The Orenda Joseph Boyden (49 page)

Rather than answer, it’s my turn to not speak.

“This is because I myself am not sure what I saw in my head when I touched your belly.” She pauses. “I saw a young woman, about your age. Her face was pocked from a sickness, just like yours. But she lived in a crow village. A large one. She wore the charcoal clothes of the crow, wore one of their sparkling necklaces around her neck and a long cloth the colour of night that covered her hair.” Again, Gosling stops.

“Tell me more,” I say. “Was she happy?”

“I can’t say, but she didn’t look to be. She knelt like the crows do
and whispered their words. She knelt in front of a very large carving of the one they love so much who was tortured and nailed to wood.”

“What else? Tell me more.”

“There is no more. Only that I could tell the crows held her in great regard. They told others to pray to her when they were sick and then they’d be cured. None of it makes sense to me.”

I want Gosling to tell me more, but again she says there’s nothing else, just the imagination of a crazy woman.

As the fire burns low and the cold begins to creep up from the ground and into our sleeping robe, I shiver. I can tell Gosling is still awake.

“If there is anything else you remember, will you tell me?” I whisper.

“I can tell you something now I’ve told no one but your father,” she says.

“What?”

“I too am pregnant. In the late summer I will give birth to your father’s child.”

I want to ask how this is possible. Despite her beauty, I believed she was beyond the age to become pregnant.

As if to answer my thought, she says, “There’s a reason you Wendat say we Anishnaabe have magical abilities. If one wishes for something hard and long enough, there’s no reason it can’t come true.”

THE MISSION THRIVES

They begin to trickle and then flood into the mission. The first arrive shortly after morning prayers, the guards on the ramparts shouting down in warning. Gabriel and Isaac and I rush out and up the ladder to look over the wall. I recognize Huron from the village where I once lived, standing just in front of the tree line, a dozen or more of them. In their language, I call to them that it’s safe to come forward, and then, scrambling back down the ladder, I order the gates opened.

They come in with apprehension, looking about them at the buildings so different from their own. I recognize one of the older ones, a woman who used to tease me mercilessly.

“Welcome,” I say. “What makes you travel all this way in such conditions?”

“The three sisters became sick and perished. We came here so as not to starve.”

I look at Gabriel. He gives me the knowing look back. “Our stores are in good order,” he says. “There should be enough for all.”

He’s right. The northern tribes have been coming to us all winter in order to trade and to get a glimpse of this new community. “Are many more of you coming?” I ask.

The old woman scratches her head. “Perhaps half the village.”

I almost fall over. This must mean at least a couple hundred souls after the last year’s decimation from diseases. I turn to Gabriel and Isaac. “We have trouble on our hands,” I say.

More and more pour through the gates just as a February storm arrives, the wind blowing hard from the northeast and rattling the walls. There isn’t enough room for all the refugees. I open up the empty buildings to them, and people cram inside the longhouses and wigwams, others constructing temporary shelter as quickly as they can before the brunt of the storm arrives.

By afternoon, a fierce gale blows off the Sweet Water Sea, and we worry that some will still be stuck in the storm. They have the same ability as the forest animals to burrow down into the landscape, I remind myself to ease the worry.

At nightfall, I order the gates shut and locked. But I worry nonetheless, excited and nervous as I fight my way through the howling winds from place to place, checking in on all the arrivals, the sauvages crammed in but happy in every structure of the mission, talking and smoking pipes and laughing as if the storm outside doesn’t even blow. They all must be starved. Their faces are thin, and the old people’s cheeks are hollowed, yet they’re happy to be out of the cold and ice and wind, and so maybe this is enough for now. I will have to sit down with Gabriel and Isaac tonight and sketch out some better long-range plans. It strikes me then that this might not be a temporary visit. Lord, is this Your plan that begins to come to light? Is this my chance to finally bring souls to You?

I return, half frozen, to our own small residence and find Isaac and Gabriel at the table, already discussing the complexities of this newest challenge.

“I don’t see how we can possibly feed all these new mouths,” Gabriel says as I stand as close to the fire as I can, my cassock steaming. A wind rattles the roof and sends a gust down the chimney, flattening the fire for a moment.

“We have faced greater difficulties,” Isaac says. “I’m happy so many have chosen to come to us in a time of need.”

“We’ll have enough,” I say. “You know this by now, don’t you, Brothers? He will provide.”

—

THIS MORNING
, shouts coming from the Huron alert us to bad news. Gabriel reports to me that a family of four was found huddled outside the gates, frozen to death. Rushing through the palisades, I turn around the corner to see a horrific sight. Four bodies, ice formed on their faces, lean against the wall. The man, clearly the father, has his arms wrapped around his wife, two small children between them. Huron who must be relatives stand near them, singing and praying. Not sure what else to do, I order my men to bring them inside where they can thaw and be prepared for burial, but the men struggle trying to pull them apart. The bodies are frozen together.

Eventually, with great effort and the sound of tearing, the father comes free, and I watch as three men struggle to carry his awkward, crouched form into the mission. The mother and children won’t separate, and so a small group of others simply pick them up as one and carry them inside as well.

An old Huron woman asks me what I plan to do with her son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

“I will allow them to thaw so you can perform a burial for them,” I say.

She thinks about these words. “We will not be able to bury them till spring, and so I don’t know why you want to thaw them.” Her face is a mask. Their faces always are when they confront the death of a loved one. She won’t allow her tears to come until the funeral.

“Please tell me what I should do with them,” I ask.

She tells me to have them brought to the longhouse where she stays, and so I give the directive.

I remember my thoughts last night, my attempts to ease my worries by telling myself that the sauvages who didn’t make it in would be fine. Did I order the gates closed? At what time? My Lord, it dawns on me that this is my fault.

The chapel is emptied of its temporary residents now that the storm has passed. I walk up to the altar, my face hot, and I kneel. What have
I done, Lord? What have I done? Give me Your guidance now. This is my fault. I did order the gates closed, fearing an unseen enemy. But the unseen enemy is Satan, and he was victorious last night. Why didn’t I leave the gates open for stragglers? What if there are more out there, frozen in the snow? What did I do in my haste and my fear?

Sick with guilt, I can barely keep myself up. I’m responsible for that family. Forgive me. Please, Lord, forgive me.

—

FOR THE NEXT DAYS
, I’m debilitated with the weight of what I allowed to transpire. I’m unable to sleep for the frozen faces that haunt me. I even go into the chapel late tonight with a spruce switch and pull down my cassock, exposing my back. Praying to You, I flail myself mercilessly, but the welts I can feel rise up are no justice. I strike myself until I can feel the warm blood begin to speckle my back. This is nothing, either. I consider walking out into the night so I may feel what that poor family did, the pain of the cold as it slowly cuts its way through the skin to the bone.

In the morning, a deep malaise has set in, and when I don’t arise from my thin cot, Isaac comes to ask after me.

“Père Christophe,” he says. “Are you all right?”

I don’t have the voice to answer.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’m feeling unwell. Please leave me alone to rest.”

For two more days and two more nights, I lie on my cot, getting up only to relieve myself the first day, the second day not even able or needing to do that. When I sleep, it’s fitful, and I see Satan’s face peering in my window, looking down at me and grinning. He’s taken the upper hand. I know this now. But I feel useless to stop him.

Just as the light begins to wane on the third day, my bones aching and my back a scream I ignore, I hear a light knock on my door.

“Enter,” I call out in a hoarse whisper.

Gabriel’s silhouette appears at the door and behind him, the taller, muscular silhouette of Bird. I try to sit up, but my body refuses me.

“Bird needs your counsel,” Gabriel says. “As do we.”

He stands aside and Bird walks in, hulking over my cot. “You’re ill?” he asks.

I nod.

“You need to find your strength,” he says. “The people need guidance. Your bearded ones won’t listen to us as they say you’re the only voice they’ll obey. My people need to build shelters. We can do it outside the palisade walls, but we prefer to be within them. Twice now I’ve had to prevent some of my men from fighting with yours.”

Slowly, my body crying out, I raise myself to sit. I try to find my voice, but nothing comes. I signal Gabriel for water. He brings me a jug and a cup. I drink deeply.

My voice is a scratchy whisper. “I’m not sure what I can do.”

Bird stares at me. “You can climb out of your bed now,” he says. “We put our faith in your offer to come here, and it’s time now for you to get up. There are already some dead, but far more will follow if you don’t stand. And I can tell you that many of them will be your hairy ones.”

With that, he turns and leaves. He’s right. I’ve shamed myself enough. I stand, dizzy, and walk unsteadily to my door.

—

EVERY MAN AVAILABLE
helps with the cutting of trees, the peeling of bark, the collecting of firewood, the building of residences, the expansion and digging of the palisades as best we can into the frozen earth. The weather holds bright and sunny and the temperature drops so that more and more donnés report frostbite. I scold those who simply pretend in order to get out of work duty, giving them the odious jobs of heading into the forest to cut trees. To a man they are scared stiff of the wilderness that surrounds us, imagining lurking Iroquois in every shadow.

I know it’s simply to assuage my guilt, but I throw myself into it as well, working alongside the men from first light until well after dark, watching as the Huron show us how to erect longhouses. Each night I crawl into bed exhausted, the vision of that frozen family forcing me awake even before the sauvages, ready to head outside once more to the back-breaking work.

I’ve ordered the storehouses open, and I put Gabriel in charge of handing out food to all who need it. If I were to leave Isaac this task, I fear the rooms would be empty within days. I’ve never witnessed Europeans work with the sauvages before, and I’m mightily impressed by what I see. Within days of my shaking off Satan’s spell, we’ve built enough longhouses to house the influx of Huron through winter. It is true, Lord, that hard work leaves little room for the ill will born of idleness.

In these first weeks with this warming of relations between the two groups, though, I begin to notice that the donnés are less inclined to attend Mass each morning or even to show up for the shorter evening prayers. Some mornings, there are more empty benches than full. I try to decipher whether this has something to do with the sauvages who’ve descended like a flock of birds en masse, with their skewed sense of time and of propriety and of work ethic, so often drumming and singing late into the evening, or stopping their work suddenly and without notice to wander away and smoke their pipes or go hunting. This lack of structure seems to be wearing off on my men.

Gabriel, Isaac, and I discuss what can be done about it.

Isaac is of the mind that nothing needs to be altered. “Just look at how much has been accomplished in such a short time,” he says. “The Huron have built their longhouses, many have gone off to hunt, and they seem content. Is this not enough?”

“But what is our mission?” Gabriel asks. “Just to offer them comfort? Haven’t you noticed that our hard-fought converts no longer come to Mass anymore? They’ve slipped back so quickly into their old ways.”

Gabriel’s right. The blessing of this arrival may very well prove to be a curse. “And so, Brothers, what to do?” I ask.

“To me, it’s simple,” Gabriel says. “If they live within these walls, they must abide by our rules.”

Isaac’s face grows red. “Do you believe it’s really that simple?” he asks.

“I do,” Gabriel says.

“And so what do you propose?” I ask of Gabriel.

“That we be stern. If the sauvages are to partake of our kindness, our generosity, then they must abide by our rules.” Gabriel glares at Isaac. “They must agree to come to listen to the Lord’s word. They must make an effort to understand us. They must conform to our ways.”

“But they never asked this of us when we were the ones at their mercy,” Isaac says, shaking.

“And that is their weakness, isn’t it,” Gabriel spits.

I fear the two will soon be at each other’s throats if I don’t intervene. “Brothers,” I say, standing up and between them. “You must understand you’re both correct. But this still leaves us with our dilemma. Our mission is to bring them to Christ. I’m sure you each agree with that.”

Gabriel nods, but Isaac is too upset to react.

“We still need to provide safety and comfort,” I say. “And especially spiritual guidance. Remember, both of you, we all came to this dark land long ago so that we might shed light upon it. The Lord’s light. So let us come together as brothers again and agree that the saving of their eternal souls is our utmost priority.”