Order of Good Cheer (25 page)

Smoke from the abundance of celebratory candles, lamps, and an overstoked fire stings his eyes as he watches the savages line up. Apparently the children will become Christians first. Poutrincourt sits to the side, smiling regally, a proxy king. Samuel
does not know why he is finding this distasteful, seeing as it is all meant to quench Membertou's thirst for God. But when Lescarbot, who looks dressed as for his own marriage, stands and begins to speak, Samuel drinks deeply from his goblet and then with nary a pause lifts it to catch a server's eye. He refuses to listen to the speech but does note the lawyer's skill in giving the words King and God and Poutrincourt equal measure.

Father Vermoulu, glaring through the damp cowl of his dis-ease, spills water on the savage children's heads in turn, whispering what Samuel assumes is proper Latin while, seated centre stage at a desk with pen and parchment, Lescarbot announces and records the new Christian names. Brave with brandy, of his own accord he chooses the names of the French Royal Family to bestow on the savages upon their birth as Christians. Membertou's grandchildren are now Prince Louis, Princess Charlotte, Princess Marie. Membertou's eldest son, perhaps because of the shape and posture of his skin headdress, is given their Pope's name, Paul, and for this Fr. Vermoulu gathers enough energy to send the lawyer a withering look. (Samuel is mostly relieved to see that the other son, the keel-less one, has chosen, or been forced, to be absent.)

The gathered men drink with purpose, and they cheer and toast each new Christian in turn. The savages drink too, and they arrive now at the stage willy-nilly. Membertou's wife gets the name of King Henri's present wife, and she is announced as Queen Marie, and while none of the savages are any the wiser, the men know the name's import and cheer this new queen. One of Membertou's younger daughters — Samuel thinks she is a daughter, but in any event she is the carpenter Lucien's paramour — is given the name of King Henri's earlier wife, Queen Marguerite, and her response is to glare at the supercilious Lescarbot and then say something bold and harsh-sounding to Membertou,
whose own response is already Christian, for here he turns his cheek. At this juncture some of the men call out such as,
Hear Lucien's lady!
and,
Aha for the carpenter's bitch!
at which Poutrincourt perks up, and then looks concerned, and also perhaps embarrassed to be apparently the lone one in the room to know nothing of this affair; and then he turns this way and that to ask quick questions. Samuel wonders what will come of this, for the Sieur is one who lives by, and indeed believes in, the word and rule of both Bible and King.

Samuel checks, but cannot locate Lucien's face in the crowded room.

For the most part the evening moves apace, and each child, young or old, receives their religion and their new name with a pride that is defeated by wonder, for they would hear their name, a kind of gibberish to them merely, and instantly look to Membertou for confirmation that something good has just been done. And their sagamore, kingly himself tonight, uniformly nods and smiles, and with raised goblet toasts them like a Frenchman.

For Samuel, the Mi'qmahs' innocence and wonder help this evening by giving it honesty and, he confesses, a kind of entertainment, the likes of which they have not yet seen in their modest compound. But at the same time there is taint to it: each time Lescarbot says a name his posture is the caricature of a king granting favours, and his smile is as curved as his hair. He is patronizing even to Membertou, who at last has now stood and come forward. Lescarbot delays, sensing everyone's wait, the sagamore's most of all, and when he finally says, “Henri,” he shines with a look so self-proud it suggests that he, Lescarbot, owned the power to make kings.

Good Membertou leaps to leave his feet with earnest surprise and happiness when learning he has been given their French
King's name. And not just his age makes this a lunatic sight, for it looks like the finch tied to his hair is trying once more for heaven, and this time succeeds, if but for a second, in pulling the old chief up. At this same time all the men break into a sonorous Te Deum, giving the hymn their full lungs and hearts. And the sum of all this catches up the hairs on Samuel's neck, and swells his throat, and makes him smile and wonder if perhaps this is not a most fortunate evening after all.

But then it is unfortunate that the new king now begins to act rather too kingly, as though the name he now owns has some serious import beyond being merely a name. Even before the men have stopped their singing, and then their cheering, first and instantly Henri Membertou loudly seeks wine, and Poutrincourt's boy reluctantly scurries to do his bidding. But when the sagamore calls loudly that a chair like Sieur Poutrincourt's be set beside the Sieur's, no one seems to heed him, and Poutrincourt merely turns away. And Lescarbot's smile loses its curl.

Samuel turns away himself. He feels unsteady in mood, and he has sought more comfort in wine than is usually the case. He can pretend it is tonic for the blood (as the surgeon, though not the apothecary, insists it is). But the night lifted his spirits not a bit. The winter weather is hardening without, and all of their lamps and candles seem innocent of this fact, as does their raucous and hypocritical glee. He is not the most religious man here, but he feels that something is dangerously wrong, this room filled with the face, but not the heart, of belief. One should not tempt God in this way. With the priest, three men are now ill, though they are still on their feet. Only Samuel and some few others know what their death will look like, and again tonight's naive jollity seems ill-advised.

And one wonders what will be the effect upon their Mi'qmah friends, this conferring of the name, but not the sense, of
Christianity. The rites being done, the no-longer savages stand with dripping heads listening to the last of Lescarbot's florid speech about the Trinity, Christian duty, responsibility, and privilege. The speech makes up for Father Vermoulu's lack of volubility and then some.

Now, striding forward to stand an inch from Lescarbot's small shoulder, beginning with
Ho-ho
, Membertou respeaks the lawyer's words in his own tongue for the benefit of his tribe; and what strikes Samuel is this: customarily, the savage tongue needs five minutes' time to explain what the French explains in one. Why is it, then, that Membertou's speech to his people takes but one minute, when Lescarbot's took five? Possibly the answer is that the chief speaks of privilege only. Why else would they help themselves to all of the bread, as they do now, from both bowls? Little Princess Charlotte, bread stuffed in both cheeks, fills the front of her skins with more. Likewise, Membertou's son, his face newly hardened, demands wine from the good jug. Samuel is not certain if Poutrincourt has noticed this. Clearly Lescarbot has, for he laughs, but he does not care. In future he will simply deny them.

Samuel knows that these new Christians will never darken the door of church. And they still have not been taught how to pray.

LUCIEN WAITS FOR HER
in the courtyard cold, pacing by the well, and it's his good luck that Ndene is the first to emerge, appearing black in silhouette to all the celebratory light issuing from the doorframe.

One arm is up, her hand moving on her head, and Lucien sees she is trying to rub her wet hair dry. So the priest has baptized her with water. She looks severe. Such is the chill this night that she should not be out with wet hair.

Lucien steps forward and offers Ndene his hat, but she aims her head away from it. She mumbles something and Lucien believes he has been told not to worry because the water will freeze. He smells wine on her breath, and she has never had wine. He notes that, while the other women and girls, some of whom he saw go in, are wearing especial finery tonight, Ndene wears her skins unadorned. They walk the distance of the courtyard, then approach Poutrincourt's boy, who has preceded them and is already at the gate. Under the smoking torch he looks miserable and sick, and he shoves one stuck gate door open for them with a frustrated bellow of breath.

Lucien and Ndene walk the trodden snow of the main path for a time without speaking until Lucien feels it might be time for the game they play, which is to nudge her with his shoulder, gently breaking her stride, a trick that always makes her laugh,
or at the very least smile, and shake her head at her own stupidity for being so clumsy and foolish to have been taken by surprise yet again. And then wait until he has forgotten his jest before taking her turn to put her shoulder to his and send him into the brambles, or a drift.

This time, she merely regains her stride, takes his arm, and squeezes it, as if to say that no such jesting fits this night, please stop, it is enough merely to walk.

So they walk, the half-moon on the snow more than ample to guide their eyes, for it makes the snow almost bright and the tree trunks black. There is a breeze, adding a double cold, but the walking quickly warms them. In all likelihood they won't make love on the ground tonight, though Ndene has surprised him before. And perhaps she is leading him to another of the hidden barked domes that appear, it seems, everywhere, not that Lucien likes them. They smell, even in winter, because those that stay upright through five or ten or however many winters have been used for every human purpose, time and again. Though, in winter, at least the bugs are dormant. (Repugnant as it is, Ndene has told him that sometimes during the very leanest times these domes are ripped apart and toppled in clumsy attempts to get at these insects' frozen nests, which are plundered as a scant meal.)

They walk on in the night, having instinctively taken the fork in the path that turns uphill, away from the bay, for it is coldest next to water. (He has touched her head and those newly sacred strands of hair are indeed frozen. Long, bendable twigs.) They walk some more and now Lucien feels her shoulders ease down and her breathing slow. At long last she pauses beside a sheltering wall of rock and speaks, and what she says has some humour to it as she tells him that her new French name is Queen Marguerite.

Lucien laughs and falls to a knee, takes up one of her hands in both of his, and kisses it. “My Queen,” he says, in so honeyed a courtly French that she may be able to distinguish it from his ordinary voice and know that he is play-acting. She does seem to understand the entire gesture, for she is queenly in manner as she pulls him to his feet. She leans against the rock wall and she is nothing but royal in her command that he lean in against her. She moves quickly with both of their belts, and he can tell that it will be fast, even beyond the need for haste demanded in such weather, and that there is still anger in her.

WHEN LUCIEN HEARD
that Membertou's request had finally been granted, and that the sagamore and his family would be made Christian, he was surprised only to learn that this conversion would include his own Ndene. Up until that time he had no knowledge that they were related, let alone closely. He still is not clear on it, but Ndene is either the sagamore's niece or great-niece. According to Ndene herself, Membertou favours her like a daughter because she is honest with him and tells him what he is doing wrong, a quality he either likes or doesn't like in others, or perhaps just women. It is hard for Lucien to get these sorts of things clear, and eventually he and Ndene give up trying. Tilts of the head, widening eyes, encouraging laughter, fingers sculpting the air: this language works better than the spoken, but it travels down the road of subtlety only so far, and accuracy is never a certain thing, and often they fall to a silence unsure of what, if anything, has been understood. Had she
seen
the hummingbird nest and its eggs, or
desired
to see it?

But Ndene had been clear in telling him that he must not come tonight to see her become Christian. It wasn't hard for her to reveal in her anger that she was merely doing the sagamore's
bidding. And it had been easy for Lucien simply to nod, and also to show his ambivalence. In truth he had no desire that she become Christian. For one, the impossible reach of it, the incomprehension. For another — and he hoped his sin was not too great in this — for the moment it seemed needless.

The wind has died and it snows lightly as they resume their walk. Lucien is fatigued from their lovemaking, but Ndene seems little different. He admits that, since learning she was Membertou's niece — a noblewoman, in fact — he sees her newly, but in what way he does not know. He was surprised to have felt the frailest edge of scorn creep instantly into his view of her, especially when he noted her pride, or sang-froid, with him — and he traced this to his lack of respect shown his own nobles, whose unnatural arrogance at times seems less earned than any housecat's, and clearly the result of a pampered childhood, and a birthright that was nothing but chance. So, with his Ndene, he dearly hoped that he wasn't now loving her less, but he could not help but wonder if she too bore the marks of unnatural arrogance amongst her own people, and he has watched for it. She wears superior dress, the cut of her skins clean and the quillwork stitched tight and true, but that is her doing, her choice, and any other women could join her in it, had they but the skill. For indeed her hands and eyes are brilliant. She would be good as he is at his own trade. Sometimes, when her hands are on his body, he knows she would be better than he at the finer work.

And now she is a queen! He is glad that she seems to regard it as he does: a bit of theatre.

They turn downhill, toward the water, toward her people's encampment. She begins to tell him why she is angry, mostly with Membertou. First, she is angry that he insisted she be included in the Christian rite. (Lucien well knows that insistence
of any kind works contrarily on her. He wonders how much force the sagamore brought to bear.) She hadn't wanted to be Christian, and now she is. She has told him before that she has her gods — in doing so Ndene looked reverently to the sky, and down into the earth, and brought invisible food to her mouth — and didn't need another. Not this god who is yours, she'd said, pointing at Lucien. To which Lucien had shrugged, though he hadn't tried to explain. How to say that, if God is God, then God is everywhere and is everyone's already?