Warbird by Jennifer Maruno

entwined with beans. Orange pumpkins sat at their base. The sight of pumpkins made him hunger for one of his mother’s fresh baked pumpkin loaves.
    Soo-Taie stopped working. She set her legs apart and folded her arms. Her dark brown hawk-like eyes met Etienne’s. Facing this tall, lean woman with high cheekbones and angular features, he had trouble finding his voice.
    Tsiko prodded him to speak. “Tell Soo-Taie your dream,” he said.
    â€œThere was a great fire,” Etienne began as the boy at his side translated.
    Soo-Taie nodded, encouraging him to continue.
    â€œAll the drums went into the fire,” he continued.
    Soo-Taie spoke words to Tsiko, who turned to Etienne. “Who put the drums into the fire?”
    â€œYour people,” he said. “They threw in their rattles and some kind of decorated sticks.”
    Tsiko translated with wide eyes, hearing these details for the first time.
    Etienne decided not to tell them about the drum that beat by itself. “The flames of the fire spread to the mission,” he said. “Then I woke up.”
    Soo-Taie said nothing at first. Then she waved her hands in the air. “Go,” she said.
    â€œSoo-Taie is not my mother,” Tsiko said as they left the fields. He led Etienne behind the church. In the small stone-rimmed cemetery, he pointed to a plain wooden cross. “There is my mother.”
    Etienne tugged some of the weeds away to get a better look. “What was her name?”
    Tsiko held up his hands in protest. “I won’t say her name,” he whispered. “If she hears, she’ll try to come back.” He pulled Etienne away. “Leave her in the land of sun.”

TEN
Hawendio
    The warm autumn weather came to an abrupt end, and the days grew rainy. A thick fog arrived, which settled in for days. People moved about the mission like ghosts, looming then disappearing. Voices seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
    Winter’s approach brought new chores like cleaning out stable muck and putting down fresh hay. The animals’ hair grew thicker. Etienne’s wool coat felt as thin as the pages of the Jesuit’s bibles. The moment he stepped outside, his teeth chattered.
    In the days that followed, fur-clad Hurons filled the longhouse. After mass, they attended lessons of religion and the French way of life in the great hall. Afterwards, they did as they pleased.
    One day Tsiko appeared at the apothecary shop followed by a black and white dog. He wore deerskin leg coverings, attached to his waist by a belt. His sleeves of fur fastened with strings across the front and back of his chest.
    â€œToday we learned a song about God’s baby,” he said, breaking the silence. Etienne and the doctor hadbeen working side-by-side the whole morning without speaking. It was like that with his father as well, Etienne remembered, but not as comfortable.
    â€œDo you mean the Christ Child?” Etienne asked. “I know that story.”
    â€œHow you know the story?” Tsiko demanded, “You’re not Huron.”
    â€œMy mother taught me,” Etienne responded. It was his mother’s favourite part of the Bible. On Christmas morning his father read the passages out loud. Then his mother would tell Etienne all about Christmas in the great cities of France. “And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.”
    â€œThat’s not right,” Tsiko said, shaking his head. “God’s baby was born in lodge of broken bark.” He put his hands out in a gesture of puzzlement.
    â€œDo you know the whole of it?” the doctor asked Etienne, putting down his pestle.
    Etienne nodded. “Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory