Warbird (4 page)

“Welcome. I will take the chickens for you,” a man in threadbare garb of black offered. “I am Father Bressani.”

Etienne blinked at the ragged scar across the man's
face. “They are for Father Rageuneau,” he said, moving the chickens closer to his side.

“Father Rageuneau will not expect to see anyone until you have given thanks for a safe journey,” the Jesuit said. He turned to the man approaching. “Brother Douart will show you the way to the chapel.”

The lay brother's long, dark hair hung in strings about dark, hollow eyes. His thick, greasy moustache needed a trim. With a toss of his muddy cape, Douart led the group of travellers towards the cluster of log buildings.

The two sides of the fort facing the forest were masonry, flanked by bastions. “Miller, blacksmith and carpenter,” Douart said, naming each building they passed. He pointed to the narrow two-storey barn across the way. “Your bed,” he said to Etienne, “is above the stables.”

Douart led them to the threshold of a small square building which served as a chapel. “When you are finished,” he told them, with a backward glance, “you will be fed.”

Etienne put the chickens down next to the chapel door and followed Médard and Pierre into an earthy interior with white clay walls that smelled of warm wax. A single candle flickered at the altar, where they bowed their heads and gave thanks. Etienne turned to go, but on second thought bowed his head again. His mother deserved a special prayer. She would be the one to bear the brunt of his father's anger at his disappearance. Etienne also prayed that the orphan would stay to help his father.

His two companions led Etienne into the great hall. Eating and drinking men filled the log benches around the rough pine tables. Some looked up when Etienne
paused in the doorway. Holding the chicken cage in the air, he yelled out, “I have a gift for the Father Superior.”

Murmurs and laughter came from the crowd.

A full-bearded priest rose from his meal. His long-sleeved black garment covered his body from neck to feet. Around his collar of plain white he wore a chain of blue porcelain beads, ending in an iron cross. “I am the Father Superior,” he said. Beckoning, the priest called, “Show me what you have brought.”

Etienne carried the cage through the amused crowd. He placed it on the table in front of Father Rageuneau. “This is Francine and her husband Samuel,” he said. “They have travelled far, just like Champlain himself.”

The Jesuit leaned down. “Like Champlain, you say,” he said, looking at the two scruffy black hens. “Thank you, we will be happy to have their eggs.”

“I will take them,” Douart, the scruffy lay brother said, placing his hand on the battered cage.

“You can't just throw them in the coop,” Etienne protested. “They have to be put on a roost at night. Then when they wake, they'll think they've always lived there.”

“Monsieur Le Coq,” one of the men at the next table asked in a loud voice, “is it true?”

“It didn't happen to me,” a voice replied, and a roar of laughter followed.

“What is it that you have come to do, my son,” the Father Superior asked kindly.

“Explore and hunt,” Etienne answered enthusiastically.

“You probably will,” the Father Superior said, “but how will you serve God?”

Etienne thought of the chores he'd left behind. “I know how to raise chickens and tend a garden,” he said. Then he remembered a phrase he'd heard his father say often and repeated it. “I come from a long line of farmers.”

“And what long line might that be?” Father Rageuneau asked.

Etienne stared at the priest blankly. He could not remember the boy's last name.

“Your family name,” the man seated beside Father Rageuneau prompted. “We want to know your father's family name.”

Etienne stared at the ruddy-skinned man with black hair and brown eyes. “Hébert,” he blurted suddenly, taking the name of the family at the next farm. “All the men of the Hébert family are farmers.”

“Surely you are not a descendant of the great Louis Hébert,” the black-haired man said, putting down his spoon. “Why, he was much more than a farmer. He was a famous apothecary.”

Etienne had not heard of this particular Hébert, but he guessed by the glint in this man's eyes, it would be a good heritage to have.

“You must mean my Uncle Louis,” he said, nodding. “My mother speaks of him often.”

“But,” Father Bressani said, “Father Lejeune wrote you were an orphan.”

Etienne lowered his head, studying the black leather boots before him. “I meant my father and mother used to speak of him often,” he said in a whisper.

“He will work with me,” the man beside Father
Rageuneau stated. He reached across the table and shook Etienne's shoulder. “You can help out in the apothecary.”

“Good,” said Father Ragueuneau. He leaned into Etienne and whispered, “But I must warn you, Master Gendron is very particular about work done around the hospital.”

“What about the chickens?” Etienne asked, giving Francine and Samuel a tender look.

The Father Superior smiled. “You can tend to your chickens as well,” he said.

“You can sleep with them if you like,” Douart added, returning to his meal.

Etienne sat down to eat. The meal, nothing more than rabbit stew, tasted delicious.

After dinner, he carried his chickens with pride to the long, low building beside the palisade. “Tonight we sleep apart,” he told them as he put them on a roost. “There will be no more canoes, no more rapids and no more fires.”

Etienne clutched the rope handrail as he made his way up the steep ladder-like stairs of the barn. In the low-beamed loft, he paused in front of the rows of narrow plank beds to select a spot. He placed his bedroll on the empty bed directly across from the small square window. From here he would be able to see the night sky and gaze out at the moon. It was the work of a minute to throw off his jacket and stow his bag below.

Etienne opened the shutters and looked out. He caught the smell of the livestock below. To his right was the
potager
. He gazed past the cookhouse gardens into the tall pines that tapered like praying hands and smiled contentedly. He had found his way into the wilderness.

The sound of low mumbling woke Etienne. A freckled, leathery scalp, circled with tufts of brown, shone in the light of a candle. Ambroise Broulet, the cook, knelt beside his own bed, fingering the wooden beads of his rosary. He finished his prayer but did not rise. “Give me grace,” he said, staring at the ceiling, “that I not offend.”

Etienne rose to his elbows. The sun was not yet up.

“Breakfast after mass,” Master Broulet informed Etienne as he struggled into a worn coat. Then he bellowed at those still asleep. “The Father will soon ring the bell.”

Etienne threw back his blanket, pulled on his outer clothes and hurried outside. Médard and Pierre stood in front of the cookhouse in the dim morning light.

“
Au revoir
,” Médard said, clapping a hand on Etienne's shoulder. “We leave you and your chickens in the hands of the Black Robes.”

“Don't you stay for a while?” Etienne asked.

“No room,” Médard replied. “All the Jesuits are coming for council this full moon.”

“Will I see you again?” Etienne asked.

Pierre's face opened into a smile.
“Oui, mon petit
,” he said. “We will be back.”

“When?” Etienne asked.

Médard reached into his beaded bag. “Here,” he said, tossing a small leather pouch to Etienne, who caught it midair. “Tonight, carve a full moon. Once you have ten, watch for us.”

Etienne opened the pouch to find a small carving knife with an antler handle.

“One moon, one month,” said Pierre. He undid his bright red sash. “Wear this until I return,” he said, tying it about Etienne's waist. “It always brought me luck.”

The two men patted him on the back and strode off.

Etienne entered the chapel, where Father Rageuneau faced the iron altar cross. Brother Douart fixed a candle to a holder sitting on a tray of sand. Father Bressani covered the pewter chalice with linen and lifted the napkin from the special bread used for communion.

The monotonous recitation of Latin and the soft thud of dropping candle wax took Etienne back to the chapel in their small village. The wooden statue of Mary, sitting in rays of dusty sunlight, always smiled despite her broken nose. Etienne would steal a glance at the strings of his mother's lace cap, but she could always tell when he was not praying. She would take his hand, unable to keep the smile from her face.

The breaking of the unleavened bread brought him back to the mission.

After a breakfast of bread and pea porridge, Father Bressani rang the iron bell that hung by the door of
the great hall. A score of Huron children gathered. The Father nodded in approval as they recited their Huron prayer in unison. Then he ushered them inside.

Etienne dragged a bucket of amber water from the well into the poultry house. Champlain greeted him with a squawk and flutter, happy in his new home. Etienne scooped up a handful of meal and held it out to Francine. The hen ran to him, clucking in excitement.
She should begin to lay eggs soon
, he thought. He looked about the coop, but there was no basket to collect the eggs. After watering the animals in the barn, he set out to find Master Gendron, to whom he was to be apprenticed.

A rhythmic thumping broke the quiet of the morning as Etienne crossed the canal. When the thumping stopped, a scraping took its place. Then more thumping.

He walked curiously towards St. Joseph's, the narrow, wooden church built especially for the Huron people. The hospital and apothecary shop lay on the other sides. Etienne stopped at the large doors, peering inside to get his bearings. He glanced first at the fire pit with rows of branch racks overhead. Then, he staggered backwards in surprise when he looked up and saw a huge arched structure overhead. It was the Huron longhouse.

Rows and rows of bent saplings met at the top. Large sheets of bark, held in place by criss-crossed branches, filled in the sides. Smoke wafted from a hole, which ran the entire length of the roof. Etienne stood in awe as the smell of burning wood and roasting fish filled his nostrils.

A small naked boy pushed past a swinging doorway of bark, rubbing his eyes. Etienne watched as a long-haired
woman in a sleeveless skin dress followed. She looked at Etienne but did not speak The woman emptied a basket of red berries onto a large sheet of bark and spread them about. Then she put the basket down. Taking up a thick wooden pole, she placed it into a hollow tree stump. As her arms rose and fell, she made the thumping sounds Etienne had heard earlier. The small boy held on to her fringed skirt as he stared at Etienne.

A movement caught his eye before he could see what she was pounding, and he turned to see an older boy watching him from behind a stack of bark casks. He was slightly built, and his skin was the colour of earth. He wore his shiny, straight black hair to his shoulders, parted in the middle. A woven grass cord kept it out of his eyes.

Except for a flap of cloth between his legs, all he wore was a necklace of beads.

Etienne couldn't help but stare at the long rectangular piece swaying as the boy approached.
Is this all he wears to cover his manhood?
Then he saw the pouch of cloth behind the flap.

“
Onywatenro
?” the boy said in a questioning voice.

Etienne smiled and nodded several times. He knew what it meant.

As the boy moved closer, Etienne smelled dry leaves. The boy's hair gave off a smell he couldn't name.

“Tsiko,” the boy said, tapping himself on the chest.

Etienne realized the boy was telling him his name. He tapped his own chest and spoke in a shaky voice. “My name is Etienne.”

The boy smiled. He ran to the woman, picked up one
of her baskets and brought it back.

Etienne peered in and saw a mound of red berries.

Tsiko nodded.

Etienne grasped a handful and stuffed them in his mouth. The warm, sweet-sour flavour that burst into his mouth surprised him. He gave a huge strawberry smile.

“Thomas,” a deep, booming voice called. “Thomas, come here.”

Etienne looked about to see who Master Gendron was calling.

The Huron boy smiled at the puzzlement on Etienne's face. “I have two names,” he said, “and one is from your God.” He tapped his chest with great pride. “My Christian name is Thomas.”

From dawn to dusk, the week of the full moon, more Jesuits arrived at the fortification.

Small bands of Huron trailed behind, clad in an odd assortment of French-style coats, skin vests and fringed breeches. The native men seemed to have dressed for the occasion.

One wore the brim of a hat, with feathers taking the place of the crown. Another wore his head shaved but for a single line of hair down the centre. Some had shaved their hair on one side, leaving the hair on the other side as long as their shoulders. Necklaces of shells, beads and claws glinted in the sun. Behind the men, women staggered beneath the weight of their bundles and baskets.

Etienne and Nicholas, the stocky young apprentice to the carpenter, were both hauling water from the well. Two men in large-brimmed, low-crowned black hats entered the gates deep in conversation.

“Who are they?” Etienne asked.

“The one with the full beard is Father Jean de Brébeuf,” Nicholas replied. “He has the gift of the Huron tongue.”

Etienne regarded Brébeuf's neatly trimmed hair, dark beard and piercing eyes. He was not tall, but he had a commanding presence. Father Brébeuf, seeing the boys, smiled and waved.

“Father Brébeuf is well loved in the villages,” Nicholas said, drawing water from the well. “The Huron consider him a great teacher.”