Novel: Chapter 1
Fifteen Years later: November 13th, 1758, The Mission at OswegathchieJean Luc Marchand paced on hard-packed mud in front of the log church. Months had passed since his last confession, even longer since he had been inside a church. Life on the river paddling a canoe did not afford the opportunity very often.
The log stockade walls that enclosed the tiny mission seemed to concentrate the intensity of the blue sky. His nights and days on the river forced him to always look down, or ahead. There was never time or reason to see the sky. Now, it seemed the only connection to his familiar world.
The squealing, giggling sounds of four Indian children chasing a small dog with a rag tied to its tail brought his attention back to earth. He sidestepped to avoid them, as a small boy stared.
Jean Luc turned away. He did not care for the Indians, or their children. He cursed himself for being in this place. And yet here --only here -- might he find redemption.
Jean Luc would have been a handsome young man, but years of suspicion and hatred had marked him. For those who did not know him, he seemed unapproachable, with an off-putting air. He was tall, lean with long wiry muscles well formed by hours of paddling and days of carrying heavy loads of furs across the fur trade frontiers of New France. His narrow brown eyes looked almost black, his youthful face framed by tousled brown hair that he intentionally kept long to hide his missing right ear.
He always ate alone, and did not share in the songs and jokes of the other voyageurs. They knew he was running, but they didn’t care enough to even try and guess what he was running from. He was they type they learned to ignore, fully expecting him to drown in a rapid, or wander into the woods at night, never to be seen or heard again.
Jean Luc rubbed his eyes, telling himself he needed to go in. He was still convincing himself as he walked into the open frame door.
How strange and yet familiar the mission church seemed. It was very strange in size and hewn log construction, yet was cast in the familiar darkness of his parish church at home. The pungent aroma of incense, the glimmer of candles, and the crucifix above the altar all conspired to provide immediate familiarity.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw a priest sitting on an ornate chair. He was completely bald, with a powerful neck, broad shoulders, and intelligent eyes. With a practiced wave of his hand he motioned for Jean Luc to sit in the empty chair in front of him.
As Jean Luc sat down, he searched the room with his ever-suspicious eyes.
Reading his mind, the priest said, “We are alone.”
Jean Luc nodded, then looked down at the wood floor.
“I’m sorry I cannot provide the illusion of privacy to which you may be accustomed.” Picquet added. "I have found that some fear exposure of themselves.”
Jean Luc looked at the Priest. This was an odd way to begin a confession.
Picquet continued, “Such people are more mindful of modesty than of salvation.” He let the words hang in the air, then said, “There are those who contract a disease in the more shameful parts of the body and shun making themselves known to the physicians; and thus they perish along with their own bashfulness."
Jean Luc nodded across the space between them.
“Have you been on the river long, Jean Luc?”
Jean Luc looked up at Picquet, a bit surprised “Yes, I suppose a year is a long time – how do you know my name?”
Picquet smiled then reached across the space between them and laid a heavy powerful hand on Jean Luc’s shoulder. “I know everyone who enters the mission – or how else can I minister to them?”
“I am sure a year is a long time, young voyageur – and you lived to come here! God’s grace is infinite.” He smiled broadly.
Jean Luc felt his defenses begin to crumble.
“Let’s do the Lord’s work first, shall we?”
Jean Luc nodded. He had waited for so long to be loosed from the chains of his guilt. He closed his eyes, hoping to increase his own sincerity, his own faith.
Picquet turned in the chair, adjusting his brown robe. He said, more officially, “Have you a confession, my son?”
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
“What is your confession?”
He opened his eyes and looked at Picquet. He studied the man for a while then said, in a low voice, “Father, is it always wrong to kill?”
Picquet appeared unmoved, “Have you a killed someone?”
Jean Luc ignored the question, “Is it wrong to kill, in any circumstance, at any time?”
Picquet looked away as he seemed to ponder the question. “God has commanded us not to kill, but there are exceptions.”
Jean Luc let out a long sigh before he said, “Would I feel this guilt if I had killed under one of those exceptions, father?”
Picquet shifted in his chair. “Who have you killed?”
“Can I be freed from this guilt?”
“God’s grace is sufficient, my Son.”
Jean Luc grew angry, his face flushed red. He clenched his fists and then pointed towards the ceiling, as he spoke anger and disappointment seemed to drip from his voice, “Is it? I have heard that before – over and over – and yet I still pray every night and every day to be released from this torment! Where is God’s grace now, Father?”
Picquet looked at the ceiling, considering his answer. Jean Luc waited for a long time – much longer than he would in normal conversation. Finally Picquet looked back at Jean Luc with a look of confidence in what he believed. “Jean Luc, suppose God provided immediate relief to a man’s burden of guilt and sin the moment that man confessed.”
Picquet let the question linger in the air. Jean Luc did not reply, but pondered the question.
“What would happen to men if they could sin, knowing that they would receive immediate forgiveness, Jean Luc?”
“I suppose they would sin with impunity?”
“Just so. Therefore God permits His own children suffer – just as He suffers – for sin. It must be this way.”
“Father, I have suffered -- Every day and every night, I have suffered – doubly at night.”
“You have suffered the weight of a guilty conscience – and you are blessed to have a conscience – which cannot be said for most of your compatriots in the canoes.”
Jean Luc nodded.
“I cannot assure you that you will suffer no more after your confession. But you can be certain you will be released from the burden of guilt. I speak from experience, and with the full authority of the Church.”
Jean Luc nodded, but seemed overcome with memories. He buried his head in his hands, the said, very softly, “I hate him.”
Picquet nodded, but said nothing.
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