The Water of Life

5. The New World, 1611

5. The New World, 1611The winter had been long and hard, but neither as long nor as hard as his first in this country, two years ago—and much less gruesome as well.

Estienne Bruslé gazed at the last blocks of ice of the season, tossed about by the wind on the vast inland sea which, six months earlier, he had crossed to end up in the Wendat village of Toanché. Samuel de Champlain had entrusted him to the Algonquians in exchange for Savignon, the son of a leader of the Wendat nation, at the beginning of the previous summer. When, in early October, the Algonquians had broken camp to undertake what had to be a journey of a considerable distance, he had participated in the preparations without saying a word. Bruslé had watched the tree leaves transform the landscape into a forest of fire. Aware of being the first man of his race to gaze upon this country and its dazzling beauty, this peasant’s son had felt like a lord.

At one point, the expedition had crossed a completely open lake, exposed to the whims of nature. Following this, when the canoes had been portaged around rapids emptying into a much narrower river, enclosed between steep rocky walls, Bruslé had felt very relieved. He had noticed a change in the look of the rock, now much smoother and more rounded, almost soft.

After passing a number of waterfalls, the travellers had portaged around one last series of rapids. This time, Bruslé’s breath had been taken away. On the horizon, the colours of the sun melted into the sea. Before him, there was nothing but open water; however, both to the north and south, Bruslé saw islands, rocks.

The next day, he had been surprised to see his Native companions effortlessly orient themselves in the maze of islands and narrow channels so harmoniously blended with this immense body of freshwater, as large as a sea. From the rock, which had gentle maternal curves, grew dense forests. The young Frenchman believed he was entering a natural realm, a true new world.

Euphoric, Bruslé had landed in the territory of the Wendats*, with whom he had then spent the winter. Today he remembered another, very different spring, namely the spring of 1609. Standing in front of the Habitation de Québec, both a fort and a settlement, he had, for the first time, watched a parade of ice sheets on the St Lawrence River—all the while counting himself lucky, after grim months of suffering and deaths, to be among the eight survivors of the group of twenty-eight from the previous autumn.

Wintering among the Wendats hadn’t been easy either. He hadn’t enjoyed the intense cold any more than the Natives. Bruslé had discovered that these people, hardened to the harshness of the season, were similar to the Algonquians and at the same time very different. They were settled and lived in fortified villages, in large wooden huts covered with bark. Agriculture, practiced exclusively by the women, ensured food was available most of the time—particularly ground, boiled corn. Unlike his first hosts, nomads dependent on the vagaries of hunting and fishing, the Wendats lived a stable existence. With the melting of the ice, the Algonquians had once again set off for their hunting grounds. Before, Bruslé had asked Iroquet’s permission to stay in Wendake.

Iroquet, leader of the Algonquians, had found the idea excellent. The presence of this Agnoha, or man of iron, was turning out to be inconvenient. By entrusting him to the Wendats, the chances that he would survive and could one day be returned to Champlain would improve.

Bruslé got up and headed back to the village. In the Wendat huts, the close proximity caused by winter had allowed him to further his learning of his hosts’ language. The arrival of spring and milder weather encouraged the Wendats to spend most of the day outdoors. Totiri, a child of ten with whom Bruslé had developed a friendly relationship, assured him that once the fine weather arrived, the Wendats hardly slept in their longhouses at all.

Back in the village, Bruslé was surprised to discover a large number of men and women gathered in a longhouse. Grouped around a sick elder, they were heatedly discussing something. Placing himself discreetly near one of the two entrances located at either end of the building, Bruslé listened attentively.

“A feast?” cried a young voice that Bruslé recognised.

“No, Totiri,” replied the afflicted old woman.

One after the other, others in the group suggested objects or food dishes, to which the elder always replied with a no. Estienne Bruslé realised that this had to be one of the Wendats’ collective healing rituals. Several times over the past months, he had seen them partake in this type of activity. The dream of a man or woman suffering from an illness was supposed to contain the remedy they needed. So, when the sick person announced to the others that they had dreamed of their cure, the whole village tried very hard to guess what the remedy was. Whether it involved an object or an action, all the Wendats, accompanied by the chanting of their priests or shamans, cooperated wholeheartedly to ensure at least the symbolic fulfilment of this dream.

This time, the participants in the collective ritual seemed, at least to Bruslé, particularly enthusiastic. Was this due to the popularity of the sick woman, Andiora, or simply to spring fever?

“Andacwandet?”

The word had come from the mouth of Tiena, a girl who was about sixteen years old and whose name meant “blue jay”. There was a pronounced silence when old Andiora nodded affirmatively. Then shouts filled the air and people scattered in all directions. Bruslé had never seen the Wendats so excited.

He grabbed Totiri in passing and demanded an explanation from him.

“Andacwandet,” the young boy replied simply. “You’ll see.”

Totiri stretched out his hand towards Bruslé’s beard and patted it for a minute before adding, in a teasing tone, “Or maybe not.”

With that, the boy snuck away before the Frenchman could find out any more. Thus, Bruslé remained the only person in the village with hair growing on his face and his curiosity unsatisfied.

* * *

Even after his question had been answered, Bruslé remained curious. In fact, even more than before, to the point where he wished he could participate in the ritual.

Throughout the whole day, the village had busied itself preparing the andacwandet ceremony. The two shamans overseeing the ritual had asked all the single girls to choose among the village’s bachelors a partner for the night. At dusk, the young people had been brought to Andiora’s longhouse and invited to indulge in s****l pleasures in her presence, just as she had dreamt it, in order to drive away her illness.

Bruslé had taken up a place near a fire outdoors, close by Andiora’s longhouse. He regretted that he hadn’t gone elsewhere, farther away. The thought of all these young people giving themselves over to erotic rapture, with the blessing of their priests, made him shiver. His eyes didn’t really see the flames dancing in front of him. Despite his scruples, he devoted all his attention to his hearing. The chanting of one of the shamans, a succession of syllables punctuated by the regular, monotone beat of a tortoiseshell rattle, floated in the air of the full-moon night.

Bruslé jumped when he felt a warm hand touch his face.

“Come, I’ve chosen you.”

By the glow of the fire, Bruslé recognised Tiena. He hadn’t been surprised when none of the young girls had approached him for the ritual. They had no reason to consider him one of their own. His complexion, his beard, his clothes and his still shaky knowledge of their language were constant reminders that he was a foreigner. So this unexpected invitation astonished him. In matters of physical love his knowledge remained limited to feeling unfulfilled desire.

Sensing his hesitation, Tiena drew Bruslé’s hand to her chest. The Frenchman let her lead him to the longhouse. As he passed from the bright moonlight to the dim glow of the fire indoors, Bruslé’s heart started racing. The atmosphere was surreal: smoke, bodies lying here and there on the ground, the shamans’ repetitive chants. Andiora, perched on a platform, watched everything, her toothless mouth smiling. Tiena guided Bruslé to a space on the ground, on a fur, quite close to the others. Too close. His eyes, now adjusted to the soft glow, glanced at parts of bodies, thighs, hips, breasts, moving to the rhythm of lascivious moans, mostly uttered by male voices.

Wasn’t this how the priests of his country described Hell? All that was missing was the Devil’s pitchforks. Since leaving France, Bruslé had distanced himself from the hollow doctrine of the priests and their oppressive religion. Even so, at this moment he realised just how much he was still, despite everything, influenced by his religious upbringing.

Denying his wild lust for this girl would have been impossible. Tiena’s hand slid under his shirt and aroused his senses. He nibbled her neck. An exuberant energy rose in him. But suddenly the stifling atmosphere got the better of his desire; this being his first time, he didn’t want to experience the momentous rite of passage like this.

He abruptly tore himself from Tiena’s arms, his eyes full of regret. Stumbling, he found himself outside, ashamed and bitterly disappointed at the same time, filling his lungs quickly with cold air. What would Tiena and the Wendats think of his behaviour? In their language, which didn’t seem to have words capable of expressing complex emotions, he knew he wouldn’t succeed in making them understand.

At the entrance to the longhouse, he discerned a silhouette. Bruslé’s reluctance fell away. He embraced Tiena passionately and felt the warmth of her body, her cheek against his beard. At the time he had entrusted him to the Algonquians, Samuel de Champlain had ordered Bruslé to apply himself studiously to learning the native languages, so that he could become a skilled interpreter. The young Frenchman had just learned a lesson that would serve him well throughout his entire interpreter’s career: genuine emotions don’t need to be translated into any language.

He led Tiena away to the outskirts of the village. Shortly afterwards, under the full moon and in the cold air, guided by this blue jay with skin like satin, Bruslé discovered ecstasy.

The next day at dawn, the shamans declared the andacwandet over. Proud and happy, Bruslé returned to the village with Tiena. From this day on, the stream of life that flowed within him would now be joined to that of the Wendats, uniting him with their land and their blood.

Two days later, Andiora announced her complete recovery.