Warbird (15 page)

“It's from the sun,” was all he could think to say.

The boy entered the house first. Etienne's glance took in his clean linen shirt and woollen breeches. The boy's face, no longer gaunt, looked round and full.

Etienne's father followed.

François Chouart stopped short. He ran his hand down his greying beard. Etienne watched his father's face. He was so very pale, with great shadows under his
eyes. Would it change like the sky into a cloud of thunder, black with anger?

“You are so rough and brown. I would have taken you for a savage,” was all he said.

The orphan boy could only stare.

The steam rising from the iron pot caught Etienne's eye. He turned to it. His mother, seeing the hunger in his eyes, quickly filled a bowl. “Here,” she said, pressing it into his hands and guiding him to the table.

The first mouthful burned his lips, but he was so hungry, he kept on. He hadn't tasted food this good in a long time. When finished, he held on to the bowl, as tense as an animal and waited.

Without speaking, his father walked back outside. He retrieved the bundles Etienne had left on the ground and carried them into the farmhouse.

Etienne put down his bowl and left the table. He opened the drawstring bag and handed his mother a small square birch-bark basket. “A few grains will go well in your pumpkin loaf,” he said with a smile. “You can add dried berries too.”

She looked up at him in surprise.

“And the leaves of the raspberry bush make a very good tea,” he added.

Her face broke into a wide smile.

“Fishing is a failure in Kebec,” his father said unexpectedly, “and a bad year for crops.”

Etienne untied the blanket around the bundle of furs. “These should help us this winter.”

His father lifted the pack, weighing it in his mind.
Then he shook his head in wonder. “Longer than this winter,” he said.

The silver case with the mirror Etienne handed back to the boy. “I've got a good story about a mirror,” he said. Then he paused. “I've forgotten your name.”

“I never told you,” the boy said. “It is Thomas.”

This time it was Etienne's turn to stare.

“Your mother blamed herself for your leaving,” his father said, with an edge to his voice. “I would return to the house to find her with a spoon in her hand, staring off at the heavens.”

“You took
my
place to serve God,” Thomas said, hanging his head.

Etienne's heart softened. Although touched by their belief that he was so pious, he had to tell the truth.

“I ran off to find adventure,” Etienne said. “You were right,” he said. “Life at the mission . . .” he paused to search for the right words, “was not as one would expect.”

“Is it true that fingers and toes freeze in the night?” Thomas asked.

“Which is why I have these,” Etienne said pulling out the deerskin mittens and moccasins.

His mother gasped and took them to examine the work.

Etienne took off his cap, decorated with braids of animal hair, claws, paws and feathers, and handed it to his father.

“You have returned in time to save us from a dire winter,” his father said.

“Not as dire as the one I had,” Etienne replied.

To everyone's surprise, his father threw back his head and laughed out loud.

Etienne stared at him in relief. His father's mirth drained much of the anxiety from his heart. Tomorrow, Etienne would tell him about planting beans, corn and squash all together. He would explain how placing small fish in the soil would feed the young plants. There would be talk of hunting beaver, maple sugar and so much more. How shocked his mother would be to hear of how the voyageurs opened the flour bag and made a small hollow with their fist. After cracking an egg into the hole, along with a bit of river water, they mixed the dough with unwashed hands to make small flat cakes, which they baked by the fire.

“We must thank God for your safe arrival,” his mother said. She pulled the family to their knees in front of the fire.

Etienne closed his eyes. He thanked God heartily then prayed that Tsiko would reach his Tobacco Brothers. He would miss the boy who had taught him how to keep his eyes open to all the little things that happened around him. Then he grinned. His friend would be able to use his yellow-feathered drum to celebrate his own safe arrival and for dancing under the moon with his new family.

The French Jesuits founded the great mission of Sainte-Marie in 1639. This important historical site was in the heart of the land of the Huron people. Written reports from Father Paul Rageuneau, Father Superior of the mission, provided the information about the priests, donnés and lay brothers. Father Francesco Bressani, Father Antoine Daniel and Father Jean de Brébeuf all served at the mission. The Huron Carol is a Christmas hymn written in 1643 by Father Jean de Brébeuf. Brother Jacques Douart, murdered in April 1648, lies in the tiny cemetery.

Ambroise Broulet, cook, Louis Gaubert, blacksmith, François Gendron, doctor and apothecary, Robert Le Coq, business manager, and Pierre Masson, tailor, all worked at the mission.

Voyageur Médard Chouart des Groseilliers was an
engagé
at Sainte-Marie from 1640 to 1646 before returning to live in Quebec. At the mission he acquired valuable experience necessary for his later travels of discovery.

The hostility and warfare between the Iroquois and the Huron is historical fact.

The Iroquois did indeed capture and kill Father Antoine Daniel and destroy the village of St. Joseph, known as Teanaustaye. Jesuits Jean de Brébeuf and Gabriel Lalemant later met with the same fate in March of 1649. Captured with hundreds of Hurons, the Iroquois tortured them to death. Those at the mission waited for a second attack, but it did not come. Eventually the Jesuits burned Sainte-Marie to the ground and abandoned it.

With the greater part of their tribe killed or in captivity, the remaining Huron escaped south and westward in 1649. The Huron divided into two groups. One group settled in Quebec, the others continued to migrate, eventually settling in Ohio. The Quebec Wyandots are direct descendants of the Midland Huron.

Even though the life of Etienne Chouart, my eleven-year-old
donné
, is fictional, young boys did apprentice at Sainte Marie. Christian Hurons lived in the longhouse at the mission, but Tsiko, Satouta, and Soo-Taie are not real people.

Today, one is able to stand in the midst of Sainte-Marie's replicated buildings and get a true sense of the age. Thanks goes to Paula Wheeler of Hillsdale (Teanaustaye), Jamie Hunter the curator of the Huronia Museum in Midland, Ontario, Professor John Steckley of Humber College, Toronto and the definitive work of Grace Lee Nute. Thanks also go to Anna Gemza, Marjorie Cripps, and Corinne McCorkle, my writing group, Brenda Julie, Susan Onn and Nancy Wannamaker, my avid readers.

Born in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Jennifer Maruno came from a book loving family.

Writing as Jennifer Travis, she produced award-winning educational materials for Ontario School Boards. After retirement as an elementary school principal, Jennifer published short stories for a variety of children's magazines in Canada, Britain and United States. She lives in Burlington, Ontario, with her husband.

Her first novel with Napoleon,
When the Cherry Blossoms Fell
, was published in 2009.