little rusty, but it came back quickly and he was to find in the letters a sense of Rouvière’s voice: earnest, sincere, humble, often expressing a youthful wonder. He found himself looking forward to meeting the man.
What a river! The current is very strong and there are places where there is not enough water and the rocks threaten us. And sometimes the rapids go on for miles. Sometimes we have to climb out and push the boat to get forward at all!
Of the mission, Rouvière wrote to his friend:
So far the good Lord has kept me well and I ask Him every day to preserve me to the end until I might fulfill this difficult mission which has been entrusted to me, to introduce these people to the one true Saviour. No one knows how many Copper there are or what they are like and I’m sure there’ll be some tough nuts up there, but I trust they are too goodhearted to put up much of a fight against grace. I rely upon your prayers.
AS CREED AND THE BOY continued up the Great Bear, the sun stayed warm on their shoulders and baked the earthen riverbanks, whose pungent aroma mixed with that of the pine and willow trees into the wafting scent of fertility itself. They had seen three moose, silky black otters diving in the shallows, and many long-tail ducks and mergansers negotiating the quiet eddies near shore.
On the fourth day, they met the Cree. Beyond a slow curve in the river, and below a rocky peak on the north bank called Mount Charles on Creed’s rough sketch map, they came to a set of deep rapids, the tunnels of black water arching their backs over granite rocks like breaching whales. By his subtle backward glance from the bow, Creed knew the boy wanted to power through it. But the water was low, and Creed wanted to be careful with the Peterborough. There was a portage path up ahead and Creed’s legs could use the break. He pulled them over to the worn, muddy bank to face a two-hundred-yard carry.
With no need for discussion the boy hoisted the wooden wanigan box with the band straining against his forehead and slid a large canvas pack on top—eighty pounds of gear—and was off, well ahead of Creed. Creed strapped the paddle blades tight against the mid-thwart and, with a fifty-pound knapsack on his back, hoisted the pretty red canoe up onto his shoulders, his forearms resting, steadying, along the inside curve of the gunnels, keeping the craft parallel to the ground.
The well-worn portage was not long, and he had tried to pack light for times like this. As he neared the end, where the water calmed again, he was startled by the unexpected sound of harsh voices. He tipped up the bow of the canoe to see.
They had surrounded Angituk—three rough-looking Cree. They wore a hodgepodge of fur and white men’s clothing: canvas trousers, a waistcoat, a nautical cap, a soldier’s jacket. Angituk had dropped the wanigan and was holding them at bay with his skinning knife and paddle. The men were hissing at him and murmuring threats and insults, but by the way Angituk held the knife they realized he could use it, and for all their bravado they remained cautious.
Creed rolled the canoe from his shoulders, dropping it on a bed of soft junipers, and called out in Oji- Cree. “Get away from the boy!”
They saw the yellow stripe on Creed’s trousers and did as they were told, but they continued to glare at Angituk with contempt and suspicion and, Creed noted, even fear. The shortest man, in a bowler hat, sun goggles, and a wolverine vest, turned to Creed.
“Why is a white policeman travelling with a disgusting Ayashkmew ?”
“Because it is my pleasure. Now go on your way.”
“You are in danger. One night he will stick that knife in your back and eat you.”
Angituk was embarrassed and would not meet Creed’s eyes.
“That is no concern of yours.”
The Cree in the bowler hat came close and spoke quietly to share a confidence with the white man. “Eskimos have magic. They are shape-shifters! They can become
What a river! The current is very strong and there are places where there is not enough water and the rocks threaten us. And sometimes the rapids go on for miles. Sometimes we have to climb out and push the boat to get forward at all!
Of the mission, Rouvière wrote to his friend:
So far the good Lord has kept me well and I ask Him every day to preserve me to the end until I might fulfill this difficult mission which has been entrusted to me, to introduce these people to the one true Saviour. No one knows how many Copper there are or what they are like and I’m sure there’ll be some tough nuts up there, but I trust they are too goodhearted to put up much of a fight against grace. I rely upon your prayers.
AS CREED AND THE BOY continued up the Great Bear, the sun stayed warm on their shoulders and baked the earthen riverbanks, whose pungent aroma mixed with that of the pine and willow trees into the wafting scent of fertility itself. They had seen three moose, silky black otters diving in the shallows, and many long-tail ducks and mergansers negotiating the quiet eddies near shore.
On the fourth day, they met the Cree. Beyond a slow curve in the river, and below a rocky peak on the north bank called Mount Charles on Creed’s rough sketch map, they came to a set of deep rapids, the tunnels of black water arching their backs over granite rocks like breaching whales. By his subtle backward glance from the bow, Creed knew the boy wanted to power through it. But the water was low, and Creed wanted to be careful with the Peterborough. There was a portage path up ahead and Creed’s legs could use the break. He pulled them over to the worn, muddy bank to face a two-hundred-yard carry.
With no need for discussion the boy hoisted the wooden wanigan box with the band straining against his forehead and slid a large canvas pack on top—eighty pounds of gear—and was off, well ahead of Creed. Creed strapped the paddle blades tight against the mid-thwart and, with a fifty-pound knapsack on his back, hoisted the pretty red canoe up onto his shoulders, his forearms resting, steadying, along the inside curve of the gunnels, keeping the craft parallel to the ground.
The well-worn portage was not long, and he had tried to pack light for times like this. As he neared the end, where the water calmed again, he was startled by the unexpected sound of harsh voices. He tipped up the bow of the canoe to see.
They had surrounded Angituk—three rough-looking Cree. They wore a hodgepodge of fur and white men’s clothing: canvas trousers, a waistcoat, a nautical cap, a soldier’s jacket. Angituk had dropped the wanigan and was holding them at bay with his skinning knife and paddle. The men were hissing at him and murmuring threats and insults, but by the way Angituk held the knife they realized he could use it, and for all their bravado they remained cautious.
Creed rolled the canoe from his shoulders, dropping it on a bed of soft junipers, and called out in Oji- Cree. “Get away from the boy!”
They saw the yellow stripe on Creed’s trousers and did as they were told, but they continued to glare at Angituk with contempt and suspicion and, Creed noted, even fear. The shortest man, in a bowler hat, sun goggles, and a wolverine vest, turned to Creed.
“Why is a white policeman travelling with a disgusting Ayashkmew ?”
“Because it is my pleasure. Now go on your way.”
“You are in danger. One night he will stick that knife in your back and eat you.”
Angituk was embarrassed and would not meet Creed’s eyes.
“That is no concern of yours.”
The Cree in the bowler hat came close and spoke quietly to share a confidence with the white man. “Eskimos have magic. They are shape-shifters! They can become
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