Black robe, p.19
Black Robe, page 19
‘Day and night, I have wondered how I could inter his remains,’ the sick priest said. ‘So let that be your first task. Afterwards, you must find the leaders of the village. You speak the Huron tongue?’
‘Yes. Not as you do, but I have studied it for two years.’
‘We must speak with them once more. We must convince them that this fever is not our doing. The Savages are under the spell of their sorcerers. And the sorcerers speak against us. Now, go. You will find a shovel and an axe in the outer room. The floor of the chapel is of earth. We cannot have a coffin, but we can bury him in God’s presence. When you have dug the grave and interred him, call me. I will say the prayers for the dead.’
Laforgue rose and went to the outer room. The stench was less overpowering there. He took a shovel and an axe and went into the chapel. As he crossed the threshold he made the sign of the cross and genuflected to the altar. As he rose from his knees he saw, sprawled beneath the tabernacle, the corpse of Father Duval, an arm thrown out as in a grotesque gesture of welcome. The face was already in a state of putrescence.
He looked away, then forced himself to look again. This was, as Father Jerome had said, the body of a Christian martyr. He saw the matted hair, the skull split by a hatchet, the dried blood and congealed fluids. Quickly, he picked a burial place and began to hack at the earthen floor. He threw off his cloak and unbuttoned his cassock and, in the dreadful stench, working like a man possessed, within an hour he had dug a rough trench, six feet long by three feet wide. He went to the corpse and, taking it by the heels, dragged it towards the grave. As he did, to his horror he saw the head, already split, come apart at the base of the skull as though it would separate into two halves. But then, with a lurch, he pulled the body into the trench. He stood, panting, and wiped his brow with the cuff of his robe. As he did, he heard a sound behind him.
A Savage watched him from the doorway. The Savage wore a long beaver cloak over a tunic and leggings of deerskin. His face was painted black on one side, red on the other, and his hair, elaborately arranged, was cut short on the one side and fell in a long braid on the other. Around his neck he wore a ruff of feathers, and bead bracelets decorated both of his arms. He carried no weapon.
‘Come with me, sorcerer,’ the Savage said. ‘And be quiet.’ He spoke in the Huron tongue. He beckoned, and Laforgue followed him out into the kitchen of the residence. There, Father Jerome stood, tottering on his makeshift crutch. ‘Take his arm,’ the Savage said to Laforgue. ‘Help him.’
Laforgue went to the sick priest’s assistance and together, slowly, they made their way to the front door of the residence. The door was open, and outside they could see several Savage men, painted and wearing robes of ceremony. The Savage who had come to fetch them signalled to these men.
‘He is Taretandé,’ Father Jerome said, in French. ‘He is their leader.’
The Savages at once surrounded the two priests. Drums began to beat. Men and women, children and dogs came suddenly from all the longhouses, in a din of noise and excitement. Yelling and screaming they marched with the priests towards the largest longhouse, the place of assembly.
Laforgue, half carrying the sick priest, made slow progress in the din. When they entered the longhouse, he felt the paralysed body sag and become almost a dead weight. He looked at Father Jerome. The priest seemed to have fainted. ‘Father Jerome?’
The sick man rallied and opened his eyes. In the uproar Laforgue could not make out the words formed by the half-paralysed mouth. He leaned towards the priest’s lips and heard, ‘Did you – did you bury him?’
‘It’s begun,’ Laforgue said. ‘I will finish later.’
Ahead, a tall, heavily built Savage stood with three others, painted for war. All three carried heavy clubs.
‘Ondesson,’ said the sick priest, nodding to this Savage. ‘Ondesson, we must speak together.’
‘Shut your hairy face,’ the Savage said, and laughed. ‘Are we all assembled?’
A roar went up from the crowd. People scrambled up on the sleeping platforms as though taking their seats at a performance. Laforgue, remembering that other time of torture, in the longhouse of the Iroquois, felt himself tense. Was this a parley, or was it what he feared?
‘Come! You!’ shouted Ondesson, beckoning to Taretandé, the council leader. ‘Tell them.’
Taretandé bowed to the war leader, as though in thanks, then turned to face Laforgue and Jerome.
‘Fifty-three are dead,’ he said. ‘Men, women, children. Fifty-three you have killed, of our people. And every night more sicken and die. No one lives once this fever comes upon them. No one who is a man like other men.’ He pointed to Jerome. ‘But you lived. You and the other witch. Both of you had the fever and lived.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Today, I went into their longhouse. I went into that place, shut off, where they keep pieces of a corpse in a little box, a corpse they brought from France. And what did I find? This new one, this new witch who came alone to this place, was there, digging in the ground. And in the place where this fuckpot dug, there were the guts and head and body of the one we killed. He was hiding him under the ground so that some new fucking spell can be made.’
There was a silence; then, suddenly, men and women began to moan and cry as in pain or terror.
‘These are not men,’ Taretandé said. ‘They are witches. They must be killed as a witch is killed.’
A roar went up. Father Jerome raised his crutch, waving it as though asking permission to speak. But as he did, Ondesson, the war chief, banged suddenly on the ground with his club. ‘They are men and they will die like men! We will caress them. We will take strips of their flesh, roast it on the flames and make them eat it. We will remove their fingers, one by one. We will cut out their hearts and give their bowels to the dogs. We will cut off their heads and their hands and their feet.’
‘Wait!’ Father Jerome managed, despite his hoarse paralysed speech, to make the word sound clear above the din. At once, the yelling ceased. ‘You must not do this,’ the sick priest shouted. ‘If you do, God will punish you! Do you hear me? God will punish you!’
‘Prepare the coals,’ said Ondesson. ‘We will start with the coals.’
At that, the din began again, rising to pandemonium. Three women ran to the fires and scooped up hot coals on birch-bark platters. They presented the coals to Ondesson.
‘Strip the prisoners,’ he commanded.
At that, two warriors ran up to the priests. As they began to pull at the cassocks, ripping the buttons, the light died in the longhouse as though someone had blown out a candle. All looked up at the openings in the roofs and saw a sky black as night. Inside, only the burning beds of coals dimly lit the faces and figures of those near to it. In the darkness, the crowd, like some great panting animal, fell silent in dreadful unease.
Laforgue turned to Father Jerome. ‘What is happening?’ he whispered.
‘Come,’ said the sick priest, as, jacking his crutch under his armpit, he hobbled towards the doorway of the longhouse. In the dim light of the fires, faces moved away, letting them pass. They walked slowly out into the village street and looked up. And as they did, the eclipse moved, the sun gradually reappearing from behind its circle of blackness. ‘It is an act of God,’ Father Jerome said hoarsely. ‘Our Lord has saved us. Blessed be Thy Name.’
An eclipse of the sun, an act of God. Laforgue, looking up as the light returned to the heavens, knew that, indeed, this must be God’s hand. But somehow no words of thanks came to his mind, no prayer of gratitude passed his lips. Could this be, like thunder and lightning, an accident of nature, which had happened at this hour? Of course not. But still he felt no sense of miracle. He turned. The Savages were now pouring out of the longhouse, staring up at the sky. Laforgue looked at Father Jerome. The sick priest’s discoloured right eye was bright with a strange luminescence.
‘Father Paul,’ the sick priest said, ‘God has given us this grace, this opportunity. Now, we must use it for His glory.’
‘In what way, Father?’
‘You will see,’ Father Jerome said. He called out, ‘Ondesson? Taretandé?’
The leaders came forward, unease plain as speech on their faces.
‘You have seen,’ the sick priest said. ‘God – our God – has warned you. How dare you try to injure us, who are God’s servants? We are going back now to our house to bury our dead. You have seen the hand of God. You must change your ways. If you do not, we cannot help you. That is all I have to say.’ He turned to Laforgue. ‘Come, Father Paul. Let us go back to the residence.’
Laforgue took his arm. Slowly, they moved away, the crutch hitting like a slow drumbeat as the sick priest hauled himself over stony ground. The Savages stood, looking to their leaders. After a few moments, Taretandé made a sign. The villagers began to disperse.
*
‘Deus qui inter apostolicos sacerdos familium tuum...’ Father Jerome, his paralysed bulk looming over the small altar, began to recite aloud the prayer for a priest deceased. As he spoke he looked down at Father Duval’s replacement, who knelt by the freshly covered grave. Soon the men of the village council would return. He knew what he would say to them. This would be his final task: to reap a great harvest of souls.
Laforgue, listening to the Latin, stole a look at the sick man who recited the prayer. He thought of the rotting corpse beneath the ground and in his mind saw the skulls of saints long dead, venerated in sanctuaries as holy relics.
Is this the martyrdom, the glorious end I once desired with all my heart and all my soul? Why have I ceased to pray? What error has come upon me so that, today, that eclipse of the sun seemed to me a phenomenon which, were I to believe in it as the hand of God, would leave me in the same murk of superstition as the Savages themselves? I should ask Father Jerome to hear my confession. I should tell him my doubts and ask for absolution. But if I do, this holy man who is close to death will know I am utterly unfit to take his place.
When night came, Laforgue settled the ailing Jerome on his pallet and then, still sickened by the stench in the residence, went outside and stood looking at the Savage dwellings. He heard drumbeats and the cries of sorcerers, trying to drive out the evil spirits which they believed to be lodged in the bodies of the sick. Dogs barked. Above him the sky was clear and cold and filled with stars. The Savages have not yet come to kill us. If they do not come, then this will be my home. When Father Jerome dies I will be in charge here, my life’s work to convert these Savages now dying of a fever against which they have no defence. The Savages will not come to kill me. God did not choose me to be a martyr. He knows I am unworthy of that fate.
12
There had been no fever in Taretandé’s house. But on the morning after the black sun darkened the sky, he woke to find that his new wife had begun to shiver and sweat. He rose at once and went to a sorcerer. But when he entered the sorcerer’s house, the sorcerer’s child was sick and a curing ritual was in progress. He went out and, walking through the village, heard drums and lamentations. He passed the hated longhouse where the Blackrobes were and saw their sign of crossed sticks on the roof. He remembered that the Blackrobes, in former days, made that sign with their hands and tried to teach it to the children. He remembered that, last spring, the Blackrobes had invited families with children into their longhouse and there had given the children presents of beads if the children would learn answers to questions which the Blackrobes taught about their god. He remembered that Aenons had warned that the Blackrobes did not speak of curing rituals to combat sickness, but of death and another life to which they wished to lead the people.
The Blackrobes spoke this way because they were the sorcerers of death. He thought of the black sun, which warned of their power. His new wife would die. Perhaps all of the people would die. Already, there was little fishing; the crops had rotted in some fields for want of harvesting. It had been a mistake to kill the first Blackrobe, for another had come alone, like a manitou, to replace him. The Blackrobes were devils of great power. We must treat with these fuckers. We have no choice.
It was as though, that morning, every man in the council had been touched by the same thought. Ondesson’s son had shown signs of fever. Achisantaete’s mother, who had had the fever for four days, died during the night. Ondesson asked for a meeting.
‘We must go to the Blackrobes,’ Ondesson said. ‘We must ask their help for a curing ritual to end this sickness. We must find out what it is that these sorcerers wish.’
‘The water sorcery for all of us,’ said Sononkhianconc. ‘That is what they will ask. And the water sorcery kills, just as the fever kills. They wish our deaths so that they can lead us into some fucking Norman place of the dead as their captives.’
But Sononkhianconc was a sorcerer, and the council members knew that, as such, he was jealous of all other sorcerers.
‘That could be,’ said Taretandé. ‘But at least let us speak with them.’
It was decided. The council members walked through the village, watched by all. They went to the longhouse of the Blackrobes and Taretandé entered there. A few minutes later he came out with the old Blackrobe Andehoua, who had the falling sickness and walked with a stick. Behind them was the stranger Blackrobe, who had been found with the corpse of the dead one, performing some evil spell.
In the longhouse of the council, all sat. Tobacco was offered but, although it was the first time the council had invited them to a parley, the Blackrobes behaved not as normal men but as enemies. They said they did not smoke.
When he heard this, Taretandé laid aside his pipe. ‘I understand why you will not smoke with us,’ he said. ‘We did you a great wrong by killing one of you. Now we are willing to give many presents to right that wrong. Tell us what things you want from us.’
He waited. ‘We do not take presents,’ the old Blackrobe said.
Taretandé felt himself begin to sweat. Had these sorcerers decided on death for all? Was there no talking to them? ‘We have come to you today because we are all agreed that you have the power to stop the fever. You are its masters. The village is dying and the sickness spreads. We now put ourselves in your hands. What must we do for you so that you will perform the curing ritual that will rid us of this sickness?’
As he spoke, he saw the old Blackrobe turn and whisper to the other one. Then the old Blackrobe raised his stick, signalling that he would speak. Taretandé bowed to him.
The sick old voice rose in a quaver of anger. ‘Yesterday, the sun went black. You have seen the hand of God, our God who is above us, who is the only Lord of heaven and earth. What must you do that you will be cured of this fever? You must serve our God, who is your God. If you will end this contagion, you must make a vow to do His will. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ said Taretandé, and smiled, hoping by a joke to turn away wrath. ‘We don’t understand because we are stupid cunts. You must tell us what you wish us to do.’
‘Very well,’ said the old Blackrobe. ‘You must make a public vow that if God ends this contagion, you will be baptized and keep His commandments.’
‘The water sorcery?’ asked Sangwati. ‘For all?’
‘Yes,’ said the Blackrobe.
‘And what does your god command besides the water sorcery?’
‘You must give up those practices which offend Him. You must not cast off your wives, but keep them for life. You must not eat human flesh. You must not attend curing rituals or feasts of gluttony in which you become sick with eating. Above all, you must give up your belief in dreams.’
‘But how can we do that?’ asked a council member. ‘The dream tells us what to do.’
‘You will have no need of dreams to tell you right from wrong,’ the old Blackrobe said. ‘Our Lord will tell you. I have not long to live, but this priest of God who sits beside me will take my place and live among you. He will give you God’s orders. Now, you must go back to your people and tell them what we have said. All must be baptized. And I wish this to happen soon. Until you come before me for baptism, the contagion will continue.’
Aenons, who was aged and of great intelligence, now signalled that he wished to talk.
‘We cannot do these things,’ Aenons said. He looked at the older Blackrobe. ‘Andehoua, I thought of you as my friend. But fuck it, don’t you see? If we do these things and if we give up our belief in the dream, then the Huron life, the way we have always known, will end for us.’
‘You will have no need of your former life,’ the Blackrobe said. ‘You will have a new life, as Christians. You will worship the true God and forget these childish notions which now fill your heads. When you die you will go to paradise.’
‘I want to live, not to die,’ said Ondesson. ‘And I do not want to have a wife like a burden on my back when I no longer wish to live with her. You are Normans. Your ways are not our ways. Why do you not respect that we serve different gods and that we cannot live as you do?’
‘Can we not agree to take the water sorcery and still retain our ways?’ asked Aenons. ‘If your god wants that, then we will work among our people so that all will take the water and be cured.’
‘Baptism is not a cure for the fever. It is not a cure for the body, but for the soul,’ the old Blackrobe said.
‘Is it something, then, for our deaths, not for saving life?’ asked Taretandé, and looked at the others.
‘Yes,’ said the Blackrobe. ‘It will lead you to paradise, as I have said. But it may also help with the fever. For, if you do God’s will, you may hope for his mercy. We will pray, night and day to God, asking him to take this sickness from you.’
There was silence. Taretandé rose. Sweat ran down his face. ‘We will leave now,’ he said. The others rose also. They walked past the Blackrobes and out into the day. They went towards Ondesson’s house. As they walked, they did not speak.
*
When the two priests returned to their residence it was almost noon. Laforgue settled Father Jerome on his pallet and, with him, recited the prayers of the Angelus. Then he went into the kitchen and made a broth of corn husks. As the broth simmered on the fire, Laforgue began to scrub the kitchen and clear it of dirt. When they had eaten he went into the chapel and cleaned and scoured the altar, replacing the rough altar cloth. He opened the tabernacle and saw a chalice and hosts within. When he had finished his work in the chapel, he went back to the sick man, who seemed to be asleep. But as Laforgue began to sweep the floor of the room, Father Jerome groaned and turned on his side.
