The Island of Yellow Sands: An Adventure and Mystery Story for Boys

by Ethel C. Brill

“You are ill, Father,” he exclaimed, and then, guessing the reason for the other’s weakness, he added, “Perhaps you suffer from hunger. If so, we are amply provided with meat and will prepare some for you at once.”

“Thank you, my son,” the Jesuit answered with a faint smile. “I do indeed suffer from hunger, for I have eaten nothing but roots and bark for several days.”

His strength exhausted, he was glad to sink down on the ground in front of the wigwam, while the boys and Etienne prepared a meal. The missionary had been too long without hearty food to take anything but a little caribou broth. After he had eaten, he satisfied the boys’ curiosity by telling them how he came to be in such a desperate situation.

He had been returning from a trip to an Indian mission on Lake Nipigon, beyond the head of Nipigon Bay, and was bound for another mission on the south shore, traveling in a small canoe with three Indians. They had been delayed by the bad weather, and, anxious to get on, had left their camping place at the foot of Thunder Cape in the night, after the wind had gone down. But the fog had caught them. All their landmarks were blotted out, and the Indians tried to steer by the wind. The air was unusually still, the light breeze coming in little puffs, which must have been variable in direction. The travelers went out of their course, and when the wind rose and began to blow the fog in driving sheets, they were close to Minong. Driven by the storm, they took refuge on the first land they sighted, the little island where the priest was now telling his story. There they remained throughout the northeaster. They were short of provisions, and one of the Indians, who was sick before they left Thunder Cape, died. The other two were sullen and more or less unmanageable. The missionary suspected that they had been tampered with at Lake Nipigon by a medicine man who hated the priest, for the latter’s teachings were diminishing the Indian shaman’s power over his fellows. Father Bertrand had reason to believe that the medicine man had told the Indians the “black gown” was an evil magician and would bring disaster upon them. The bad weather and other misfortunes of the journey and the sudden, mysterious sickness that had overtaken one of the crew and had ended in his death, bore out the medicine man’s prophecies. Though the missionary did everything he could to restore his companions’ confidence, they grew more and more sullen and suspicious. To their superstitious fears was added the hatred felt by one of the men, whom Father Bertrand had reprimanded for a heavy sin. He worked upon the fears of the other Indian, to convince him that misfortune would pursue them as long as they remained in company with the black gown. So it happened that, the second night after the storm ceased, when the wind had gone down and traveling was possible, the two Indians stole away while the priest was sleeping, taking the canoe and the few provisions that remained, and leaving the missionary without food or weapons.

Father Bertrand was a young man, not many years from France and unskilled in woodcraft of any kind. But even if he had known how to build a canoe, he was without knife or ax. Moreover there were no large birch trees and no white cedars on the island suitable for the purpose. He tried to fell trees for a raft by burning them at the base, but was not successful. Indeed he came near to setting the woods on fire and so destroying his only shelter. There was no game of any kind, not even gulls, and he had no line or net for fishing. Roots and bark were his only food. As a flag of distress, he fastened one of his undergarments to a bare limbed tree. He did not know that the land he could see from his island was Minong, but supposed himself to be somewhere near the northwest shore of the lake. Though it was late in the season, he hoped that some passing voyageur or Indian might see the signal. If no one saw it, then he knew he must perish, and he resigned himself to God’s will, though he admitted that he could not but feel regret that the work he had but just begun should be cut off so soon.

When the Cree appeared, Father Bertrand did not like his looks, for there was a furtive fierceness in his manner that betokened treachery and a wildness in his eye that suggested madness, but the priest hoped nevertheless that this doubtful looking savage might prove the instrument of his rescue. The Cree told him that he was not near the northwest shore, as he had supposed, but off the island of Minong. On the offer of a generous reward, he promised to take the missionary to Grande Portage. But even greed was not strong enough to overcome the Windigo’s appetite. The canoe he had left on the beach contained no provisions of any kind, so it was evident that he had either consumed all of his gruesome stock or had lost part of it in some way. The guns had been lost too, or thrown away as useless when the ammunition was gone, for he was armed only with a knife.

When the missionary had finished his tale, the two boys told him theirs. They made no attempt to hide the purpose of their adventure, for they instinctively trusted the grave, fine faced priest. That he could betray their trust did not occur even to Ronald who had no particular love for Jesuits, though he admired their courage and devotion. When Jean related how the three had been obliged to give up the search at last, and frankly expressed his regret and sorrow at their failure to find the golden island, Nangotook interrupted suddenly.

“Nay, little brother,” he exclaimed. “You say the journey has failed because we have not reached the Island of Yellow Sands. It is not so. If we had not come on this journey, we could not have saved the life of the good Father, and he would have starved here on this island. Is not the saving of one good life better than the finding of much gold?”

“You are right, Etienne,” replied Jean, flushing, ashamed that the Indian should have to teach him such a lesson.

The priest smiled in a kindly manner upon them both, then said gravely to the Ojibwa, “You speak well, my son, and I think you have grasped somewhat of the teachings of the fathers who gave you your education. It is true that you have just performed a deed of violence, but it was a necessary deed, and one that will bring reward and not punishment, for you slew not in revenge or in lust or even to save your own life, but the life of another. Rest assured that God will bless you for the deed, and, as for myself, I will give you such material reward as I am able.”