Warbird - Jennifer Maruno

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bundle his mother had left for the boy’s breakfast. His father paused, yawned and grunted. Etienne grabbed the bag and ran outside with his heart racing. He got to the road just as the rooster gave the sun a full, throaty welcome.

      The sky looked like the St. Lawrence River, light with snow, dark with cold. Etienne fought his fear of the eerie shadows as he made his way to the crossroads. He waited for men with torches and the laden ox-cart to pass. Father Lejeune followed in his square cap and long black cape.

      Etienne joined him, keeping his head low.

      At the river bank, a man in a beaver hat waited with a rifle. The strong, kelpy smell of the St Lawrence filled Etienne’s nostrils. He pulled the cap down over his ears to keep out the damp.

      “You the orphan?” the man asked.

      Father Lejeune placed his hand on Etienne’s shoulder. “He is in God’s hands,” he said.

      A hand shoved Etienne towards the dark river. The steep path to the river was still slippery with winter runoff. In the shadows it was hard to find footing. A man stumbled, almost knocking Etienne off his feet. When the clouds parted, the sun greeted the St. Lawrence with clear, early light. Four large canots de nord, about twenty-five feet long, with ends shaped like crescents, were moored offshore. Behind them, almost too small to see, a small birch-bark canoe rocked at the end of a pole.

      THREE

      The Journey

      Alerte!” the harsh voice belonging to the man in the beaver hat called out. Three different sizes of painted paddles, coils of ropes, oilskins and large sponges littered the ground. Short, stocky men in feathered red toques and knee-high deerskin leggings moved like ants along the shore. Some stuffed sacks with blankets, bolts of scarlet cloth and calico, then hauled them to their shoulders and waded out to the large canoes. Others followed carrying muskets, kegs of shot or bags of flour and dried peas. All worked quickly and quietly.

      There was the noise of a stumble and a squawk. “Chickens?” the harsh voice questioned. “Last year it was pigs. There is no room. Leave them.”

      “No,” Etienne cried out. “They must go. They are for the fathers at the mission.”

      “Then you carry them,” the man with steely grey eyes thundered. He pushed the cage into Etienne’s arms and shoved him towards the shore. “It’s bad enough we have to take children.”

      Etienne took a deep breath and walked towards the water. Why can they not draw the vessels up to the shore? Which one do I get into? There were four canoes in the water.

      “Take off your boots,” a voice said from behind. Before Etienne could tie them about his neck, his feet left the ground. “Remember to keep still,” said the man carrying him. “The boat is frail. We don’t need to spring a leak before setting off.” He lowered Etienne into the birch-bark canoe and leaped in behind him.

      Etienne’s seat on the sacks of supplies was not comfortable. The top edge of the canoe was less than four fingers from the water.

      A second man handed him the chicken cage then hopped in behind him, making it tip.

      A great circle appeared on the water and dark swells rose at each side. Etienne stared into the dark water, willing it back into calmness.

      “Allons-nous-en,” rang out the voice of thunder.

      The vessel gave a sickening lurch as they set off.

      “First new moon of the season,” the man who had carried him commented.

      “There will be council fires tonight,” the other added.

      “As long as they are not councils of war,” the first murmured.

      “God bless you,” Father Lejeune called down from the bluff. He held his wooden crucifix out to them and made the sign of the cross.

      The canoe glided forward. When it met the current, it swerved. Etienne gripped the sides, his knuckles as white as his face. He hunched in the greyness as the canoe rocked, too afraid to shift. He watched the men dip and lift the dripping paddles without a sound, dreading the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. Before long, Etienne threw his head over the side and vomited.

      Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he noticed the chickens buried deep into their wings, asleep. Exhausted, he pulled the cap over his eyes and laid his head on the cage.

      When he woke, Etienne found himself passing shores dense with trees. He looked back expecting to see hillsides of budding orchards, but they were gone.

      “Nothing is gained by looking back,” the man in the bow said. His loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck, exposed tufts of wiry black hair. He pressed his warm calloused hand into Etienne’s. “I am Médard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers,” he said.

      “Chouart,” Etienne repeated, staring at the man’s deerskin pants and coat. They shared a family name. Etienne just knew he had voyageur blood coursing through his veins. “My name,” he said, “is Etienne.” But then he stopped. He dared not use his last name.

      “This is Pierre.” Médard said, nodding to the man in the stern. “He comes along as clerk, hoping to get rich like his uncle.”

      Pierre Leroux had pale green eyes. His brown hair fell in long curls about his shoulders. He wore a thin mustache over his small delicate mouth. In true French fashion, his shirt sleeves gaped to show off his expensive linen. Knots of ribbon tied his breeches at the knee. Around his waist he wore a scarlet sash. This clean-shaven, well-dressed man bore little resemblance to Groseilliers with his full beard, deerskin jacket and beaded pouch.

      “How far have we travelled?” Etienne asked.

      “Not far,” Médard responded. “We still have a good day’s journey ahead of us.”

      Perched between them, Etienne studied the canoe’s interior. Packages and provisions balanced over poles fitted across the bottom. The two ears at the top of the cloth sacks where they were tied reminded Etienne of the litter of pigs about to arrive on the farm.

      The St. Lawrence River, swollen by the melted snows, sparkled with late sunlight.

      Pierre shook his long loose hair in the breeze, sending out a whiff of pomade. He turned to Etienne, smiled, and in a voice as clear as the mission bell, sang out, “En roulant ma boule roulant, en roulant ma boule.” Pierre’s song set the rhythm for paddling. The men joined in unison, marking time with their paddles.

      The little canoe bounced gently across the waves until Médard raised his arm to signal them to stop. He used his long paddle to hold the canoe still. Less than a league away, a deer moved along the edge of the woods. Etienne heard the creak of the bow as Pierre drew the notched arrow back on the string. The deer gazed directly at them, its eyes curious. The arrow flew, and the deer collapsed into the water.

      Médard signalled to the men behind.

      “We will have fresh meat for dinner,” Pierre said gleefully as the larger canoes moved in to claim the prize.

      For hours, Etienne watched the waves, the clouds, and the sky pass with little change. When Pierre stopped singing, they paddled to the sounds of the birds along the shore. One beautiful melodious song caused Etienne to seek out a bird that had black feathers like a hooded cloak over its white body. The red triangle on its chest looked like a melting heart.

      Etienne passed the time naming trees of maple, poplar and beech. Just as the sun set, he spotted a tall pine, missing all of its branches, but for a small tuft at the top. “Look at that,” he said as he pointed. “What a strange tree.”

      “Good eye,” Médard responded. “That marks our camp.”

      The canoes passed cliffs where roots of trees clung to the rocks like claws. Rounding the bend, a pine-sheltered

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