The Cry of the Wolf Chapter 45

They didn't have time to act. Heart-wrenching cries reached their ears before they reached the clearing, causing them to sprint toward the longhouse. Dark Star, Brown Sparrow, and Small Bird were on their knees, using river water to cool the limbs of those who burned up with fevers.

Dark Star looked up, meeting Strong Oak's eyes.

"It doesn't look good..." She whispered.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Strong Oak crouched at her side, using the back of his hand to touch a forehead.

"I'm sure it is smallpox but I'm truly hoping I'm wrong."

The fact they'd just buried Dancing Turtle wasn't lost on them.

"The disease may have already been here before..." Dark Star began with a frown, trying to remember what she had read in the past, ashamed now that she had never enjoyed reading.

The information would be invaluable now. Was there a cure?

"We need to keep them cool and hydrated."

Strong Oak cocked a brow, indicating that he had no clue what she was talking about.

"They need to drink - a lot! I can't remember what the cure is but considering how quickly the baby..."

Seeing Raven approach, Dark Star clamped her lips shut.

Strong Oak nodded, "I'll bring in water."

Stepping out into the sunlight, he found Peter returning from the fort.

"Chief," he began, "the sickness is here..."

What?"

Peter stopped dead in his tracks.

"Your wife believes the smallpox is here..." Strong Oak motioned toward the longhouse. "We cannot afford to have any more of our people die. We are already weak..."

Emitting a haunting cry, Peter ran toward the longhouse, feeling completely helpless. Sheer strength was no match for the onslaught of another plague.

****

The angel of death seemed as though it were mocking the Wyandotte Nation as hundreds of their people died within days. There was no stopping the plague and those who were unaffected were busy digging graves. Weeping was heard from every corner of the tribe, their tears unabated.

"Peter..." Brebeuf called from the longhouse entrance, his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness.

"Get out."

There was a harshness in Peter's voice that had not been there previously.

"I've come to help...and give the last rites..."

"Get out."

"But Peter, they will be damned to hell if I do not perform the last rites."

Peter grit his teeth. This was hell.

"Peter..." Brebeuf refused to give up.

A moment later Peter stood in the doorway towering over the priest. Every muscle in his body throbbed with restraint.

"Peter is dead...I am Chief Long Knife."

Chief Long Knife's eyes blazed, hiding unshed tears.

"Your people have brought this sickness..." His voice lowered to a pained hush.

"But we have also brought you salvation," Brebeuf stammered, "If we had never come, you'd all be facing Hellfire."

Chief Long Knife's eyes rested on the fort in the distance - a fort none of them had needed or asked for. A reminder of their suffering, it stood tall, an eyesore in the wilderness.

Without acknowledging Brebeuf's last comment, Chief Long Knife turned to his most trusted warriors, Falcon, Raven, and Strong Oak.

"Destroy it."

****

The Angel of Death tapped on the shoulder of each family before, at long last, making a final bow, leaving the tribe devastated in its wake.

Flames from the fort licked the sky as the priests and Frenchmen ran from their burning homes. Fear laced each breath as they ran into the forest, taking only what they could carry. In their terror, they scarcely paused to realize Chief Long Knife had insisted their lives be spared - only the fort destroyed. They ran in the direction of Quebec like whipped dogs with their tails between their legs. The mission was a failure it would seem.

Panting, Brebeuf forgot for the first time in months his premonition that he was going to be a martyr, his shoes attempting and failing, to gain sure footing. Clutching his worn Bible and notebook, he reached out for a branch to steady himself as he all but tumbled down a hill toward the river.

What was the plan? Swim to Quebec? Hardly!

In the months he had spent with the Wyandotte, he still was unable to swim.

Sweat dampened the shirts of his comrades until they clung to their backs like a second skin.

Fear.

Not daring to look back as their efforts literally went up in smoke, the Frenchmen pressed onward in the direction of home.

A lone cry of an eagle sent shivers down his spine. An eagle? In these parts?

Brebeuf was an intelligent, curious man and at that moment his mind wandered, fixated on the rarity of such an occurrence. For a moment his feet came to a halt as he peered up at the sky.

A fatal mistake.

Hands grabbed him, clamping one firmly over his mouth. Dark, emotionless eyes stared into his a moment before Brebeuf was flung over a warrior's shoulder, his thin frame bouncing against the sinewy muscles of his captor.

"Give me grace in the hour of death, Dear Lord," Brebeuf whispered a prayer as tears tumbled down his weathered cheeks, "Do not let me make You ashamed of my weakness. Let me not deny You in the face of pain and..." Brebeuf choked on his whispered plea, emitting a strangled sob, "Permit me in the hour of death to me see Your face, my Lord, King, and Redeemer.

Brebeuf's captor gripped him yet tighter, joining others lurking in the trees. A wave of relief expelled the air in his lungs which Brebeuf hadn't been aware he had been holding until now. They hadn't caught everyone. Should he be thankful?