Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [462]
He had succeeded in converting a number of the village, though by no means all. However, among his converts was the war chief, so he was protected from interference. Unfortunately, the sachem of the village opposed his influence, and there was continued uneasiness between Christian and non-Christian in the village.
The priest licked dry lips, then picked up the water jar and drank.
“And then,” he said, taking a deep breath, “then I committed my second sin.”
He had fallen in love with one of his own converts.
“Had you had women, before—?” Roger choked off the question, but Alexandre answered quite simply, without hesitation.
“No, never.” There was a breath there, not quite a laugh, of bitter self-mockery. “I had thought I was immune to that temptation. But man is frail in the face of Satan’s fleshly lures.”
He had lived in the girl’s longhouse for some months. Then, one morning, he had risen early, and going to the stream to wash, had seen his own reflection in the water.
“There was a sudden disturbance in the water, and the surface broke. A huge and gaping mouth rose through the surface, shattering the reflection of my face.”
It had been no more than a rising trout, leaping for a dragonfly, but the priest, shaken by the experience, had seen it as a sign from God that his soul was in danger of being swallowed by the mouth of Hell. He had gone at once to the longhouse and removed his things, going to live alone in a small shelter outside the village. However, he had left his lover pregnant.
“Was that what caused the trouble that brought you here?” Roger asked.
“No, not in itself. They do not see matters of marriage and morality as we do,” Alexandre explained. “Women take men as they will, and marriage is an agreement that endures so long as the partners are in amity; if they should fall out, then the woman may expel the man from her house—or he may leave. The children, if there are children, stay with the mother.”
“But then—”
“The difficulty was that I had always, as a priest, refused to baptize infants unless both parents were Christian and in a state of grace. This is necessary, you understand, if the child is to be raised in faith—for the Indians are inclined otherwise to view the sacrament of baptism as no more than one of their pagan rituals.”
Alexandre drew a deep breath.
“And of course I could not baptize this child. This offended and horrified Kennyanisi-t’ago, who insisted that I must do so. Upon my refusing, he ordered me to be tortured. My—the girl—interceded for me, and was abetted in this by her mother and several other influential persons.”
Consequently the village had been torn by controversy and schism, and at last the sachem had decreed that they must take Père Alexandre to Onyarekenata, where an impartial council might judge what must be done to restore the harmony amongst them.
Roger scratched at his beard; perhaps the Indian dislike of hairy Europeans was the association with lice.
“I am afraid I don’t quite understand,” he said carefully. “You refused to baptize your own child because the mother was not a good Christian?”
Alexandre looked surprised.
“Ah, non! She retains her faith—though she would have every excuse if she did not,” he added ruefully. He sighed. “No. I cannot baptize the child, not because of its mother—but because its father is not in a state of grace.”
Roger rubbed his forehead, hoping his face didn’t betray his astonishment.
“Ah. Is this why you wished to make confession to me? That you might be restored to a state of grace, and thus able to—”
The priest stopped him with a small gesture. He sat quietly for a moment, slender shoulders slumped. He must have brushed his wound accidentally; the clotted mass had cracked, and blood was once more seeping slowly down his neck.
“Forgive me,” Alexandre said. “I should not have asked you; it was only that I was so grateful to be able to speak in my own language; I could not resist the temptation to ease my soul by telling you. But it is no good; there can