Warbird (6 page)

From the shade, an elderly woman, her long single braid tinged with grey, watched them approach. She signalled the woman at her side to help her rise.

“This is Tsiko's grandmother,” the doctor told Etienne. He gave her a small nod. “She is head of the Deer Clan.”

The old woman smelled like freshly cut grass. When she spoke, her voice murmured like a stream running across pebbles. Despite her frailty, Etienne sensed her importance.

“It was a good day to come,” the doctor translated as
she spoke. “Today the villagers celebrate the first cobs of corn. We have been invited to attend the feast.”

The doctor spoke with the woman again then turned to Etienne. “I must deliver letters to Father Daniel before visiting the medicine man. Wait here.”

Etienne drew his tin from his pocket and held it flat on the palm of his hand towards her.

The woman took the tin into her gnarled fingers and pried it open. Her eyes sparkled with interest as she poked about its contents. She gestured for Etienne to enter her dwelling.

Furs, blankets and articles of clothing scattered the platforms that ran along the inside walls of the long house. There was an odd smell in the bark house, not unpleasant, but different. Soon Etienne's nose deciphered the smells of grass, tobacco and dog.

Two children peered from one of the platforms above his head. They pointed and giggled.

Etienne looked up, smiled and waved. Weapons, clothing and skins dangled beneath the soot-coated ceiling. The vaulted roof reminded him of the chicken-roosts.

Tsiko's grandmother beckoned Etienne to a spot below one of the sleeping platforms. She kneeled and swept aside feathers and bits of fur on the cool earth floor. Her fingers hooked around the corners of a large flat lid of what appeared to be a chest, sunk into the ground. From it she removed a flat buckskin parcel. She put it to one side then lowered the small tin into the chest and closed the lid. She picked up the object, unfolded the skin and held it out.

Etienne gasped. It was a small drum with a fur-tipped stick.

The woman gestured for him to take it.

Etienne took the stick. He tapped the tight skin surface, making a light sound.

Tsiko's grandmother gestured again.

Etienne took the drum. It was as light as the bright yellow feathers hanging from it. He banged it. This time it made a deep, hollow sound.

The old woman smiled.

A young woman brushed past them and drew apart the smouldering logs of the fires down the middle of the lodge. She raked their ashes until they were smooth. Etienne's eyes smarted from the smoke.

More women entered, carrying wood. They built a large fire in the centre of the lodge.

Etienne turned when an elderly man, his mouth framed in deep seams, shouted from the doorway. His words brought all sorts of people inside. Old men and women carrying babies thronged to the lower platforms. Tsiko joined those that climbed the scaffolding.

The doctor arrived in the doorway carrying a large leather sack. He waved Etienne over to a seat on a log. Etienne re-wrapped the drum. He gestured to a lidded basket on the floor. The woman nodded. He placed the drum inside and fastened the lid.

A woman offered Etienne and the doctor bits of smoked fish on a leaf. Other women moved about the lodge carrying strings of gourd cups and buckets. They ladled a dark-coloured drink into the cups and passed it about.

“What is it?” Etienne asked, watching the doctor drink it down.

“Every clan has its own recipe,” Master Gendron responded with a smile. “You must drink it,” he said, “or you will insult our hosts.”

Etienne gulped it down. Neither bitter nor sweet, this strange tea seemed to taste of flowers, sun and rain all at once.

The people in the lodge grunted when a man with flowing grey locks stepped in front of the fire. His nose was as sharp as the scythe Etienne's father wielded in the meadow. The wrinkles on his face criss-crossed and jumped about his face as he spoke. His gestures seemed to be telling a story of planting.

Each time the man paused, the people grunted in approval. When his story ended, the man sat on the ground in front of the fire. He pulled a drum to his lap and beat it three times.

The men around him joined in, beating their drums and chanting. Two sang at the top of their voices, keeping time with tortoise-shell rattles. Some of the men shuffled into a line and began to move. In the glow of the fire, their faces looked blank, almost expressionless.

The pounding got louder, reverberating from the walls. The sound of the drums and the flicker of the firelight entranced Etienne.

His feet found the beat. He wanted to pound out the rhythm on his new drum along with the others. Etienne's hand went to the handle of the basket. But remembering what he heard at the council from Father Mesquin, he
withdrew it. No one from the mission could know his own basket held a forbidden drum. He closed his eyes as his heart surged like the mighty St. Lawrence.

Etienne's blue-eyed gaze travelled across the marsh. He rolled his breeches to his knees and stepped in. But as he made his way across the lake's slimy bottom, he slipped. His long barbed spear splashed into the water. He retrieved it with one hand. With the other he scratched the back of his neck.

Tsiko stood less than a stone's throw away. He stabbed a fish with one quick dart.

Etienne pushed his hair away from his face in exasperation. There were so many fish, he could almost walk on them. All he had to do was concentrate, but he couldn't. His hand kept wandering to the back of his neck.

“You are not doing well today,” Tsiko said. “
Atsihendo
, the white fish, not even move. It is easy.”

“It's not my fault,” Etienne complained. “You are too close to me.”

“A good hunter does not blame someone else for a missed shot,” Tsiko retorted.

Etienne didn't reply. Where he scratched his arm, streaks of red appeared.

That night, before the others entered the loft, Etienne examined his body. The large patches of red were now tender to the touch. Small red dots appeared across his stomach. His lips felt puffy and his cheeks were burning. He hardly slept for the itching.

In the morning, he discovered blisters oozing yellow fluid on his forearms. While feeding the chickens, he had difficulty breathing. By the time the sun was up, the itching licked his body like flames of a fire. He staggered past the cookhouse, plunged into the canal and floated, grateful for the coolness.

Ambroise Broulet, the cook, pulled him out. Through puffy eyelids, Etienne lay on the grass watching the crowd gather.

He felt the doctor's strong arms about him. He tried to move his swollen lips, but he couldn't speak. Master Gendron laid him on one of the wooden hospital cots. When Etienne raised his hand to the itch, the doctor grabbed his wrist. “Scratching only makes it worse,” he said. As he removed Etienne's wet clothes, Etienne raised his hand again to scratch. This time the doctor tied his wrists to the sides of the bed.

The doctor's gentle hands washed him from head to toe with warm water. Etienne sighed at the slather of pungent paste over his body. Damp strips of cloth went over his blisters, soothing the tingle. When the salve touched his lips, Etienne finally felt relief and slept.

Etienne dreamed of Father Mesquin standing on the steps of St. Joseph. A large fire burned in front of him as he clanged the bell.

The Huron offered the Jesuit their beaded necklaces, belts, collars and bracelets. Mesquin shook his head and rang the bell again and again. Then he raised his arms toward heaven.

Several Hurons tossed their drums into the flames.

“Not the drums,” Etienne called out in his sleep, “not the drums.”

One of the drums rose from the fire. Suspended in mid-air, its drumsticks pounded the skin surface. The Huron people turned and fled. The drum burst into flames which consumed Sainte-Marie.

With a shout, Etienne woke up. His drum lay hidden in the sack beneath his bed. Father Mesquin must not find it. He flung his legs from one side of the cot to the other, making his head swim.

Tsiko appeared at his side, untied his wrists and pushed his chest down. “Stay,” he said. He lifted a wooden bowl from the side table and brought it to Etienne's lips. Etienne sipped at the clear, greasy fish broth, his lips no longer swollen. Then he sank back onto the bed.

“Why did you yell ‘Not the drums'?” Tsiko asked.

Etienne wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. “I was dreaming,” he said.

Tsiko put the bowl back on the table. “What did you see?”

“There was a great fire,” Etienne said. “Sainte-Marie was on fire.”

But the effort of trying to get up had made him too tired to explain any further. He shut his eyes.

The next time he woke, the doctor was at his side.
“Leaves of three,” he said, “leave them be.”

Etienne frowned, waiting for an explanation.

“You had the worst case of poison ivy I have seen in a long time,” Master Gendron said. “Why didn't you show me this sooner?”

“Who poisoned me?” Etienne asked, his mouth gaping.

“Not who,” the doctor corrected him. “Somewhere you met up with a large patch of poisonous leaves.”

“The Iroquois poisoned the trees?”

“We can't blame the Iroquois this time,” the doctor said. “This is the work of God himself. There are many things in nature that are not good for mankind. You have just experienced one.”

Etienne looked at his legs. The patches of red were gone. He looked around for his clothes.

“We burned them for safety,” the doctor said. “But, since each apprentice receives a new set of clothes at Christmas, I've arranged for yours to come earlier.” He pointed to a small pile of clothes on the chair. “You can thank Master Masson for these.”

Etienne examined the rough linen shirt and woollen trousers.

The breeches were the hand-me-downs of a small man. Etienne winced as the rough wool brushed his still-tender skin. He examined the stockings to find them whole. The doublet had all four buttons. Fortunately Pierre's red sash remained tied to his bed in the loft.

Once dressed, he left the hospital. The bright red sumac leaves seemed to set the forest on fire, which made him uneasy.
Maybe if I paid better attention to God
,
he thought,
my dreams would not be so troubled
. He went to the chapel.

Tsiko waited for him on his return. “Soo-Taie wants to talk to you,” he said.

“I can't talk to your mother,” Etienne protested. “I don't know your language.”

“You can talk through my tongue,” Tsiko said, turning towards the cornfields.

Etienne followed him to the fields outside the walls. The women were plucking ripe ears of corn from stalks, entwined with beans. Orange pumpkins sat at their base. The sight of pumpkins made him hunger for one of his mother's fresh baked pumpkin loaves.

Soo-Taie stopped working. She set her legs apart and folded her arms. Her dark brown hawk-like eyes met Etienne's. Facing this tall, lean woman with high cheekbones and angular features, he had trouble finding his voice.

Tsiko prodded him to speak. “Tell Soo-Taie your dream,” he said.

“There was a great fire,” Etienne began as the boy at his side translated.

Soo-Taie nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“All the drums went into the fire,” he continued.

Soo-Taie spoke words to Tsiko, who turned to Etienne. “Who put the drums into the fire?”

“Your people,” he said. “They threw in their rattles and some kind of decorated sticks.”

Tsiko translated with wide eyes, hearing these details for the first time.

Etienne decided not to tell them about the drum that beat by itself. “The flames of the fire spread to the mission,” he said. “Then I woke up.”

Soo-Taie said nothing at first. Then she waved her hands in the air. “Go,” she said.

“Soo-Taie is not my mother,” Tsiko said as they left the fields. He led Etienne behind the church. In the small stone-rimmed cemetery, he pointed to a plain wooden cross. “There is my mother.”

Etienne tugged some of the weeds away to get a better look. “What was her name?”

Tsiko held up his hands in protest. “I won't say her name,” he whispered. “If she hears, she'll try to come back.” He pulled Etienne away. “Leave her in the land of sun.”

The warm autumn weather came to an abrupt end, and the days grew rainy. A thick fog arrived, which settled in for days. People moved about the mission like ghosts, looming then disappearing. Voices seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Winter's approach brought new chores like cleaning out stable muck and putting down fresh hay. The animals' hair grew thicker. Etienne's wool coat felt as thin as the pages of the Jesuit's bibles. The moment he stepped outside, his teeth chattered.

In the days that followed, fur-clad Hurons filled the longhouse. After mass, they attended lessons of religion and the French way of life in the great hall. Afterwards, they did as they pleased.

One day Tsiko appeared at the apothecary shop followed by a black and white dog. He wore deerskin leg coverings, attached to his waist by a belt. His sleeves of fur fastened with strings across the front and back of his chest.

“Today we learned a song about God's baby,” he said, breaking the silence. Etienne and the doctor had
been working side-by-side the whole morning without speaking. It was like that with his father as well, Etienne remembered, but not as comfortable.

“Do you mean the Christ Child?” Etienne asked. “I know that story.”

“How you know the story?” Tsiko demanded, “You're not Huron.”

“My mother taught me,” Etienne responded. It was his mother's favourite part of the Bible. On Christmas morning his father read the passages out loud. Then his mother would tell Etienne all about Christmas in the great cities of France. “And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.”