Enter, Night

“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 Celigny, Father? I have not heard that name before. Has he been long in New France?”

“Father de Celigny 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 Celigny 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 Morieve 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 Quebec. An unknown wasting sickness descended on crew and passengers alike. Many shrivelled and died, including some priests. Father de Celigny 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. Barthelemy. They camp nearby and will wait to bring you back, either alone, or with Father de Celigny. 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-Rivieres.

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 Montreal 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 TroisRivieres would harm a priest? But he spoke first, and most strangely.

He asked me, “You are the priest who will be going to St. Barthelemy 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. Barthelemy? Do you know what is there?”

“I expect to recover the body of Father de Celigny 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. Barthelemy?” I asked him, with a boldness I did not feel. “What do you know of the fate of Father de Celigny? 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. Barthelemy. 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 LacSuperieur, they fear him.”

“Who,” I demanded. “Father de Celigny?”

“Yes, him.” Dumont crossed himself. The reverent gesture, so earnestly performed, seemed so incongruous in that setting, and from that man, that I fear I laughed.

“Of course they fear him,” I scoffed. “The Indians blame us for everything. These countries, and these poor, ignorant people, are in Lucifer’s thrall. They blame us when there is an outbreak of the pox. They blame us when there is a famine. They blame us when there is a drought. They call the Rite of Baptism water-sorcery. They accuse us of performing witchcraft in our chapels. They call us demons in black robes.”

“No,” Dumont whispered. “They fear de Celigny himself.” He looked all around as though to make sure no one was listening. “They call him Weetigo. An eater of human flesh and a drinker of blood. Human in form, but mji-manidoo, a demon.”

“The Savages do not understand the Rite of Communion,” I explained as patiently as I could, trying not to show my irritation. “They confuse it with their own barbarism, or the barbarism of the Hiroquois.”

“No,” Dumont insisted. “It is more than that. The Savages of which I speak have no quarrel with the Black Robes. But they give the mission of St. Barthelemy in Sault de Gaston a wide berth.”

“Then perhaps those are the Savages who have killed Father de Celigny,” I said in outrage. “If you have information about his fate, Dumont, you will come with me now to Father de Varennes, and you will tell him what you know, or what you have heard from the Savages.”

“I know nothing,” Dumont said. “I have heard nothing. And I will tell Father de Varennes nothing.”

“If you know nothing, my son, then what is your purpose here? Why did you seek me out today?” I asked him in bafflement. “Do you have something to confess? Do you not wish to be granted absolution? I can absolve you, but before I do, you must confess to me.”

Dumont again grew pale. Again, he crossed himself. This time, I did not laugh, for a mask of such dread and tragedy contorted his face that Melpomene herself would have recoiled from it. He seemed suddenly in the throes of a deep and profound spiritual terror. Were he not so clearly a man of a dissolute and profane reputation, I would have even said that he feared that his very soul was in peril from something he had done, or seen. So awful was Dumont’s expression that I had but one thought: that he had, himself, witnessed the awful martyrdom of Father de Celigny at the hands of the Savages and that it had been a most fearsome and terrible death. In his eyes, I found every nightmare that had tormented me, as a young priest in Chartres, about the terrible and agonizing fate that might await me here in New France.

“I need no absolution, Father,” Dumont said. “But perhaps God will grant you the strength and knowledge to conquer what awaits you in St. Barthelemy. We have brought terrible things to New France. There are worse things now walking in the forests at night than the Savages.” He knelt and took my crucifix in his filthy hands, and kissed it. “I will pray for you, Father. Pray for me, also.”

With that, Dumont rose to his feet. He looked around him, and then quickly took his leave from my company by a trail that I knew led to the other side of the post where some of the hivernants kept their canoes. He did not turn or look back as he hurried along his way before disappearing from view behind the trees.

The cold I felt in the wake of Dumont’s leave-taking was due only in part to the sinking of the sun in the sky, or the freezing egress of the coming night. I looked all around me and saw anew the cruel beauty of this wild country