Prologue My father once told me that before I was born no white man walked our land, no church sat next to our village, no blackrobes circled our wigwams with their endless prayers. Before the whites arrived, our only enemy was the Iroquois, who had forced my parents to leave their ancestral territory north of the Ottawa River, in search of safety, for this place near the settlement the whites call Trois-Rivières. With each passing spring after my birth, more settlers landed in their ships, taking space, speaking a different tongue. Every boat brought more white men to trap our beaver and mink, to explore our lands along the Saint-Laurent River, a channel they believe leads to a place called China, and also more French soldiers in blue coats sent by their king to protect the fur traders and settlers. To protect us too, they say. Even so, the Iroquois still far outnumber these soldiers and their raids persist. Five years ago, I lost my husband and my two children to the Iroquois. How I escaped I do not know.
Life is hard for the whites here, but they refuse to return home. They''ve built one of their churches at the edge of our village and a towering cathedral in Trois-Rivières. It seems like the blackrobes won''t rest until every one of us becomes a convert to their god. The settlers hunt our animals without real need, without gratitude--only for the coins they receive for their pelts. They take without asking and speak of this land being new. But how can it be new if we have always been here? Our village has shrunk to only a hundred strong, and most of our warriors have been killed in battle. The Sachem, worried about our future and desperate that we survive, has now turned to us, the Weskarini women, the Daughters of the Deer, and asked us to strengthen the alliance between our Algonkin People and the French. It is not enough for me to have converted to Catholicism and surrendered my soul, I must surrender my body too.
In the year they call 1657, I am to marry a white man. A white man whose blood will flow in the veins of my children and my children''s children. Part I Marie 1 Panicked cries pierce me like quills. I huddle inside the church with the other women and children. Mothers squeeze their babies against their chests, but my hands hold nothing. I run toward a small boy, naked except for his loincloth, who is sobbing into his hands. His name is Luc and he was baptized last winter after his older brother died from a fever, to protect him, his parents hoped. I pick him up but I can''t find his mother.
My eyes fall on Nadie, our midewikwe, hunched over in the corner with her head bowed. Her long grey hair shields her face. Carrying the boy, I go to her, rest a hand on her small shoulder. "Nadie, are you hurt?" She shakes her head slowly. I lift her fur from the floor and wrap it around her. "Stay here. Rest," I whisper. "I''ll be back to check on you.
" Nadie''s eyes close. I wonder what she sees. Does she know which of our men are dead, who among them are still fighting outside these church walls? Does she see the future of our People? Her sight is both a gift and a curse. Ever since the Jesuits settled in our village, she doesn''t take part in our celebrations. The Elders decided to move her tent closer to theirs to keep her safe from the priests. I''ve heard Father Jolicoeur speak harshly of her powers during his mass. He thinks only one of them should share messages from beyond--that the devil speaks through her and that the almighty God speaks through him. "Marie, come," my cousin Madeleine calls, a streak of blood smeared across her cheek, her bloodied hands reaching for me across the pews.
She''s kneeling beside Claire, Audrey and Gilbert''s young daughter and only child. They had prayed for more children but were unrewarded, the priest said, because they had Claire before they were wed. Audrey believed him and insisted the three of them be baptized. Despite their submission to Jesus, no other baby came, even after four winters. Blood soaks Claire''s tunic and she''s shivering, her lips blue. I hand the boy to Madeleine and bend toward the girl. Audrey is also on her knees beside her daughter, rocking back and forth, clutching a small crucifix. "They tried to take her," she says, trembling.
"They tried to take my girl, but Gilbert stopped them. Gilbert grabbed her, and their knife--I saw it strike her, when they leapt for her again. He dropped her in my arms and told me to run. I didn''t look back." She wipes her snot-filled nose. "I''ll help your daughter," I say. "Madeleine, please, ask the sisters to bring me boiled water and clean cloths. And take Audrey to the front of the church.
" I turn to the mother. "Go--you don''t need to see this." Madeleine helps Audrey to her feet, with Luc gathered close. The little boy has stopped crying. As she takes them away, I lift Claire''s tunic and find the wound--a gash the length and width of my finger. She''s lost so much blood already. It''s pooling on the floorboards, soaking into the wood. "Claire, little bird.
Look at me," I tell her, smoothing her hair, tangled and wild like she''s been in flight. "Do you remember my name?" "Marie," the girl whispers. "That''s right." I try to smile. "Your mama''s cousin. I know it hurts, little one, but I''m here to help you." I place my hand on her forehead, which is clammy from shock. "Claire, you know how we ask you children around the fire to close your eyes and go on a journey before you go to sleep? I want you to do that now.
" I move my hand to lightly rest over her eyes. "Walk out of here, and into the fresh air. Summer will greet you. Take the path through the trees toward the river. Feel the earth under your feet. Stop for a moment at the riverbank, and then step into the rushing water. Now follow the water like the brave girl you are. See the deer and the turtle up ahead on the shore? They''re waiting for you.
They''ll comfort you and keep you company." Claire''s eyelids flutter under my palm like butterflies trying to settle. I shut my own eyes, and under my breath recite the words that were shared with me by my father when I was barely older than Claire--the words this church, the priest, these nuns tending to the wounded, forbid me to say. I draw a deep and slow breath and feel the child give over to me and to her vision. I then place both hands over her wound and repeat the words again, focusing all my energy on Claire. I pray to my father, who is dead, and to the ones before him who also carried the deer medicine, to help me stop the bleeding. "Let me aid this child," a voice demands. Startled, I open my eyes to find an older nun at my side with a bowl of steaming water and some rags under her arm.
"Move away," she orders, and squats to set the water on the floor. "I will take care of Claire," I say. "You don''t know what you''re doing." I caw at her loudly, like a massive crow, startling both myself and the nun. "If she dies, it will be on you, then," she says, getting to her feet and pointing a long finger in my face. I hear her mutter "Stupid savage" as she walks away. I stuff my anger down and concentrate on Claire. I pull a few dried goldenrod leaves from my medicine pouch and drop them into the hot water, which quickly turns the colour of tea.
I soak the clean rag, letting it absorb the medicine, then squeeze it out and place the compress over the girl''s wound. This time I pray aloud. O Great Spirit, I call you. East, South, West, North, I offer you tobacco. Mother Earth, Grandmother Moon, Grandfather Sun, please heal this girl. Through my heart, from your sacred light, put the stars in my hands. I offer sacred tobacco to the Creator by placing a pinch of it in a small ceremony bowl, a shell I keep in my medicine pouch. I find a single lit candle on a table and discreetly light the tobacco, watching the flame quickly singe the dried leaves, and walk it back without anyone seeming to notice.
I hope it will be enough to stop the bleeding. I cup Claire''s small face with one hand as I slowly lift the cloth and hold my breath. The hemorrhaging has stopped. "Meegwetch, Great Manitou. Meegwetch," I murmur. Once the tobacco has burned to ash, I reach for my needle and a thin strip of sinew, and carefully stitch her wound closed, making twelve stitches in all. When I''m done, I dress the wound with another paste of powdered yarrow leaves and a little water and cover it all with another compress, hoping it will prevent infection from setting in. "You did so good," I whisper to her when I''m done.
Claire''s voice surprises me. "I found the animals," she says. She opens her eyes, seeks mine. "They said they would wait for me near the big rocks for when I visit them again." "I''m happy you weren''t alone." I stand and wave to Audrey, who comes running. She falls to her knees when she sees that Claire is awake and that colour has returned to her face. She kisses the top of her daughter''s head, Christian prayers spilling from her lips.
I don''t stay to listen. I get to my feet and look around for someone else to help. It''s then that I see the priest, Father Jolicoeur, kneeling in prayer, his eyes closed, and Antoinette, from our village, praying with him, holding his hands in hers. * The day is almost gone and the nuns move around the church lighting candles.