Brebeuf is looking at the land that bears his namesake. He has no
recollection of the horrors to come for his gaze unfolds as if in a
dream.
The wide expanse of blue water pleases him. Certainly the area holds
potential--many hard and softwooded trees not unlike his native
Brittany. In the warm glow of a July morning, he belittles his
misfortunes, the present trials sapping little Ste. Marie.
The kindly father dashes the recent sleep from his eyes with cold brook
water. The shimmer seems to fit the haze his current thoughts pivot in.
Sweet water country might yet prove both fortress for Christian souls
and strength at feeding Louis' New French dream.
The sun is no longer in the sky. Instead a ghoulish orange disc
fastened between sharpened sticks is brought closer and closer to the
white face. He is maddened with pain. The circular nature of the mind
in torment flits to the earlier morning rumination. Someone spills part
of a hissing kettle on the fire in mock ritual of the Baptism. Too
abundant waters, ah yes that could prove a difficulty in cultivating
this pleasant land. The swinish feast in preparation re-echoes thoughts
of ample provisions so vital to this distant land.
An Indian brave stands holding the scalp, his face with all the leer of
a carnival barker three centuries hence intent on making a sale.