... this little email exchange when we first knew each other and swapped live journal addresses (how 21st Century!)
[kylecassidy wrote back:]
"Hennepin ... was that the name of someone's penguin? Is that a literary name? It seems vaguely familiar. Or a witch? It sounds like a witch's name -- like: "Mrs. Hennepin, her jowls jangling in the wind, swept round with her broom and a gentle laugh, 'Goodbye children,' she said with a lilt, 'always remember your inner witch.' And in a twinkle, she had flown up and over the house. The children stood watching until she was just a speck, silhouetted against the moon. 'We shall never meet anyone like her again,' said Rachel forlornly, a tear creeping down her face. 'Oh,' said Charles with an air of new authority, 'I think there's a little of Mrs. Hennepin left in all of us.' He put the crystal bauble into his jacket pocket without saying anything and led the others back into the house where she smell of dinner on the stove wafted up the staircase."'
I explained that Hennepin was the Jesuit priest who accompanied LaSalle on his explorations of the West and then disappeared without a trace, only to wander back to the camp months later, having gone completely native and purporting to have made wild, impossible discoveries.
"Lasalle lowered his musket, 'Hennepin?' he asked cautiously, 'Is that you?'
"My name is Mukwandoo," said the barrel chested man covered in mud and feathers, "I live in the trees."
"Right, but you're Hennepin."
"I was birthed from the loins of the skygod and suckled by wolves."
"There are no wolves here, Hennepin, come back to camp."
"Foxes," corrected the priest, "they looked bigger at the time."
"Yes, of course," said Lasalle, beckoning, "come back to camp, you're going to catch cold." He gestured to Henepinn's loincloth, which was made of bark, "that can't be comfortable."
"Truthfully," said the Jesuit with a pained look, "it chafes something fierce. But I have heard the music of the woods. And the songs of my people."
"Right," said Lasalle. He leaned in close to the Lieutenant, "what should we do with him?"
"I think we should shoot him," Tembre said, "he's the devil in him."
"Okay," said Lasalle, looking back at Hennepin, "we're going to go back to camp."
"Is there gin?" asked Hennepin suddenly.
"Of course," said Lasalle who used the potent liquid frequently to prize things from the locals.
"Okay, I'll come with you then."
dang! if only i remembered this stuff! where's boswell?!