As well as sharing her cover details, Rohn's giving us the opportunity to read from Chapter One. Enter her *GIVEAWAY* on Rafflecopter to win something lovely! (See the end of this post.)
Parish North is the blonde adopted son of a Huron native, and with his manhood-quest completed in time for his father’s trip with a Jesuit bishop, he’s allowed to participate in the efforts to secure powwow agreements from seven tribes around the Great Lakes for the building of the Erie Canal. During the trip, Parish recognizes his vision temptress in Dorothy Evans.
Hoping to join the delegation, Dorothy Evans dreams of
escaping duties as her mother’s cook-helper at Fort Detroit.
Exciting windows to the wider world open for the girl in the Fort’s Jesuit
library. Two centuries worth of European books convince her everything good and
pure comes from nature. And when Dorothy meets the blond native, Parish North,
she feels her heart quicken when he smiles in her direction. She’s positive
Parish is half of her future.
When a bishop assigned to the trip persuades Dorothy’s
mother to allow him to chaperon her intelligent daughter on the trip to
facilitate her education, Dorothy’s mother accepts his kind offer with the
comforting knowledge that Dorothy is under the protection of a man of the
Church. But the Bishop’s intentions may not be as pure as they appear and
Dorothy’s virtue is in danger. Will the Bishop’s unholy plan succeed?
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From Chapter One:
Fort
Detroit, Fall, 1817
Cheers from the fort’s crowd drew sixteen-year-old Dorothy
Evans to the river’s shore. Two high-ended Algonquin canoes from Lake Erie and
a smaller French trapper’s canoe advanced toward them on the Detroit River.
With each new shout, more yellow aspen leaves tumbled to the ground, crushed
under the feet of soldiers and civilians rushing along the riverbank. The sober
clothing of the throng clashed with the riotous colors of the maple trees.
A Chippewa runner had arrived the night before to warn, or
rather to assemble the fort’s population for Bishop Pascal’s arrival. Father
Sebastian, the Jesuit pastor, rose on his tiptoes to peer down river. Dorothy
and her mother stood on either side of the nervous priest. Elizabeth’s short, plump figure advertised
her success as the rectory’s cook. Dorothy considered herself a competent but
reluctant cook’s helper.
Preparations for meals left little time to think, to read,
to dream. She hurried through her daily chores to escape into the priest’s
extensive library. For more than a hundred years, the Jesuits at Fort Detroit
had collected Europe’s finest literature. The
tomes whetted her appetite for adventure and romance.
As Dorothy waited for the Bishop, histories of Florence, its free
thinkers, faces of popes and red-garbed cardinals swam in her head. The band of
young and seasoned soldiers from the fort held no interest. They smelled, and
treated her as the stuck-up cook’s daughter. She was only someone to hand out an
extra cookie or two when their buddies weren’t around to tease. But in her
secret heart, Dorothy was a mysterious spy, an adventurous temptress, a
princess waiting to be rescued.
No hint of cardinal reds were in the approaching crafts,
only more drab brown and black clothing. Dorothy sighed, breathed in the cool,
tannic-scented air and prayed for patience as the ceremonies began. Her chores
awaited and her fingers itched to re-open the Italian history she had set
aside.
After the first boat emptied its passengers, a sergeant
among the troops yelled, “Attention!”
The thirty or so men lined up, tucked in their shirts and
squared their shoulders. The newly arrived, tall, mustached officer with soft
gray eyes under menacing bushy eyebrows introduced himself to the sloppy,
disgraceful bunch. “Lieutenant C. Louis Cass.” He returned their salute and
marched past them taking time to point out an unbuttoned tunic, dusty boots, or
straighten a jauntily placed cap. “Where is your commanding officer?”
“Abed.” A young private in the rear yelled without fear of
detection.
“This way,” Father Sebastian motioned for the Bishop to
follow the troops on the half-mile trek back to the fort.
Dorothy’s mother gestured for her to follow, but Dorothy
shook her head. Elizabeth
delayed and tidied her hair until Dorothy relented and drew closer for what she
thought would be a reprimand. Her mother merely whispered. “They’re going to
take more land from the natives. Mark my word.”
“Not again. Where will they let them farm now? Is that why
the Bishop came?”
“Father says the seven tribes around the Great
Lakes will be affected.” Elizabeth
tucked a loose black strand of hair behind Dorothy’s ear. “I guess the Bishop
thinks a missionary is needed to persuade the tribes to attend the new treaty
powwow.”
Dorothy shook her head. “What chance do the natives have to
survive, if they disagree?”
“Hurry back to help me.” Her mother scurried away to catch
up to Father Sebastian.
Dorothy wandered closer to the river. Dark clouds threatened
to stop the sunshine’s play with the sparkling waves. The second smaller canoe
purposefully tread water in order not to be drawn ashore. Dorothy examined its
crew. A tall, straight-backed Huron sat in the front of the boat. Behind him a
younger native caught her eye. The shifting sunbeams highlighted the man’s
blond hair. His face seemed lit from within.
His eyes dreamily swept the shoreline past her, then sharply
returned as if he had been startled into remembering something. Something
important.
Me, Dorothy thought. He’s looking at me. For a moment her
breath seemed to stop.
She couldn’t help rushing forward to mingle among the native
men helping the two pull the boat onto the sandy shore. The natives nearly
bowed before the tall Huron. He spoke kindly to each. Did he personally know
their families? Then he introduced the younger man to them, “My favored son.”
The older man inclined his head proudly in the direction of the blond young
man, whose ethereal bearing evoked the capability of walking on water.
Noticing Dorothy among the group, the older man said, “They
call me Ponthe Walker.”
Dorothy nodded but could not keep her face turned away from
the infinitely more interesting younger man.
“And my adopted son, Perish North.”
“I’m…I’m,” Dorothy was sure she’d never remember her own
name. “Dorothy Evans. My mother is Elizabeth, the rectory cook.”
Perish stepped forward. “A pious believer then?”
Dorothy gained full use of her tongue. “More of a favorite
doubter of the Lord’s. Like Saint
Thomas? You know the one who had to put his hand in
Jesus’ side before he would believe in the resurrection?”
Ponthe seemed to lose interest, but Perish didn’t move.
“I’ve just returned from my vision quest,” he said.
Dorothy believed he grew an inch before her eyes. She
slipped a glance down to his boots to see if he’d stretched up on his toes. As
she brought her gaze up, she noted his waist adornments, his broad shoulders
covered in buckskin. His light blue eyes seemed bleached by the sun, or his
vision.
“The manhood rite,” she said, trying not to check. A stiff
breeze lifted her hair, cooling the nervous sweat on her brow.
“You’ve heard of the Midewiwins?” Perish took a step closer.
Dorothy could smell a scent of juniper. “I have, but aren’t
you too young?”
Perish laughed.
A thrill passed through her at the clear, rich tones of his
voice.
When his father began to lead the natives back to the Fort Detroit,
Dorothy boldly pulled at Perish’s elbow. “Walk with me.”
Perish slowed to stroll beside her.
Dorothy smiled as winningly as she knew how. “Tell me.”
“I can only share Orenda’s vision message with family.” His
face was serious but his eyes were friendly.
“Adopt me,” Dorothy said, then raced ahead of the group.
Aware of her silliness, she knew her mother would be needing help.
* * * * *
Perish watched the snowy show of petticoats as the
dark-headed girl fled toward the stockade. His nostrils flared catching the
scent of lilacs.
His father stopped, waiting for Perish to catch up before
they continued to the fort. “Her hair is nearly black.”
“Brown eyes.” Perish pulled on one of his blond braids to
anchor himself in a suddenly unknown landscape. “But she wasn’t wearing the
red-spotted squaw cape.”
“But was she the girl in your vision?” Ponthe asked.
“The vision was taller, older.” Perish moved his hand above
his eye level.
“Could have been floating,” Ponthe said. “You haven’t shared
your vision with Renault or Kdahoi yet?”
“No.” Perish was still held in the dream world of the girl’s
dark eyes. He shook himself to respond in detail to his father. “I wanted to
keep my word to meet you at Fort
Detroit, before I met
with Mother.” He laughed in relief at his good fortune. “Then I ran across your
runner’s path.”
“Dorothy Evans might have been less welcoming if she’d seen
you when you came into the Bishop’s camp.”
“True.” Perish hadn’t washed for a fortnight and his hair
had been dank with sweat and grime. “I hadn’t considered the Bishop’s idea of
bathing of much worth, until now.”
“Beauty’s going to have a heyday with your vision.” Ponthe
shook his head.
Perish was surprised that even now his father doubted the
Great Spirit’s way. “It seems you have a bond with Dorothy Evans.”
“Can’t help liking her courage.” Ponthe said. “Not many
parishioners under Jesuit rule voice their doubts in public.”
“She’s still a child.” Perish tried to dismiss his
attraction to her bright eyes, her pert smile, that dance of energy.
Ponthe said not a word, only nodded.
“Father.” Perish stopped walking. His stomach attacked him
with a great qualm, “I need to see Kdahoi.”
“Of course,” Ponthe said. “Your mother will be waiting. Tell
Beauty I will meet with her when she comes to the fort. I’ll make your excuses
here.”
Without another word, Perish ran down to the beach and
launched his canoe.
* * * * *
Raisin River Camp
An evil wind seemed destined to slow his trip down to the Raisin River’s mouth to his mother’s village. The trip
was difficult in the canoe meant for river use instead of slicing the storm
waves on Lake Erie.
At the Raisin River camp,
the moon’s position told Perish he’d reached Beauty’s isolated wigwam close to
midnight. Perish smiled. If need be, he’d be able to find his home blindfolded.
He wrapped himself in his blanket outside the entrance and waited for dawn.
“Perish,” Beauty scolded in the morning. “I nearly broke my
neck falling over your lazy carcass.”
Perish had missed her laughter. He bowed as men did to their
mothers. “I had a vision.”
“I see. First coffee, then symbols.”
After his mother’s breakfast of corn flapjacks, Perish
realized a certain tension had left his body. Across the river the Potawatomi
village was coming to life. Dogs were barking and familiar cooking sounds
marked the morning. “Why is it I can only relax here?”
“You’ve been safe here for many years.” Beauty said. “The
world outside is filled with tales of violence.”
“Is it true you told Governor Hull to abandon the fort or
you would scalp him yourself?”
“Renault told you that nonsense.” Beauty smoothed her
plaited hair down, in her habitual show of vanity, the only one Perish could
recall.
“My Copper
Harbor dream was a
peaceful one.”
“I’m glad.” Beauty cleared away the remnants of their
morning meal.
“I stayed in the cleft of rock, where some men leave
pictures of their vision guides.” Perish recalled his heightened awareness. “A
lightning storm from the west rolled past me but I could still see the islands
in Lake Superior. I was wet with the rain,
hungry, and cold. Then someone lifted my chin, or I looked up into the pelting
rain to the tops of the cliff. A woman in a red-spotted cape drifted on the
wind. We were eye-to-eye when she spoke.”
“What did she say?” Beauty couldn’t hold back her curiosity,
but she kept her head bowed away from Perish.
Perish tugged on his mother’s buckskin skirt as he had as a
child. Still Beauty wouldn’t meet his eyes, so he told her. “She asked me how
many generations of children we would beget.”
“Beget?”
“A Biblical phrase. To give birth.” As Perish explained the
word, his body remembered his initial visceral response to his dream girl at Copper Harbor,
which matched his reaction to Dorothy’s appearance at Fort Detroit.
Was she the one, his intended mate? He prayed the Lord’s will would be
accomplished.
“That was all?” Beauty seemed disappointed. Her green eyes
were full upon him now.
Perish dug into his memory to find something more for her.
“Hmm. I think I fell asleep then. When I woke up the sun was shining and even
my clothes had dried. I must have slept through an entire day.” Perish stood up
and stretched as if refreshed from that long nap. “I have enough energy to run
all the way to Fort
Detroit.”
Beauty insisted he give her more details. “What did she look
like? Was she a white-haired, old witch? A young woman? Smiling?”
Perish attended to his bedroll. “I met her at the fort.”
Beauty dropped the coffee pot. “Already?”
The campfire sputtered, too.
“I hope so.” Perish frowned. What if Dorothy wasn’t the same
woman as his vision? Where would he start his future if Dorothy wasn’t his
intended mate? “Her hair was nearly black and her eyes a dark brown.”
“A native.” Beauty seemed satisfied.
“No.” Perish watched his mother sit down too hard. “Her name
is Dorothy Evans. Her mother is the Jesuits’ cook.”
Beauty held her head with both hands. “I know of them. I’ll
have to meditate on this. I’ll make more coffee. Did you bring any tobacco?”
Perish was embarrassed now. “Sorry, Mother.” He began to
gather the rest of his belongings. “I can barter for some at the fort.”
“Don’t go on my account. ” Beauty flashed angry green eyes
at him. “Renault will be here tomorrow.”
“Should I wait to tell him about my vision?” Perish decided
to stay with his mother until then. He loved the quietness of their home camp.
“I could help you get ready for winter.”
“Will you be gone?” Beauty seemed worried.
“You’ve been without me for three winters now.” Perish
accompanied Ponthe when he tended his fur traps throughout the last few
winters. The landscape was safer because fewer white men ventured out in the
heavy snows.
“I’m getting older.” His mother straightened her back as if
a kink had suddenly caused a pain. Not one year of age showed on her face, her
eyes were clear, her teeth sound.
“I could bring Dorothy here for you to meet.” Perish refused
to think of Beauty as an aging woman. “Or, you can visit with her when we join
Ponthe at the fort.”
A bright smile flickered for a second across his mother’s
face. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll wait for Renault to join us.”
Beauty retreated into her wigwam and Perish laid down
resting his head on his bedroll. “Now that I’m a man, Mother.” Perish tried to
choose his words carefully but there was no gracious way of asking. “Where do
your green eyes come from?”
“A Chinaman,” she called from inside the wigwam, and then
laughed.
The old answer kept its secrets.
Perish said, “I wish you could have seen Ponthe with
President Monroe.”
“I know Ponthe was taller.” Beauty exited her rounded abode,
straightening from her bowed position. She handed Perish a new porcupine-quill
vest. “Why do the whites need more land?”
“White men want to carve a new river out of dry land.”
Perish stood and Beauty placed the vest over his head, helping him tie the side
trusses. “Wagons will float farther west for settlers to claim more of our
land. “Mother, the vest is beautiful.”
Perish picked at one of the beads on his vest.
Beauty slapped at his hand. “Careful you’ll undo a whole
string.”
Perish knew the land-grab story was old, only the excuse was
new. “They call the new river they want to build the Erie
Canal.”
* * * * *
When Ed Renault arrived the next day, his canoe wasn’t
filled with beaver pelts. Perish remembered Renault’s stories of when he first
came to the new world as a young trapper, when the land was still thick with
beaver. The deer hides and a few fox furs bore witness to Renault’s honed and
deft trapping skills. In the weeks since he delivered Perish to Copper Harbor,
the man had plied his trade well.
At times Perish speculated Renault might be a relative of
his mother’s, but she denied any family link other than a long affiliation with
their French trapper friend.
Renault’s hair was streaked with gray. Perish couldn’t
recollect the gray when they had parted at the slip of the new moon. Had he
been so wrapped-up in his own adventure not to notice signs of aging?
“Hard trip, friend?” Perish asked, helping to beach the
loaded canoe.
“A bear tried to talk me out of life.” Renault drew up his
shirt, where the claw marks of the beast still showed red, ugly welts.
Perish forgot his upbringing and drew the big trapper’s head
down in a manly hug. “I’m glad he changed his mind.”
Renault grinned from ear to ear. “Me, too.”
“A few salves will erase most.” Beauty had caught sight of
Renault’s raked chest before he could lower his rough blouse. She shook the
trapper’s hand, a rare occurrence for them.
A glint of moisture shimmered in the old man’s eyes before
Renault’s booming voice told them of other fights with Indians and settlers.
The trapper was a peaceful man and Perish chalked up most of the stories to
historic bravado in the face of the bear disaster.
Renault finished off another story with a cup of Beauty’s
coffee, before asking Perish, “So you’re a man now?”
“And he’s met the woman of his vision.” Beauty teased him.
“At the fort, a white girl.”
“When do we leave?” Renault laughed. “Have to check out a
new member of this tribe.”
“I’m not sure she was the girl, Mother.” Perish could feel a
blush rising as his body started to come alive again. Now that he was a man,
he’d hoped to control at least this reddening of face.
* * * * *
Fort
Detroit
Later that week Dorothy’s mother was too busy ordering her
helpers around the kitchen to be bothered. So, Dorothy was trapped into taking
Bishop Pascal and Father Sebastian a decanter of sherry and glasses into the
rectory library. She sat the tray down safely, but her curtsy to the Bishop was
clumsy. If she had been more graceful, she could have disappeared without them
noticing.
“Bella parva,” Bishop Pascal said.
“Dorothy, let me introduce you.” Father Sebastian pushed her
forward. “She has read nearly every book in the library.”
“Lovely,” the Bishop said. “What do you think of Saint Augustine’s
conversion?”
“Silly,” she said without thinking.
“I beg your pardon,” the clerics said together.
Dorothy collected her wits. “St. Augustine based his conversion on his
mother’s natural worry about his future.” The sober pair remained unconvinced.
“On a laundry day among the drying linens.”
“I don’t remember that,” Father Sebastian said.
“Never happened,” Bishop Pascal declared.
Dorothy nodded believing the whole thing was made up so the
saint could paint himself as a devoted sinner in order to relive the deeds.
“Don’t you think he dwelt on his errors more than he needed to?” It seemed an
innocent question to her.
“Of course not.” Bishop Pascal was obviously scandalized.
“Father, I think you need to review the studies of your pupil more closely.”
Father Sebastian scratched the remaining hair on his balding
head. “She reads Latin and has read the Old Testament four times, the New
Testament eight.” He turned to Dorothy a proud smile on his face. “Isn’t that
true?”
“Yes,” she said. “Every morning I wake with a hundred
doubts, read all day and put them to rest before I can sleep.”
“Doubts?” the Bishop asked in a warning tone.
Undeterred, Dorothy continued. “I think the book of
Ecclesiastes says it best when it rightly names belief in a Supreme Being as
our vanity’s willingness to find the best in ourselves.”
“Dorothy!” Father Sebastian seemed embarrassed.
“A lot of work is needed, Father.” The Bishop ignored
Dorothy so she slipped out into the hall, careful to eavesdrop. “That child
could infect a whole nation of natives. Correct her before it’s too late.”
“She reads everything,” Father Sebastian tried to explain.
“Lock this room up and allow her only texts that will
illuminate her belief.”
“But the Bible?”
“Needs careful interpretation.” Bishop Pascal raised his
voice to stop further debate. “The laity is ill-equipped.”
“I can see that.” Father Sebastian acquiesced to his
superior. “I’ll make sure she is forbidden to enter the room.”
Dorothy was devastated. The library was lost to her? Life
wouldn’t be worth living. Where would her mind go to find solace? Her stomach
hurt and angry tears burned her cheeks. She ran to the kitchen. Mother would
fix it.
Rohn Federbush retired as an administrator from the University of Michigan in 1999. She received a Masters
of Arts in Creative Writing in 1995 from Eastern Michigan
University. Frederick
Busch of Colgate granted a 1997 summer stipend for her ghost-story collection.
Michael Joyce of Vassar encouraged earlier writing at Jackson
Community College, Jackson, Michigan
in 1981. Rohn has completed fourteen novels, with an additional mystery nearly
finished, 120 short stories and 150 poems to date.
North Parish
An Ann Arborite, Professor Silas Douglas, became the first
president of Michigan’s
Historical Society. He was a teenager who witnessed the 1818 Maumee River
treaty signing by seven tribes for President Monroe’s Erie
Canal. The names of the tribes and the individual natives have
been preserved in the Ann Arbor Public Library.
North Parish follows the diplomats around the Great Lakes.
Thank you for sharing with us today, Rohn. My best wishes to you for fantastic sales of your exciting novel!
Slainthe!
I managed to add the Rafflecopter Giveaway!
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