Night fell. They camped in the rice paddies. Swarms of mosquitoes tormented the uninvited guests. The insects’ bites were intensely irritating, but their faint buzzing was drowned by the calls of crickets and toads. No one could sleep.
The bonfire crackled. Sparkles of embers added glitter to the starry sky. The crescent moon was as slender as a misplaced silver eyelash. François lay on his side, wrapped in his cassock. Facing him, Henri was awake but deep in thought.
The wind rose, filled with menacing voices. The world around François seemed hostile. More than ever, he longed for morning.
A hand touched his shoulder, and with it came a musty scent that brought him back to his childhood: the smell of an old Bible Father Dominique had often carried in a pouch beneath his tunic. François wondered if he had just dozed off and was dreaming of Villaume. He rubbed his eyes, and then he saw Henri’s grim expression. It dawned on François that the presence he sensed was that of Monsignor de Béhaine. He sat up to face the older priest.
“Well, Father François,” said the monsignor, “I am not disturbing your rest, am I?”
“No, sir,” grumbled François. “However, the mosquitoes are.”
The monsignor laughed.
“And what about you, sir? Can you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep,” replied the monsignor. “I am going to take a short walk. Come with me? A stroll may help you rest better.”
De Béhaine offered his hand to help pull François to his feet.
François hesitated.
“Come now, Father,” the monsignor pressed. “You know that I will always protect you. It is time for us to continue our lessons. I must show you the proper way to establish your own congregation once you settle in this country. What I know, I learned from years of experience and hardship. Peace comes to men of great patience and to those who are willing to be trained.”
He walked to the campfire and pulled out a burning branch. Its red blazes glowed in the dark, serving as a torch. François got to his feet. The monsignor led the way, the flames showing a short distance ahead. Soon, the earth turned muddy at their feet; they left the camp and the other travelers behind.
For a hundred feet or more they did not speak. The monsignor held his head high and showed no sign of weariness. It was disturbing to see him always so resilient, so in command of himself and events. Even with the rising heat from the earth, François felt the chill emanating from the monsignor, like an impenetrable shield that set him apart from the rest of them.
François broke the silence. “The way you approached the savages on the beach this morning was a revelation to me. You not only speak their language but also seem to have a clear insight into their nature. I see that I have a lot to learn.”
The monsignor stopped walking. “It is acceptable to think of them as savages when you are at home in France,” he said. “But it is dangerous to have that perception here in their land. You will never understand their nature by thinking that way. To reach out to the peasants, you must recognize their customs and their pagan beliefs, which have existed for thousands of years. Our job will be to eliminate that nonsense and introduce them to the true religion.”
François released a discreet sigh.
“Are you feeling overwhelmed?” asked the monsignor.
“I realize how little I know of this place,” replied François.
The monsignor grasped his shoulder and turned so that he could look into François’s eyes. “I give you these simple truths. Understand them and you will find a way to triumph. The Annamites, like the Chinese, worship three sets of superstitions. The first is Buddhism, the creed of the king and the royal family, which reveres the material heavens and the stars. The second is idol worship, which holds past kings as deities. One of their false gods is Confucius, who created a set of laws and writings. The third belief is Taoism, founded by a man named Lao-tzu. It is by far the most pernicious because it is widespread among the many sorcerers and witches. They devote their service to the devil. Only when you know their belief systems can you meet their challenges and attack them at their roots.”
He raised his forefinger. François looked and gasped in surprise. On the monsignor’s finger he saw a large, ancient ring. The light in its glittering stone matched the silvery flame in his eyes. François knew what the ring signified. He bowed and placed his lips on its smooth surface.
“Why didn’t you tell us that you were made bishop?” he muttered. “All these months we have been together, and you said nothing of this.”
“I chose to travel with you as a priest, not a bishop,” said de Béhaine. “But now that we have reached our destination, I must exercise my power.”
T
he next morning, the procession of missionaries, led by Captain Petijean and his soldiers, approached the east entrance of Quinion. Their purpose was to seek the governor’s approval of their presence in his territory. Pierre had abandoned his black attire, exchanging it for a brown Annamite robe from the elder of Kim Lai Village. His new clothes were traditional, with large sleeves and a stiff collar, and the front buttoned down under the right arm. His three-cornered chapeau was replaced by a simpler handwoven straw hat.
Only François Gervaise and his novice followed his example and adopted the local wardrobe. The Dominican monks felt they had to honor the Council of Trent for ecclesiastics and kept their brown silk cassocks and brown silk overcoats. Mimicking the natives, François let his hair fall in long braids to his shoulders. Next to him, the nuns had replaced their habits with simple black dresses. Their shaved heads appeared pale and delicate. They walked close to one another, clutching their rosary beads.
Sister Lucía chewed at her fingers. She was thin and piteous, with a small face filled with bewilderment and fear. Her look reminded Pierre of his own as a child. He imagined her agony at having to face the world outside the safety of her convent, and he prayed she would adjust to the new life she had chosen. Both her companions, Sister Regina and Sister Natalia, seemed to have a bit more confidence. These were the lives he was now in charge of.
Pierre knew about Lucía’s nail-biting habit, just as he knew about the mysterious rash on Regina’s back and Natalia’s compulsion to crack her knuckles. He had learned so much about these missionaries that it was difficult to make fair decisions about their future and well-being. He wondered if God would be more merciful if He knew less about the human race.
Before them, Quinion was built like a fortress, with a tall wall surrounding it. Beyond these barriers, the ancient city, with its myriad twisting streets and pastel buildings arranged in a circular pattern, drowsed under a hot sun. Deep within its core sat the mandarin’s mansion, the heart of the metropolis. The guard who escorted Pierre and the other foreigners referred to this home as -
Diê.n Mã Não,
“the Amber Manor,” because of its yellow marble construction.
For reasons of security, only the missionaries and the captain were allowed to enter the city. The other foreigners had to remain beyond the city limits. The priests walked within a protective ring of Annamite soldiers, who hauled boxes of offerings and five cannons on wheels. From far off came the cries of a child. The streets were crowded with the ragged citizens of Quinion, mostly women and children. Other than the soldiers, there seemed to be a general absence of men.
They weaved their way through the town until they were led to the mandarin’s property. Settled on a hilltop, the dwelling was built in the round and gave off a golden-orange glow in the sunlight. Lanterns hung from the curving tips of its red-tiled roofs. At the main entrance, a large burnished-copper cauldron served as an incense burner, puffing balmy smoke and giving the place the air of a Buddhist temple. Pierre covered his nose with his sleeve.
They didn’t wait long to be received. The news of their arrival must have preceded them, because he could hear the shuffling sound of footsteps behind the thick wooden gates. An old man pulled open the gate. Behind him stretched a large courtyard, with red and orange orchids everywhere. Servants and maids in blue uniforms scurried about, paused to stare at the foreigners, and quickly fell into rank on both sides of a pathway. The light reflected off the marble walls; the glossy flowers seemed transparent. All was bright and lavish. Brother João instinctively made the sign of the cross.
The Annamite guard stepped forward. Pierre stood behind him. He did not want to announce his own arrival, so he waited with impatience, staring at the guard.
“The white men from the sea request an audience with Mandarin TuyBn, governor of Quinion City,” the guard announced.
The old man repeated the call to a servant, who then called out the same message to another standing close to him. It was echoed several times, until it disappeared into the main house.
The scarlet sun gleamed through a curtain of mango trees. They waited in silence.
Captain Petijean’s face grew slick with sweat. He took two steps forward and abruptly marched back. Then he scratched his mane of white hair, pulling at his collar as if struggling with an invisible foe—a force that was suffocating him.
The echo returned from within the grand house, passing from one servant to another until it reached the missionaries.
The old man said to Pierre, “Master has agreed to grant you an audience. You may enter.”
At the far end of the main hall, Mandarin TuyBn sat in an official chair, acting out his role as the governor of Quinion Province. Surrounding him were twenty bodyguards. Each was equipped with a weapon, from spears to sabers. In front of the mandarin, incense smoke curled around a large, veined desk cut from a single piece of ironwood.
The old servant removed his shoes, seated himself on the floor, and bowed before his master. Pierre entered. The yellow-faced, black-whiskered man on the armchair looked familiar to him. His jaundiced appearance and sluggish movements seemed to be an older representation of someone he had once known. He searched his mind in vain.
With a snarl, the governor blinked and jolted forward. Recognition filled his face.
“
Cha Ca’!
” he exclaimed.
The acid in Pierre’s stomach churned to his throat. It was his Annamite name many years ago, used largely among his followers. It meant “First Father.” A flash of memory entered his mind—the burning of his seminary in Hatien City in 1769. After this catastrophe, he was forced to escape to Pondicherry. The voice brought him back to the memory of a face. He shuddered, remembering this man—a government official who had converted to Christianity. The thought sent a flow of warmth throughout his body.
“Do you remember me, First Father?” the governor asked in Annamese. “I am the one who pardoned you from prison.”
“Yes, I will never forget,” replied Pierre, nodding. “You and the sea captain saved my life. I also remember when I baptized both of you.” He looked up, pleased that he was still able to speak this language with such fluency, his eyes searching the great hall. “Never did I imagine you would abandon our God and surrender yourself to false cults and idols.”
TuyBn laughed. “I no longer believe in the religion of the white man. I returned to my Buddhist roots. I can’t imagine you alive and preaching the Gospel again. When did the king of Cochin China grant you permission?”
Pierre quoted an Annamite proverb: “‘A king’s orders are not as vital as the laws of a village.’ I am here to ask you as the governor of Quinion to allow us to spread the words of our God to your people. You could see this as a business proposal, if you like. We’ll bring you Western firearms and goods and anything else you request.”
He stepped aside to present to the governor the five cannons and boxes of gifts. “These are but a few examples of what Captain Petijean can give your army. You need to protect your city and the large population of women and children I just saw on the streets.”
He could hear the whispered exchanges between the guards—murmurs of awe and incredulity. Above them came the cracked voice of the novice Henri. “I can’t follow their conversation. My Annamese is useless. Can you understand anything, Father François?”
Pierre glared at them. “Be silent!” he hissed.
Governor TuyBn fingered a corner of his embroidered robe. “I have no use for your glass beads.”
Confidence gained on Pierre with rapid steps. “Of course you don’t,” he coaxed. “Your position deserves much more. These boxes contain gunpowder, clocks, and rare books.”
His words seemed to satisfy the governor, but still, there was uncertainty in those small, dark eyes. Pierre waited, holding his breath.
“If I agree to admit your priests, when will the next shipment arrive?” the governor asked.
Pierre gave a discreet nod in the direction of Captain Petijean, who moved forward. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “It would take at least one year, sire.” Slowly the captain added, “Provided that it would be a smooth journey.”
TuyBn smiled. “Very well. I shall expect to collect what is due to me in a year.” He stared at Sister Lucía as he added, “I hope for your priests’ sake it is a smooth sailing.” To the rest of the missionaries, he said, “Welcome to Quinion. Make this land your home.”
With a wave, he dismissed them.
“Your novice is unruly,” Pierre complained to François when they returned to Kim Lai Village.
The two men were walking across an empty field. The ground, under the severe temperature, cracked like the scaly skin of a crocodile. In the distance, Pierre could see the village, hidden behind a tall bamboo fence, where the sea captain and the others had settled in. He lagged in order to have a private talk with Father François.
The priest had a confused look, which irritated Pierre all the more. “He should know better than to speak while I am negotiating for our survival,” he grumbled.
“Your Excellency, he is young. In due time, he’ll learn.”
A hundred paces away, Pierre could see Henri perching on a tree branch and waiting for them. He knew that the novice avoided him, yet was unwilling to stay too far from his teacher.
“Look at him,” he said. “He is probably wishing me ill at this moment.”
The priest replied, “You threw away his only possession, Bishop de Béhaine. He is hurt, and probably furious every time he sees you. But sir, I assure you my student harbors no malice in his heart toward you. I will vouch for him before God if necessary. His purity is genuine.”
“How can you vouch for what is in another person’s mind?” asked Pierre with sarcasm. “Besides, as I explained to him, a cleric should not grow too attached to material possessions. You, of all people, should understand that concept. Henri needs discipline.”
The priest stared at Pierre. “Are you accusing me of poor judgment in choosing my novice?”
“To put it bluntly,” replied Pierre, “yes, I am. I have been watching you. I know you, Father, in more ways than you think. You are young and inexperienced, and adamant in your opinions. By questioning me, you doubt my authority as your leader. I sometimes wonder if you believe that you know more than I do about missionary work.”
His mind conjured the image of the fire that had consumed his mission in Hatien. He had been overconfident. As a result, all was destroyed, and he himself had been given a death sentence. His students and other catechists he had trained, all young men, had been flogged, their heads shorn, and one finger removed. Could this agony have been avoided? If only he had tried harder to understand the heathens’ thinking.
François looked away. “I would not dare to entertain such thoughts, sir. I am just eager to begin my work here in this village after you all depart.”
Pierre made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Father, I think you are making a lot of assumptions about your role in this mission. I do not condemn you for thinking favorably about your strength and ability. After all, it is your ambition that brought you here, is it not? But I am unsure whether I should allow you to establish your own congregation or continue to keep you under my supervision. I don’t think you are ready to be on your own.”
“You cannot go back on your word!” François cried. “It was our agreement in Avignon that I would be free to carry out God’s work in any way I saw fit.” He drew a breath and added, “Why don’t you let me prove what I can do?”
“Ah, Pride! I know thy name well,” said Pierre. A faint smile passed over his face. The priest’s reaction was exactly what he had expected. “You are confident that you will not regret this decision, Father François?”
“I cannot answer that. But I shall try my best not to disappoint you. I pray that I will make you proud someday.”
“Very well, Father. Kim Lai Village is yours. I shall leave with my troops early tomorrow morning. We will accompany the Dominican monks to another community. They will begin their work some twenty kilometers deeper into the forest. I will assign ten men bearing arms to stay behind for your protection. And besides young Henri, I also want you to watch over the three nuns.”
“I favor peace,” François replied, struggling to keep a look of triumph from his face. “God will be my savior and my defense, the only army I ever need. For my missionary purpose, the soldiers’ muskets are ugly, intimidating, and useless. Please take all your men with you, Bishop. The nuns can stay, as long as they respect my authority.”
Pierre nodded. “Remember, I have warned you about the dangers and difficulties of this land. Many French missionaries have been cruelly massacred at the hands of the peasants that they themselves had converted. These men died alone and in frustration, because their work was left undone. It’s now up to you to understand the natives and their culture in order to survive. The rules for success are constantly changing, but our primary goal remains the same. Be wary always!”
It was all that he could say. Like himself, François must make his own mistakes in order to find redemption. Pierre swallowed and said no more.