On this late December afternoon the old palisade walls of St. Ignace are a grove of living wood. No longer is the forest clearing guarded by a rampart of tall, skinned logs, huddled together like rows of bears teeth rising from a maw of earth.
Now these beech and birch trees again stretch their spirits, growing thick to the bends and twists of the Sturgeon River.
That river water weaves its own great and storied wampum. Chanted death songs in Wendat, and Iroquois, vespers in French and Latin.