WHEN MARTHA WENT TO BED that night, she closed her eyes and Father Antoine came to her, just as he had so often over the years. This time, however, he was not the corpulent priest with bad breath who haunted her nights with flashbacks of abuse. Instead she saw him as he had become—a pitiful, ageing pedophile, unwilling to acknowledge, let alone apologize for, the harm he had caused her and the mothers of the children who had killed themselves.
Earlier in the evening, Martha had told him that she forgave him. Now, several hours later, the rapture induced by the dynamics of the healing circle was fading. But that did not matter, for she did not regret making her gesture of mercy, and more importantly, she no longer feared him. The pardon she had extended to Father Antoine had banished the monster of hate within her, freeing her to deal with her depression and alcoholism and make a new start with her children.
She was ever so proud of her children. The strongest member of the family, Martha recognized, was Raven, but she would still require much nurturing to reach her potential. Martha just hoped that she would find the mothering skills within herself to meet the challenge.
As for Spider, she had been ecstatic when Joshua had brought him back. Even better, he told her he had not had a drink since the night he left the reserve and felt at peace with himself for the first time in his life. He knew himself, however, and would soon resume drinking if he returned to the city or remained on the reserve. He planned to return as soon as possible and live a traditional lifestyle away from alcohol in the trapping cabin of his grandparents and he hoped that his mother and sister could come to see him often. He wanted their company, and would need their help in mastering life in the bush and learning the traditional teachings.
Father Antoine went to bed a deeply troubled man, for despite his words of denial, his encounter with the mothers of Rebecca, Jonathan and Sara had thoroughly upset him. Who could have guessed that his actions of so long ago would shatter their families and lead their children to kill themselves? As a priest, he knew there were few if any greater sins than murder, and taking your own life was self-murder. How many people had he destroyed over the years?
The enormity of his sins made Father Antoine tremble. It was not as if he had not known that he was doing bad things. He had, however, convinced himself long ago that he was different from other men, and had been compelled by some blind force within himself to act as he did. Other priests were doing similar things without being punished by the Church, and this to him had been a sign that the hierarchy, if not approving his actions, at least understood his predicament.
Now for the first time, he was ashamed of himself and realized that he had used his faith as a tool, an instrument, a means of rationalizing his unacceptable conduct. For during his years at the residential school, after the passion of his encounter with each little victim had dissipated, he would descend to the chapel late at night overcome with shame and remorse, get down on his knees, clasp his hands together, turn his face to the statue of Christ and pray fervently for forgiveness and vow that he would never again touch another little girl. In the course of the night, a feeling of great peace would come over him, and he would know he had been granted absolution.
The nuns, when they entered at dawn for the first mass of the day, he was well aware, would see him there still on his knees, praying earnestly. How fortunate they were, they must have thought, to have a priest of such exceptional piety and goodness as their spiritual advisor. But often that same afternoon, after a long nap, he would wake up refreshed, the urge would return, and he would summon another little girl to his office.
Years later, when he returned to Quebec and resumed his exploitation of little girls, he had sought solace in prayer and had confessed his sin after each encounter. And each time, he had been absolved of his sin—or so he had thought. But now he saw that he had gained a peace of mind that was at best self-delusion, and at worst a divine joke. For he had never felt pity for the little girls and he had deceived himself when he assumed they had loved him, mistaking their compliance with his demands for genuine affection. He now had to find a way to make amends to his victims before he died. But in his heart, he knew he had pity enough only for himself.
Bishop de Salaberry went to bed in a thoughtful mood. Something had happened that evening, he knew, that would change his life forever. When he heard the stories of the suffering mothers who had lost their children to suicide, he had been overwhelmed by the deepest sorrow and sadness, and a feeling of compassion such as he had never before experienced. His ambition to rise in the hierarchy of the Church was no longer of any importance. He had felt the presence of the divine, and this, he knew in his innermost being, was because of the spirit of forgiveness shown by the families of the children to the representatives of the white society who had done so much harm to Indian people over the centuries.
Perhaps, he thought, before he fell asleep, the archbishop knew this would happen to him when he had asked him to accompany Father Antoine to Cat Lake First Nation.
And that night, the spirits did not come to ask Raven to join them on the other side.