Michael Rowe - Enter, Night

“Do you, for instance,” de Varennes asked me, “know anything of the Ojibwa people, Father Nyon? Do you know their language and customs?”

“I have studied their language, Father,” I replied. “I am not fluent, but I have tried to prepare myself as best I could in the event that my service in New France led me there.”

“You know by now, Father Nyon, of the recent destruction of our mission at Sainte-Berthe and the slaughter of our priests at the hands of the Hiroquois?”

I nodded, bowing my head. “Yes, Father. A great tragedy.”

“Have you then also heard,” he asked, “of the mystery of our settlement of St. Barthélemy near the shore of Lac Supérieur which has been reported as entirely deserted?”

“Yes, Father. But again, only in passing. Only in the form of rumour and conjecture. Stories from around the campfire in these last weeks. The gossip of trappers.”

The old priest smiled at that. But again he grew serious. “Father Nyon,” he said. “We have dispatched one of our priests, Father Lubéron, in the company of a party of Algonquians, to recover the bodies of our fallen Fathers at Sainte-Berthe and to give them a Christian burial. It is a gruesome assignation, but Father Lubéron has volunteered. We can only pray for his safe return, and that he does not meet the same fate that befell d’Olivier, Glazier, and d’Uongue.”

“I too will pray for that, Father,” I told him. “I would also have volunteered if I had known of the assignation.”

Father de Varennes looked hard at me and said, “Is that what is truly in your heart, Father Nyon?”

I replied that it was, indeed.

“Father Nyon. I would like you to travel north to the region of Sault de Gaston and visit the site of the St. Barthélemy settlement and see if what the trappers reported is true. I would like you to find the priest, Father de Céligny. If the Savages murdered him, I would like you to bury him and perform the Last Rites. If he is alive, I would like you to bring him back with you to Trois-Rivières so he may give his own account of what transpired at the Mission.”

“I accept joyfully, Father,” I said, quite proud of myself for having been put in charge of such an undertaking. “What can you tell me of Father de Céligny, Father? I have not heard that name before. Has he been long in New France?”

“Father de Céligny arrived in New France in 1625 as one of the priests who answered the appeal of the Recollet friars in order to aid them in their work with the Indian missions,” Father de Varennes explained. “The Recollets were insufficient in numbers to successfully cope with the nature and hardships of evangelizing the Savages.”

“But what of the man?” I persisted. “Who is he?”

“The man?” Father de Varennes laughed. “Ah yes, the man. I know only the priest, but you ask me about the man. Let us see. Father de Céligny is descended from a noble family in the Nord-Pas-de-Calais, the most northerly region of France. He is kinsman to the Vicomte de Moriève of that region. He took his vows in Paris, at Montmartre. And, as I said, he came to us here in New France in 1625. By reports it was a long and terrible voyage from Dieppe to Québec. An unknown wasting sickness descended on crew and passengers alike. Many shrivelled and died, including some priests. Father de Céligny survived. He was dispatched to the Ojibwa that very year. He is a learned man. As I recall, he was also grave in manner and demeanour. In truth, I don’t remember much of the man. And even now, it is the priest I am concerned with, not the man.”

“Forgive my impertinence, Father,” I said humbly. “But if he wasn’t murdered by the Savages, might there have been another reason for his abandonment of his Mission?”

Father de Varennes sighed at that. “Sadly, I believe we must prepare ourselves for the worst, Father Nyon.”

With courage I did not feel, I told Father de Varennes that I would do my duty and meet my fate joyfully, whatever it might be.

“Your journey will take you approximately five weeks,” Father de Varennes said. “It will be an exceptionally difficult one, and fraught with hardship. You speak the Algonquian language, I’m told?”

“Not well, Father, but I can understand the language better than I can speak it.”

“The Algonquians accompanying you will take you to the region of Sault de Gaston and will delivery you safely to the Mission of St. Barthélemy. They camp nearby and will wait to bring you back, either alone, or with Father de Céligny. Do you have any questions, Father?”

“No, Father,” I said. “I understand everything. When will I be leaving?”

Father de Varennes hesitated, as though considering my youth. Then he drew himself up to his full height and said, not unkindly, “At dawn, Father Nyon. And may God be with you.”

At that, we knelt together and prayed for some time in the chapel. Father de Varennes introduced me to my stoical Algonquian guide, Askuwheteau. He bade me spend the remainder of the afternoon in prayer and meditation, and then retire early for my departure from Trois-Rivières.

After the departure of Father de Varennes, I walked a bit about the post and then took myself down to the river, feeling the need to see it once, alone, before my departure at the dawn on the morrow.

As I approached the edge of the dark water, I noticed a man following me at a cautious distance. He was clearly French, one of those hommes du nord, or hivernants as the voyageurs who transport furs by canoe and overwinter in the regions beyond Montréal and Grand Portage are often called. Like so many of them, a crude and filthy-looking man who, through long exposure to the Savages and carnal knowledge of the vilest sort with Savage women, had begun to resemble the Indians more than he resembled a white man. By coincidence, I did know this man’s name: he was called Dumont, and was known to be of low moral character, over fond of spirits, a dishonest dealer with the Savages and an unrepentant consort of their women.

I paused by the water and waited, my intention being to ask him what he wanted. I had no fear of him, for what Frenchman here in TroisRivières would harm a priest? But he spoke first, and most strangely.

He asked me, “You are the priest who will be going to St. Barthélemy with the Algonquians?”

I told him yes, and I asked him what business it was of his. He laughed and showed me a reeking mouthful of rotten teeth. The stench issuing from his open mouth was a horror in its own right.

“Do you know what awaits you at St. Barthélemy? Do you know what is there?”

“I expect to recover the body of Father de Céligny of that Mission,” I said. “Though my heartiest prayers are that I will find him alive and well, and safely in the service of Our Lord.”

At that, Dumont laughed again. But it was not a laugh of joy, or even one of malice. It was a forced laugh, one in which I thought I detected a trace of something akin to fear. And yet this man Dumont had already openly lived a rough and vile life. I could not fathom what could have made him afraid of speaking openly about the Mission.

“What do you know of the Mission at St. Barthélemy?” I asked him, with a boldness I did not feel. “What do you know of the fate of Father de Céligny? If you have something to share, share it now or keep your peace.”

He shrugged again. “I know nothing,” said he. “I speak of nothing.”

“Not true, Dumont,” I replied. “Tomorrow I am leaving for St. Barthélemy. If there is something you know, or have heard, I charge you to tell me-and indeed to tell me now and in all haste.”

At that, Dumont leaned close to me and said, “The Indians of LacSuperiéur, they fear him.”