Warbird. Jennifer Maruno
themselves,” said another.
One morning, through the silver sheen of mist over the water, Etienne watched a tall bird stalk through the reeds. With lightning speed, it speared a fish and swallowed it whole.
Médard waded into the water. The heron pulled its head into a flat s-shaped loop, lifted its legs and flew off.
“There’s a sign for you,” Médard called to Etienne.
Etienne looked up, puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“When you see a heron,” Médard said, “it is a reminder that you don’t need great, thick legs to stand firm. Even on one thin leg, you can stand tall.”
Etienne gave a sunburned scowl. Stones had become boulders. Bushes were the size of trees and the water colder than he had ever known. He had trouble moving about on two feet, much less one.
They hugged the shore of the next lake and soon entered yet another river. A short, dark animal sprang from the reeds and dove into the water right in the path of their canoe.
Médard pointed at the dark head and furry back that swam a few paces ahead of the bow.
“Watch what happens when he catches our smell,” he told Etienne.
The animal swam down the side of the canoe. Suddenly it dove with a great splash.
Etienne brushed drops of water from his arm. “What happened?” he asked.
Instead of replying, Médard put his finger to his lips. From around the next bend in the river came a loud sound. Etienne ducked his head under his arms.
“Sounds like a rifle, eh?” Pierre said. “That beaver is warning his family.”
“The beaver?” Etienne said, looking behind them. “He made that noise?”
Médard pointed to a pile of small saplings, stripped clean of bark and branches. “He was eating there.”
Etienne fixed his eyes to the shore, looking at one pile then another. Médard stood in the canoe for a moment and gazed downriver. Then he gave Pierre the signal to slow down, and they stopped where a small stream joined the river. At its mouth sat a third pile of white, shining branches.
“Time for a walk,” Médard said with a smile. “You would like that, eh?”
Pierre held the canoe to shore with his long red paddle.
Médard and Etienne leapt from the canoe and walked along the brook. The soft mud soothed Etienne’s aching feet.
They came to a wall of sticks woven together and plastered with mud and moss. About fifty paces long, it was as high as Etienne’s shoulders. A few heavy stones paraded along the top.
“Did the natives make this?” Etienne asked in awe.
Médard shook his head. Again he put his finger to his lip. Then he lowered it and pointed.
Behind the wall of sticks lay a small shining pond. Etienne’s eyes travelled across its smooth surface. Then he saw a ripple. A dark brown head like the one in the river headed towards the mound of earth in the centre of the pond. It seemed to be pushing a bundle of grass. Then the head and the bundle disappeared.
The reflection of the silver poplars in the dark surface mesmerized Etienne, and the gurgle of the stream running through small holes in the wall made him sleepy. He felt he could sit in this peaceful place forever.
Médard took Etienne’s arm, indicating it was time to return.
Pierre was waiting with his rifle across his lap. Their canoe slipped back into the current. Along the river, sharp black spruce jutted from the bank. Looking up, Etienne spotted a huge square-shouldered eagle. Its snowy crown feathers drooped in long points onto its rusty black shoulders. The chickens stirred and squawked. “You are safe with me,” Etienne whispered.
As they rounded a bend, they saw a great animal standing chest deep in the water. The moose raised his head at their approach and stared as streams of water poured from his face and neck. Then he turned and lumbered to the shore. Etienne heard the sounds of breaking branches as he crashed through the underbrush.
“Do all animals carry meaning?” he asked.
“You catch on quickly,” Médard said with a smile. “Nature speaks to us every day, but many do not bother to pay attention.”
“What does the moose tell us?” Etienne asked.
“The moose and the deer are of the same family,” Médard told him. “They both mean friendship. But the moose also means a long, good life. You can travel twice as far and twice as fast after a meal of moose meat.”
The four large boats carried on across the lake amid shouts of farewell.
“They are leaving us?” Etienne asked.
“Pierre and I will catch up with them at the next camp,” Médard said. “First, we must take you to the priests.”
Their small boat of bark followed the narrowing shoreline. Etienne watched the massive canoes become small dots upon the horizon.
“Onywatenro,” Médard called out as he hailed another canoe in the distance. As it grew nearer, Etienne could see it was like theirs. It was painted yellow and had a large red sun on its curved bow. A man sat in the stern, steering. The woman with him adjusted the animal skin that tied a dark-haired baby to her body.
Etienne could only stare at their dark brown faces and coarse black hair. The woman’s thick braids fell to her waist. Leather strings bound the ends. The man’s hair hung past his shoulders. A leather band bound his forehead.
Pierre repeated these unfamiliar sounds.
“Say it,” Médard insisted. “Onywatenro,” he repeated. “It means we are friends.”
Etienne mumbled the strange words as the family glided past.
They entered a small bay. A great wall of pointed stakes appeared on the hill above them and the large wooden cross of the mission of Sainte-Marie loomed above their heads.
FIVE
Arrival
The setting sun gave the weathered stakes of the palisade wall a glow of burnished silver. As the canoe moved along the river, bark shingle roofs came into view. A soldier watching from the parapet waved in their direction.
Médard and Pierre paddled down the small waterway into the very heart of the mission. The big canoes would never have fit, Etienne thought.
Two men and a priest hoisted the wooden bridge that lay across the canal. Etienne looked around at the squat square buildings of hand-hewn logs. Heavy wooden shutters framed windows curtained with oiled deerskins. Big chimneys of mud and stone spewed smoke. A man and boy at a saw trestle slowed their work and tipped their caps. The boy who had a wind-whipped face and tight curly hair grinned and waved. The smell of sweetgrass filled the air as they stepped onto the platform of logs.
“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.