Free Warbird by Jennifer Maruno Page A

participate.”
    â€œAnd he shall have it,” Mesquin said. “I promised the greatest baptismal ceremony of all time.”
    â€œWell, I can promise you,” the doctor said, “if you do not wear something other than snowshoes, you will lose the very movement God gave you.”
    â€œYes, yes, yes,” Mesquin said, waving a hand in front of his face. “There are new boots for me to wear in the sack by the door.” Like King Louis on the throne, he gestured to Etienne to fetch them.
    The doctor slid one of the bearskin moccasins over the priest’s stockinged toes. Etienne had seen boots like these before, but where? As he watched the Jesuit limp across the snow, the truth of the matter dawned on him. The great warrior the priest referred to was Satouta. Etienne shook his head. It would indeed be the greatest ceremony ever to take place.

THIRTEEN
The Baptism
    Small streams of water trickled down the bare rock faces of the hills. The melting snow left islands of white amid the trees. The birch stood like bones against the dark forest floor.
    Tsiko told Etienne that spring spirits brought the warmth, the birds and the greenery. The winter spirits had left, taking the ice, snow and cold winds north.
    Each day, as Etienne passed the church, he heard the fine tenor voice of Father Brébeuf. Then hesitant younger voices sang out. Sometimes he heard the Jesuit and Huron voices together. Day by day, they grew stronger. Today the air resounded with song.
    â€œYou sing like a bird,” Etienne told Tsiko when the practice had finished.
    â€œI know the words in both languages,” Tsiko boasted.
    From the high, dense canopy, a melodious song broke out. Etienne looked up. He had heard this bird once before. Tsiko furrowed his brows and frowned. After a pause, the-out-of-sight bird once again poured his liquid notes into the air.
    Etienne caught a flash of red. “What kind of bird is it?” he asked. “I can’t see it.”
    â€œNever try to find the bird with the bleeding heart,” Tsiko told him with a serious face. “When a warbird appears on the trail, the Iroquois are not far behind.”

    The grand baptismal ceremony was set for mid-afternoon in the Church of Saint Joseph. Every Huron in the area came to see Satouta of Teanaustaye offer himself to the white man’s God. They greased their hair, painted their faces and adorned themselves with beads, feathers and fur. There were so many people in Sainte-Marie, the crowd went back to the gates. The stench of so many unwashed bodies hung in the air like fog, making Etienne’s stomach churn.
    Under pewter skies, the procession of priests made its way across the grassy common. The Jesuits wore white linen garments with lace-edged sleeves over their cassocks. Wooden crosses swung from the tasselled linen cords about their waists. All carried long, lit tapers.
    The crowd fell quiet at their passing. Even the babies lay silent in their mother’s slings.
    Father Mesquin, the last in line, paused at the wooden threshold. His dark eyes raked the crowd outside. “It is the greatest gathering I have ever seen for a service,” he said.
    Despite this declaration, Etienne noticed the Father’s look of dissatisfaction. He knew they would not followhim inside the Church of Saint Joseph. They all waited for Satouta.
    A shout from the soldier on the parapet sent Etienne and Nicolas racing up the wooden ladder to watch the mission ferry approach from the rampart.
    Satouta, dressed in a fringed deerskin suit, stood between the two men who poled the ferry across the water. A birch-bark casket sat at his feet. Shells and animal claws hung from his neck. His face, painted ochre and red, showed no emotion. Two eagle feathers fluttered in the breeze in the gather of long black hair behind his ear. Those in the longhouse often said he plucked the feathers from an eagle that he had called down from the sky. Everyone