This Widowed Land

ONE Our hope is in God and Our Lord Jesus Christ who shed His blood for the salvation of the Hurons as well as for the rest of the world. It is through His support, and not our own efforts, that we hope one day to see here a flourishing of Christianity....All we have to fear is our own sins and imperfections, and I more than all. Indeed, I judge myself most unworthy of this employment. Send to us those who are saintly... Very humble and obedient servant in Our Lord, JEAN DE BREBEUF, S.J. The last crimson rays of sunset slanted through theSoleil's rigging and threw a bronze spiderweb across the weathered deck at Marc Dupre's feet. He studied the design as he walked toward the railing. His mind roiled with excitement, worry, and the bitter-sweet sense that he was saying farewell to home and country. He'd left his two charges, Father Luc Penchant and Brother Phillipe Raimont, to finish unpacking while he came up to watch the final preparations before they set sail. He wanted to remember each detail of his journey to the New World, to tuck these scenes into the corners of his soul, where he kept all precious memories. High above him, the radiant light burned a golden halo around the furled sails and gleamed off the polished hardwood spars. A grand, three-masted sailing vessel, theSoleilrocked gently, creaking with the motion of the water. Sailors rushed by Marc, cursing, calling commands while they cast off the lines that tethered theSoleilto the water-worn quay of Dieppe. The musky sea breeze brought exotic aromas of saffron, cinnamon and cloves drifting from the white stone walls of the quayside warehouses. Marc stopped for a moment. In the distance, the waning July sunlight shimmered on the green, rolling hills of France and flashed from the wings of a nightingale that dove over the city. His eyes tightened with longing. A tall man of twenty-six, he had blond hair and deep-set blue eyes that always seemed a little wistful. His straight nose and full lips were framed by a beard and mustache. I'll never leave you.... The words echoed around in his mind, sounding more forlorn than the day he'd spoken them. Images of Marie's face rose. Crystal clear. As though they had been carved into the bones of his soul. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. Marc bowed his head and absently listened to the lapping of the waves against the barnacled hull. He had never been more than a few miles from her grave. How would he feel when this ship sailed out into the vast ocean?This is something I must do, Marie. Forgive me.... When he reached the railing, he braced his hands on the moist wood. Cabbage leaves, bottles, bits of moldy bread, and other refuse bobbed in the current belowdenizens of harbors everywhere. "Ho! Marleaux!" a man dressed in tattered brown livery shouted as he stamped down the deck. Greasy straggles of dark hair draped his bearded face. "Get that rigging stowed or Mongrave'll be heaving you overboard!" "Sacre, Jameson!" a lanky and sun-blackened sailor responded as he tackled a pile of cordage. "Rene said he'd be doing" "I'll not hear any excuses. Just do it!" Jameson pointed a stern finger and swaggered off, shouting at others. Men hustled to obey, climbing up the shrouds to balance precariously on the yards, rushing to ready the sails. Voices rose and fell as rowboats moved into position to tow theSoleilout to sea. The crew intrigued Marc. A curious blend of French, Dutch, Irish, and Englishmen, they mixed phrases from each language as though unaware that a difference existed. And they seemed to have developed anGear, Kathleen O'Neal is the author of 'This Widowed Land ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780765357274 and ISBN 0765357275.