers in Hochelaga up the great Canada River, Samuel has been witness to savages who speak to the Devil. The Algonquin call these men their “God-speakers,” which is heresy unheard of, but which, considering their lack of baptism, a Christian might forgive. In Hochelaga three summers past, amid several Algonquin tribes under the great sagamore Besouat, on the eve of a foray against the Iroquois, the God-speaker disappeared into an especial hut with great ceremony, the rest of the tribe moaning nonsense as he did so. Samuel watched as inside this hut the man pretended all manner of riot and fits. Indeed he may have had help — the walls shook as if he
were a beast twice his size. Outside, the gathered braves pretended likewise that he had become a great beast, for they aped fear and widened their eyes, and from behind trees some of the women shrieked and wept. It was all for show, but at the same time some part of them seemed to believe in it, or at least desired it to be true. Not too many minutes later the God-speaker crept from his hut and, all asweat and as if having suffered a month of deprivation and inhuman travail, his nose looking twice the size it should and his bugging eyes hanging out over it, the man in eager and oddly childlike tones explained himself to Besouat and several others of rank, but too quickly for Samuel to understand many words, and Besouat then turned and shouted the story to the crowd of men, and to the women and children huddled listening from the trees, the gist being that, according to this man's florid exchange with his god, they would be successful in their slaughter of their Iroquois enemies. (In the announcement no mention was made of the fact that Samuel and eight musketeers were on this occasion accompanying them to battle; indeed it was in this skirmish that Champlain was to kill three Iroquois — two of them sagamores — with one shot of the arquebus. The God-speaker knew he would be fighting for their side — one wonders if he mentioned this to his god.) In any event, with this hopeful announcement the entire gathering of tribes cheered and with no interruption in the cheering commenced a riotous celebration of lunatic dance that would last until dawn. Samuel reckoned that as military strategy they could have done no worse, a good sleep being the necessary medicine for anybody about to go to war. But the dancing and singing all night indeed proved not so ill a manoeuvre. Because at dawn, following some unseen signal, the men took up their weapons and leapt into the trees and then commenced a steady running walk of some hours' duration, and then they fought the Iroquois
through the afternoon and evening — all without apparent loss of vitality. They returned at the same running pace, carrying enemies' heads as if they weighed nothing.

And some time into the revelry that followed — impossibly, the braves danced some more before they slept and perhaps this irked the already tired Samuel — he drew Besouat aside and declared to him that they had heard the prophecy of the Devil, not God. Besouat asked the difference. In answer Samuel asked if his God-speaker was always right in his predictions and Besouat calmly answered no. Very tired now himself, Samuel instructed Besouat that he, his God-speaker, and his tribe were blind and deaf to the one true God, who in His mercy would give them all that they needed, if they should take up Christian prayer. Samuel then asked him how they came to be here, on this earth. Besouat told at length a story: after God had made all things, He took a number of arrows, stuck them in the ground, and in pulling them up drew forth men and women, who have since multiplied in the world up until this day.

Patiently Samuel listened and then told him that his story was false. He proceeded to instruct him in the truth, that, after creating a perfect world, God saw it needed governing and thenceforth brought their first father Adam to the Garden, and then afterwards Eve, and thence, after the Fall, the earth's children. Besouat, knowing truth when he heard it, listened as his fellows howled and leapt behind him in the clearing and all the way down to the river. The fire lit his face and he looked respectful as a child. Samuel spoke only so much as Besouat's wisdom would allow him to hear but nonetheless gave him essential news of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and also of Mary. At this Besouat smiled and said their beliefs were similar: the God, and Son, and Mother, and the Sun. God stood over all, and the Mother was feared because she ate them up, in death.

Samuel went on to tell him the error of this story too, and it felt odd to be speaking in this way for, though he believed as heartily as the next man, he was no preacher. But Besouat answered that he desired to pray as a Christian, if only someone would show him how. When, seeing the long, hungry winters in Besouat's eye, Samuel tried to tell him it wasn't bread, blankets, and axes that Christian prayer would bring, but rather immortality, Besouat seemed to listen and was glad enough with Champlain's promise that next time they voyaged this far west for furs they would bring their own God-speaker, a priest who would perform the necessary baptismal rite. Samuel nodded at the darkness in the direction of the immense Canada River and told the exhausted sagamore that the priest would guide him and hold him entirely under that water. At this Besouat was frightened and did not even try to hide it in front of his braves.

So the savages do believe in that which they cannot see, and strongly. Samuel thinks they should be Christian if they so wish it. Especially these Mi'qmah here. Like the Algonquin to the west, they are of cheerful disposition, but even more so. They laugh often, sometimes for reasons the French can't determine. They too are aware of this divide, and so they are very deliberate when speaking, speaking slowly and with long pauses, waiting for Samuel's nod to continue, as if in demand that they be understood. It is obvious to Samuel that many of them are of good judgement. He believes they could be taught to read —though his saying so might see him ridiculed, or worse, if this opinion of his were to voyage back to France. Even more dangerous is his thinking not only that the Mi'qmah would make interesting companions at prayer, but also that perhaps the French, too, could learn about their own God from the savages. During one of Membertou's previous visits, as the two of them stood at the western perimeter watching the new latrine being dug, and
when Membertou first broached the question about becoming Christian, Samuel happened to ask about his own religion, his own god. At this, the sagamore smiled, but nothing like Besouat's story was forthcoming. Instead, with a childlike and almost dismissive flick of one hand, Membertou indicated the vast harbour in front of them. When Samuel asked him if his god lived at sea, or beyond the sea, he lost his smile, spun, and pointed at the tree closest to them, and then at the mountain beyond it, and next at the thunderclouds in the southern sky, and then at Samuel himself. Samuel was for a moment made proud, until, last, Membertou turned his finger in on himself.

Samuel marked this heresy, but another as well, his own: there might be something to learn from these people about God's
proximity
. It seems that priests, and priests especially, made much ado about God's distance. But Membertou's little dance even survived logic: were not each of God's creations an extension of God, an arm? And was not God's arm God Himself? (Samuel would in all earnestness love to call this earth
God's face
, and the sea
God's humours
, and tell no one.)

IN THE MAPMAKER'S
rooms — though the old man has let go Samuel's arm and regards him with no ill will, having accepted that for today he will yet remain a heathen — Samuel has already decided not to go to service. The second bell is rung, but instead he goes to the cupboard. He turns and indicates that Membertou should sit again, if he wishes.

Recently and expertly hung by Lucien, the cupboard door swings smoothly on its black hinges. Both were salvaged from the ruin at St-Croix. Its inner shelves, though, are fresh wood, and smell sweetly of health. Samuel lifts out two goblets and the jug.

Perhaps out of regret that he could not fulfill good Membertou's wish to join him in a family under God, he offers instead the one part of the sacrament he can — wine. He stands to make a show of delivering it into his own cup by pouring it from a foot above. Then he lifts the cup in the direction of France, takes a small sip, and then, standing in formal posture, offers it to the sagamore. He knows that savages from all parts see brotherhood in such acts, just as they hold that privacy is the trait of an enemy. He knows, too, that Membertou would be well aware not only that wine is used in the sacrament, but also that in this compound each regular man receives one and one-half pints of medicinal wine daily, and also that they value it for more than its religious and medicinal properties.

The sagamore Membertou accepts Champlain's goblet with the posture and vanity of a king, literally rising in bearing to the occasion. He looks into the vessel, gazes into its depths, tilts the vessel and sees that the wine moves not at all — and there is nothing like haste in his movements. Samuel is enthralled to watch. The savage's study of the wine is only respectful, perhaps even fearful, for though he doesn't himself know intoxication, he has seen many a dull Frenchman grow bright, and then wise, and then loudly overwise, and in the end possessed by imbecility, and then, thankfully, sleep.

Enthralled, he watches Membertou take a first taste, for the tongue alone, and his eyes glance down as if seeing it. Then he has a deeper taste, for the head. Samuel watches him look inside himself, for change. Indeed, his eyes move, flitting as they would in a new forest, though this exploration is inner. At some length he looks up at Samuel with a gentle smile, in his eye the deepest sobriety of understanding. But then, hard on its heels, a merry flash of light.

They share the rest of the goblet together, and then have each one of their own, and they speak as best they can with what words they have in common. Membertou reiterates more passionately that the season of moose meat is almost upon them. Samuel congratulates the sagamore on the size of his family, and for his part Membertou sympathizes with Champlain's lack of one, despite the mapmaker's assurance that he has siblings and cousins aplenty. But it is clear that Membertou's meaning of family is that which you create — wives, children, and, he adds, brothers. Friends, he seems to mean. Membertou marvels, disturbed, at news that priests never make families. And then, after Samuel describes for him some of the dealings he can expect with priests should he ever become Christian, Membertou manages a good joke. When Samuel nods toward the blustery dark water of the bay and tells him that Fr. Vermoulu would guide him completely under the water out there, the old sagamore at first looks within, indeed as Besouat had. But instead of falling fearful, Membertou slyly casts his eyes to Samuel's and says in a quiet hiss, “Will he guide me back up?” and then tosses back his head to laugh at the ceiling.

Finished with his wine, and seeing that no more is forthcoming, laughing at unknown things, the old sagamore takes his leave of Samuel now, aping a brief French bow from the neck only, and takes his new head with him to his forest, and his people.

Samuel pours the remains of his goblet back in the jug. He hears the boots of the men as they issue from their common prayer; he leans back in his chair and considers. If a savage is eager to become Christian, eagerness alone should suffice. If the desire is rooted in a wish for the glass windows, biscuit, molasses, guns, and lace cuffs that God evidently bestows upon His flock, how is this any worse at heart than those of them who pray for a more finely appointed and easeful life in heaven?

Again Samuel will pass on Membertou's request to the Sieur, who might possess some more talent to sway Vermoulu. Though Poutrincourt seems wary of instructing a priest. Of the other nobles, Leduc wants the savages christened, while de Court dearly does not. Fougeray de Vitre does not seem to care. The lawyer Lescarbot, smiling sagely, instructs all within hearing that the Bible contains one million words, which is one million more than the savages can read.

IT WAS TWO DAYS
previous that Samuel arranged tonight's visit with Sieur Poutrincourt, and he made so formal an arrangement in order to ensure this time with the Sieur alone. Samuel's plan, one he has rehearsed, is to discuss the healing nature of comedy. And then, out of that, to discuss what might be a way to survive the winter that is almost upon them.

Ironic, then, this supposed discussion of comedy! There sits the Sieur, aslump in his chair, staring through his three candles' flames, past their surround of bobbing shadow, through the blackness of the very walls and out into a blind night. He continues to raise his cup of wine with nothing akin to pleasure. Indeed, his dullness of humour speaks of one too many such cups having met their maker. Poutrincourt's boy, over in the dark corner standing ready with the pitcher, looks quite flushed himself with so much striding up and pouring. The room itself feels dull and askew.

Samuel blames this night's wind, which even now thuds its flabby paw against the walls and the window. He hates the south wind; the south wind brings with it summer airs, which gives the body false hope. It is warmth out of season, time out of joint. It is a girl's breath, to stir the nuts, and then it is a monster's, to unmast the ship. On board he hates it most, for it lulls, and therefore endangers.

But now in what feels tantalizingly close to wit, Samuel offers, “The problem with exploration is the stopping.”

When his friend — Samuel is reasonably certain they are friends — moves not a muscle, only then does he remember that Poutrincourt's reason for being here wasn't exploration at all, but settlement. This gentleman had
come
to stop. That first week, striding the nearby meadows and then even helping with the lifting of the first outer wall, Poutrincourt had more than once wondered aloud at what next voyage he might bring his wife and young children along. He has not been speaking this way of late. Poutrincourt has of need cast from his mind the black rumours of the King's new whimsy of the fur monopoly abolished, and Port-Royal dying before it is fully born — and perhaps he has not fully succeeded.