The Orenda Joseph Boyden (42 page)

For the morning we travel slowly, stopping frequently to catch our breath and tend to our wounded companions. My head throbs with the pain of it being bashed, and I can’t breathe through my broken nose. I imagine we look ragged and bloody as we haul one another along the narrow trail through the hardwood forest, light filtering down through it in soft patterns.

By mid-afternoon, Carries an Axe cautions us to walk as quietly as we can. He’s sure someone follows. My Lord, I don’t know how much more of this I’m able to take. If the Iroquois catch us again, there’s no chance of defending ourselves against them. All we can do is help one another down the trail and toward the safety of the mission.

When Carries an Axe stops, I follow his gaze and finally make out what he sees. Two warriors are outlined ahead of us, their backs to the sun so they’re bathed in a halo of light. We’ve just come into a clearing and they stand, stone still, across it. Instead of dropping down or retreating back into the forest, Carries an Axe lifts his arms in the air and warbles out like a bird. The two return it and run to us. I brace myself for the last battle, and it isn’t until they’re upon us that I recognize Bird and Fox. I’ve never been so relieved.

Bird reaches for Snow Falls and holds her at arm’s distance,
studying her for injury. She looks back at him, but something in her has changed. I fear the Iroquois warrior did rape her in the short time he had, though I pray to You, Lord, that he didn’t.

Bird speaks to her in a hushed tone. She shakes her head. Angrily, he tells Fox that two of their attackers tried to rape her.

Fox looks surprised. “They must have been rotten ones. That isn’t Haudenosaunee behaviour.”

“Not to worry,” Carries an Axe interrupts. “They’re all dead now. Your daughter is a better warrior than I am. She killed her first Haudenosaunee this morning.”

I’m shocked. It can’t be true that this young woman, only a girl not so long ago, has taken another life. I cannot judge her, though, when I’m so close to all of this. Without her actions we would each of us be dead. Lord, help me come to terms with this. I want to believe they acted to save us, not out of sheer revenge.

“Carries an Axe killed four of them,” Snow Falls says in a flat tone.

Bird and Fox look at him, impressed. “I hope you kept the scalps,” Fox says.

“There was no time,” Carries an Axe tells him.

“There’s always time for that,” Fox answers.

“What there’s no time for is useless talk,” Bird says. “Haudenosaunee are creeping everywhere today.”

We pick each other up once more and limp across the field toward safety.

CONFESSION IS ABSOLUTELY APPROPRIATE

Gabriel wants to know if I believe the claims of the boy named Joseph. “I fear,” he says, “that his charge might have truth to it.”

I ask why he thinks so. We’ve already told Isaac of the horrific few days we’ve just endured, leaving out some of the worst torture. He’s been patiently helping us nurse Aaron, who’d suffered horribly but will thankfully recover.

“I think Joseph’s actions speak volumes,” Gabriel continues. “He didn’t need to cast doubt among us if he only wanted to return to his people.” Gabriel looks at Isaac, then at me. “Joseph’s no actor. He’s quite possibly a little mad. But did you see his expression when he explained what happened to him? Although I don’t have any evidence yet, I believe him.” Gabriel pauses again, as if for effect. “A sickness has slipped into our mission.”

Isaac shakes his head. “It can’t be,” he says. “These donnés have sworn to live lives of abstinence and purity. To abuse a boy? I can’t see it.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Gabriel tells him. “The devil lurks just beyond the light.”

“Brothers,” I speak up, “this is indeed a grave development, and we shall indeed pursue it, but there are more pressing matters, matters of life and death pertaining to our mission we must immediately attend to.”

“You don’t find Joseph’s charge a pressing matter?” Gabriel asks.

“Dear Gabriel,” I say, “I don’t wish to in any way suggest this isn’t a
dire accusation. It has great gravity. But the Iroquois have taken to the warpath, and we’re ill equipped to defend ourselves.” I explain to him that we’ll have to focus on our survival as well as bringing justice, if indeed such an abomination has occurred within our walls.

I can see he doesn’t like my answer but must abide by its logic. I turn from my two brothers and feel overwhelmed by the crushing enormity of it all. I need to remain strong, especially now that the devil presses not just from the outside but also from within.

—

WITH BANDS OF IROQUOIS
still roaming, caring for crops outside the palisades carries a strong tinge of terror. We can spare only one or two soldiers to accompany the field workers while the others remain vigilant on the ramparts, keeping an eye on the dark forest surrounding us.

Since the encroachment of the enemy into this territory, all kinds of refugees have appeared at our gates, Nipissing and Huron, Montagnais, even a few members of a mysterious group who call themselves the People of the Cat. There are so many sauvages within our walls that it’s a struggle to feed them. We can’t sustain this for long, even in high season. What, then, when the autumn returns, and after that, the winter? As always, Lord, we are in Your hands.

To add to my worries, Isaac has been acting more and more strangely. He’s now convinced himself he can win the sauvages over to the Cross by performing silly magic tricks he apparently learned as a child. He’s even gone so far as to sew secret pockets up the arms and along the insides of his cassock. Now that the Captain of the Day has become yesterday’s fancy, he attracts children’s attention by fumbling around with his fingerless hands, pulling out, and often dropping, all kinds of objects from his cassock to the children’s delight, rocks, or letters that he proceeds to read in French while the children giggle, even a shiny French doubloon. Yesterday, Gabriel and I witnessed him pull a small chicken from his robe.

“Why, that was impressive,” Gabriel commented.

“Especially considering his limited grasp,” I added, which made us both laugh.

“But in all seriousness,” he continued, “haven’t we already discussed the dangers of trying to win them over through sleight of hand? Doesn’t this foolery cross into that witch Gosling’s territory?” Isaac was now pretending to swallow a feather and choking.

“Alas,” I said, “they’re still children. As it seems dear Isaac is as well. And to children belong childish things.” We have enough to worry about, and really, this all seems so innocent. Some levity is actually needed in these troubled times.

—

WHEN BIRD LEFT
with Fox, Carries an Axe, and Snow Falls shortly after our safe return to the mission in the late spring, he feared for his village. Despite my wanting him to stay for the small protection he offered, I understood his rush to get home, his people, by all accounts, lying shivering in their blankets, waiting for death from the illnesses they suffered or at the hands of the enemy. We’ve heard nothing as summer approaches its apex. We hope this means all’s well, but no one’s willing to make the day’s journey to find out.

We throw ourselves into strengthening our defences, fifty healthy men and as many sauvages all building up the palisades and digging a canal into the mission from the river that will both power a mill and give us a water supply inside the gates. It’s an ingenious design, complete with a locking gate that can be opened only from the inside. Our guests are mightily impressed. Now when those who are brave enough to leave do so, they do it by water, exiting the village via the canal and onto the river, then paddling hard to the relative safety of their Sweet Water Sea.

I turn my attention, this summer, to the needs within the walls rather than the fear of what lies outside them. I’ve requested a meeting
with each donné and layman, and have made the strong suggestion that confession is absolutely appropriate. When they come to me, one by one, hat in hand in the cool darkness of the rough-hewn chapel, I ask how each in turn is faring in this brutal land. Secretly, I try to weigh whether there’s truly any validity to Joseph’s claim. These conversations stretch over the course of three days, and many of the men are clearly uncomfortable about speaking. All of them appear stronger now from the work than they did in the idle months of winter, the skin of their bearded faces tanned, the stink of labour permeating their clothing.

For the life of me, I can’t detect Lucifer’s tail on any of them, and, one by one, they clumsily approach and kneel and mumble a few mis-spoken words. These, Lord, are surely not the best of the race that will be the first to populate this new world. Surely, better men are to come. But for the time being, they’re all we have. My attempt at finding the truth feels like an utter failure.

This afternoon before supper, now that I have met with all of them, I ask Aaron to join us. The poor young man still physically suffers from his torments, limping and holding his left hand in his right. Daily I watch him mourn. He and Isaac seem to have created a bond, the both of them having gone through similar abuse. Isaac tells me Aaron suffers just as much from lovesickness as he does from his wounds. I tell Isaac that like all infatuations, this one, too, shall pass. We must continue to focus on Aaron’s soul, not his earthly desires. Isaac should know this.

As supper is being served, a handful of sauvages come by, and I wouldn’t dream of turning them away. We sit crowded around two tables pushed together, twenty of us sharing a watery stew and some week-old bread that must be soaked in it to become edible. After prayers, we all sit with the squeal of chair legs on the wooden floor. The men eat hungrily, noisily, and it takes everything in my power not to chastise them. After all, I’ve invited them here to speak of important things. I take note that most of them seem in a good mood despite the gravity of our situation.

Once all have quieted from their eating, I raise my hand to speak. “Gentlemen,” I say. “As we all know, the Iroquois have declared war upon the Huron, and us French, as we are allies of the Huron.” I look about the room at each man’s face to make sure he understands the gravity of what I say. “From all evidence, the Arendahronnon village was very well fortified and consisted of fifteen hundred to two thousand souls before the disease of last winter swept down upon them. And now that the Iroquois have struck, the Arendahronnon people are no more.”

I go on to explain that our village of maybe two hundred, many of us women and children, must focus completely and tirelessly on our fortifications, and especially on our prayers that the promised soldiers and laymen will arrive to bolster us this summer, because otherwise we’ll be in great peril. “The Iroquois respect very little,” I tell them, “but one thing that commands it is the Frenchman’s musket.” I’ve tallied the numbers, and we have twenty at our disposal, with twice as many men who are expert at using them.

I then invite the men to debate the best fortifications and how to realistically create them in as short a time as possible.

“We need higher ramparts,” one donné says. “And with them higher and thicker palisades.”

“The Iroquois simply put palisades to fire,” another donné argues. “We need to build up the stone wall bases at least to the height of a man.” Several of his fellows agree.

“What about a moat?” one asks, but others argue this would take too much time. I’m impressed by their willingness to offer ideas.

The best one comes from a young donné with a wispy moustache who points out that to build a wall around the village would take a year of hard work, but stone bastions at proper intervals might be built in a couple of months. The men heartily agree.

They call for more water, and one goes to the kitchen for a large jug. The men pass it around, continuing to debate candidly.

Aaron drinks deeply from his cup, and I notice he makes a strange face as he wipes his mouth. He doesn’t understand French, so I fear he
feels left out. After taking another long gulp, he waves for the jug to be passed to him again. A donné beside him refills his cup.

“Aaron,” I say. Turning to the Huron tongue, I ask him if there’s anything he wishes to say that I might translate for the others. He shakes his head and drinks more.

I’d have expected everyone to leave as soon as they could after supper, but they continue to talk, some of them laughing now, others with heads bowed, deep in conversation, a couple even crying. A man goes again to the kitchen to refill the jug, and when he stumbles a little, it dawns on me what’s happening.

Standing, I ask, “What is it you’re pouring from your jug?” The men who hear me go silent and look down while others carry on, apparently deaf to my tone. “What do you drink in your cups?” I shout, and this time everyone takes notice.

“It’s simply a cider, Father,” one of the donnés says, “made from the crabapples that grow wild around here.”

“Pass me your mug,” I tell the one closest to me. He does, but dares to take a deep drink before doing it. I put my nose to it and inhale. The scent of strong, cheap brandy burns my nostrils. “That’s not cider!” I shout, throwing the mug across the room. “Who’s responsible for brewing this devil’s piss?”

I glare at them, all with their heads now lowered. Finally, a donné limply raises his hand. “It was I, Father,” he says meekly. “I just wanted to bring a little pleasure into our lives during such a desperate and dangerous summer.”

“There will be no spirits in this mission,” I say, my voice shaking. “Nothing poisons camaraderie and obedience faster than your cheap brandy. We’re on the brink of being overrun by a great Iroquois war party that roams all around us, and you choose to throw a party?”

The men mutter. Some dare to pick up their mugs and drink again. Gabriel, upon seeing this, stands up as well. “There will be no mutiny within these walls,” he tells them. “Need we remind you of the punishment you will face, not only in this world but certainly in the next?”

“And if that’s not enough to help you make your decision,” I add, “the soldiers of this mission are under my direct command. Mark my words, I am not afraid to call upon them.” Finally, I see the change in the eyes of the donnés. They bend their heads in subservience. The one who’d gone to refill the jug returns from the kitchen, sloshing a little brandy as he looks around the room, startled.