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. He pointed to the narrow two-storey barn across the way. “Your bed,” he said to Etienne, “is above the stables.”
Douart led them to the threshold of a small square building which served as a chapel. “When you are finished,” he told them, with a backward glance, “you will be fed.”
Etienne put the chickens down next to the chapel door and followed Médard and Pierre into an earthy interior with white clay walls that smelled of warm wax. A single candle flickered at the altar, where they bowed their heads and gave thanks. Etienne turned to go, but on second thought bowed his head again. His mother deserved a special prayer. She would be the one to bear the brunt of his father’s anger at his disappearance. Etienne also prayed that the orphan would stay to help his father.
His two companions led Etienne into the great hall. Eating and drinking men filled the log benches around the rough pine tables. Some looked up when Etienne paused in the doorway. Holding the chicken cage in the air, he yelled out, “I have a gift for the Father Superior.”
Murmurs and laughter came from the crowd.
A full-bearded priest rose from his meal. His long-sleeved black garment covered his body from neck to feet. Around his collar of plain white he wore a chain of blue porcelain beads, ending in an iron cross. “I am the Father Superior,” he said. Beckoning, the priest called, “Show me what you have brought.”
Etienne carried the cage through the amused crowd. He placed it on the table in front of Father Rageuneau. “This is Francine and her husband Samuel,” he said. “They have travelled far, just like Champlain himself.”
The Jesuit leaned down. “Like Champlain, you say,” he said, looking at the two scruffy black hens. “Thank you, we will be happy to have their eggs.”
“I will take them,” Douart, the scruffy lay brother said, placing his hand on the battered cage.
“You can’t just throw them in the coop,” Etienne protested. “They have to be put on a roost at night. Then when they wake, they’ll think they’ve always lived there.”
“Monsieur Le Coq,” one of the men at the next table asked in a loud voice, “is it true?”
“It didn’t happen to me,” a voice replied, and a roar of laughter followed.
“What is it that you have come to do, my son,” the Father Superior asked kindly.
“Explore and hunt,” Etienne answered enthusiastically.
“You probably will,” the Father Superior said, “but how will you serve God?”
Etienne thought of the chores he’d left behind. “I know how to raise chickens and tend a garden,” he said. Then he remembered a phrase he’d heard his father say often and repeated it. “I come from a long line of farmers.”
“And what long line might that be?” Father Rageuneau asked.
Etienne stared at the priest blankly. He could not remember the boy’s last name.
“Your family name,” the man seated beside Father Rageuneau prompted. “We want to know your father’s family name.”
Etienne
