chewing on grass, and human silhouettes bending over the earth were coming into focus. Everyone onboard watched the sights: they knew that within these shapes hung their new fate.
François fixed his gaze on the unknown land. A new world was waiting. Above him the wind abated. He noticed a hard-shelled husk of a coconut palm bobbing in the water, flanked by a large rotting palm leaf.
He heard Captain Petijean give the order for his helmsmen to drop the anchor.
“It’s over!” the captain shouted happily. “The journey is done.”
François drew out his crucifix and held it tight in his palm. For him, the journey was far from over. This day would mark the beginning—his beginning of a new life as a man of God among the heathens.
The sealed book of Indochina was about to be opened to him.
CHAPTER NINE
A t noon, François was leaning against the rail when he heard the sound of moving oars. Strange chanting was behind him and before him—eerie, anxious inflections rising above the rhythm of drumbeats. The Annamites were rowing out to meet the ships in their canoes.
The ocean had turned crimson. He wheeled about. The captain and his men were grinning. Small red torches whirled below as dark figures seized the ropes dangling from the
Wanderer
’s gunwales and shimmied upward. The natives’ shiny, blackened teeth clenched torches whose flames reflected in their ebony eyes. Sister Lucía made a fearful groan and drew behind the men, clinging to the arm of the oldest nun, Sister Regina.
“What are they doing?” François asked de Béhaine. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Captain Petijean. “Where are we?”
The first boarder reached the main deck. His copper-tinted skin glistened with sweat. A piece of cotton, passed between his legs and around the waist, was his sole garment. Most of his head was hidden beneath an oversized conical straw hat, like a thatched rooftop. The blaze in the man’s hand sizzled. Something told François that he was about to be captured! He wondered if these heathens were cannibalistic.
“We are offshore at Quinion,” said the captain.
“Do not overreact!” added the monsignor. “These people are usually harmless, but you never know what cultural differences may cause them to be violent.”
“But why are they carrying torches in the daytime?” asked Brother João. He was a handsome-looking friar, a few years older than François. A lock of his dark hair fell over one eye, but he was too excited to notice.
“Remove your boots immediately!” commanded the monsignor.
François noticed that the crew members had already removed their footwear. Without questioning, he untied his laces. The captain had informed him of this custom before.
The monsignor explained, “The Annamites believe in many gods. If they cannot see your feet, they will assume we are white demons that floated in from the sea. Demons and ghosts in their culture are depicted as gliding through the air without feet.”
The first Annamite came forward, and so did Monsignor de Béhaine. He raised his palm in a greeting and said to the frightened clerics, “They use fire to purify any bad omens that come from the sea. Just allow them to carry out their rituals and breathe in the smoke of the sandalwood bark that they burn as incense. You will find it refreshing.”
The fire was in front of François, burning with the smell of sage and gingerroots. In its light he saw the face of the native for the first time. He looked with total wonderment at the man’s high cheekbones, his flat flaring nose, and his mouth full of gleaming black teeth. His appearance was indeed strange, but his expression seemed open and kind. François inhaled deeply.
With the help of the natives, the missionaries came to the beach one by one. Feeling curiously out of balance, François walked close to Captain Petijean and the monsignor. Still offshore, Henri seemed to have developed a strong attachment to the savages and their
François fixed his gaze on the unknown land. A new world was waiting. Above him the wind abated. He noticed a hard-shelled husk of a coconut palm bobbing in the water, flanked by a large rotting palm leaf.
He heard Captain Petijean give the order for his helmsmen to drop the anchor.
“It’s over!” the captain shouted happily. “The journey is done.”
François drew out his crucifix and held it tight in his palm. For him, the journey was far from over. This day would mark the beginning—his beginning of a new life as a man of God among the heathens.
The sealed book of Indochina was about to be opened to him.
CHAPTER NINE
A t noon, François was leaning against the rail when he heard the sound of moving oars. Strange chanting was behind him and before him—eerie, anxious inflections rising above the rhythm of drumbeats. The Annamites were rowing out to meet the ships in their canoes.
The ocean had turned crimson. He wheeled about. The captain and his men were grinning. Small red torches whirled below as dark figures seized the ropes dangling from the
Wanderer
’s gunwales and shimmied upward. The natives’ shiny, blackened teeth clenched torches whose flames reflected in their ebony eyes. Sister Lucía made a fearful groan and drew behind the men, clinging to the arm of the oldest nun, Sister Regina.
“What are they doing?” François asked de Béhaine. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Captain Petijean. “Where are we?”
The first boarder reached the main deck. His copper-tinted skin glistened with sweat. A piece of cotton, passed between his legs and around the waist, was his sole garment. Most of his head was hidden beneath an oversized conical straw hat, like a thatched rooftop. The blaze in the man’s hand sizzled. Something told François that he was about to be captured! He wondered if these heathens were cannibalistic.
“We are offshore at Quinion,” said the captain.
“Do not overreact!” added the monsignor. “These people are usually harmless, but you never know what cultural differences may cause them to be violent.”
“But why are they carrying torches in the daytime?” asked Brother João. He was a handsome-looking friar, a few years older than François. A lock of his dark hair fell over one eye, but he was too excited to notice.
“Remove your boots immediately!” commanded the monsignor.
François noticed that the crew members had already removed their footwear. Without questioning, he untied his laces. The captain had informed him of this custom before.
The monsignor explained, “The Annamites believe in many gods. If they cannot see your feet, they will assume we are white demons that floated in from the sea. Demons and ghosts in their culture are depicted as gliding through the air without feet.”
The first Annamite came forward, and so did Monsignor de Béhaine. He raised his palm in a greeting and said to the frightened clerics, “They use fire to purify any bad omens that come from the sea. Just allow them to carry out their rituals and breathe in the smoke of the sandalwood bark that they burn as incense. You will find it refreshing.”
The fire was in front of François, burning with the smell of sage and gingerroots. In its light he saw the face of the native for the first time. He looked with total wonderment at the man’s high cheekbones, his flat flaring nose, and his mouth full of gleaming black teeth. His appearance was indeed strange, but his expression seemed open and kind. François inhaled deeply.
With the help of the natives, the missionaries came to the beach one by one. Feeling curiously out of balance, François walked close to Captain Petijean and the monsignor. Still offshore, Henri seemed to have developed a strong attachment to the savages and their
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