Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait.
I had a really hard time writing this chapter, but on top of that, my PC decided to retire after 13 years of loyal service. I had to buy a new one and go back to OpenOffice.
Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it!
Thank you Porthos10, DaoistjuhIup , Barbebelle, Mium, AlexZero12, A_Revolving_Door, Galan_05, Ic2096, Elios_Kari, KanKarp, bepoed, , Black_Wolf_4935, Bellnconnue, allhailkingblood, Ponnu_Samy_2279, Yako_3972, Rafael_Fernandes_2952, Emerson_Santos_4586, and pafnytij for your support!
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François and Onatah left the village and followed a narrow dirt path leading toward the place where the matriarch would be buried.
They soon emerged into a vast clearing bathed in sunlight.
The place was peaceful, a world away from the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the village. Here, birds sang in the branches and insects buzzed through the tall grass. A gentle breeze made the leaves dance, casting shifting shadows across the ground.
For a few seconds, François almost forgot why they were here. He could have lain down in the grass, already yellow and dry from the lack of rain, and spent hours watching the clouds drift by.
They walked toward the center of the clearing, where three sturdy men were working on an imposing wooden structure. Bare-chested beneath the afternoon sun, Akwiratheka, Rawenniyo, and Tehonwaskaron were sweating profusely, beads of perspiration running down their taut, well-defined muscles like rivers.
They had already noticed the two newcomers. They stopped working and slowly straightened up.
"Onatah, you're here," Akwiratheka said simply, setting down a piece of wood before climbing down from the structure.
Although he was drenched as though he had just emerged from a river, his daughter seemed not to care and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly.
"We stopped by the village," she replied, her voice tinged with sadness. "We were able to speak with the matriarch."
"That's good. Very good, my daughter."
They remained like that for several long seconds before Akwiratheka pulled away and rested one large, powerful hand on the top of her head.
François watched them, then turned his attention to the two young Mohawks accompanying the chief and standing slightly apart from him. Rawenniyo and Tehonwaskaron. During the Six Years' War, they had been little more than boys. Now, they were grown men.
He approached Tehonwaskaron, who was now half a head taller than him. His chest was covered in dark tattoos, and his long black hair was tied back.
François could not help smiling.
The terrified child who had once clung to a branch while two bear cubs tried to climb up to him had completely disappeared, as though he had never existed. All that remained was a young warrior in his early twenties.
"Thank you for coming, my brother."
Tehonwaskaron opened his arms.
"Of course. We came as soon as we heard."
They embraced for a few seconds before pulling apart.
François then turned toward Rawenniyo.
He, too, had changed considerably. Their first encounter, which had taken place under very unusual circumstances, had left a deep impression on him.
At the time, the Iroquois were closer to the English than they were today and sometimes accompanied them on their operations. But that day, Rawenniyo and his companions had acted alone. They had attacked a small convoy escorted by French soldiers as it made its way toward a stone quarry not far from what was still known as Fort Edward.
The French had repelled the attack, killing several warriors and capturing the young Mohawk.
Rawenniyo had not forgotten those events either, nor what followed. He had not forgotten his captivity, during which he had been treated like a wild beast, nor the way his future brother-in-law had used him as a human shield when his father had come to rescue him with a tomahawk in hand.
They had come a long way since then.
Rawenniyo opened his arms.
"You came too, Frenchman."
A hint of amusement briefly appeared in François's eyes. Part of him would have liked to answer with a little provocation, as he often did with him, but he held back. This was not the time.
"Of course," he replied softly.
They embraced in silence.
"How are you?"
"We... are trying to manage as best we can."
The warrior lowered his eyes slightly.
"We've had time to prepare ourselves, but knowing that it will happen soon doesn't make things any easier."
François nodded gently.
His relationship with Rawenniyo was still not as natural as it was with Tayohseron or Tehonwaskaron, but the years had done their work. It had taken the young man, just as it had taken Kahionhes, a long time to accept that their beloved sister had chosen a Frenchman as her husband.
The birth of Pierre, followed by Louis, had changed things considerably, however. Rawenniyo adored his nephews. According to Onatah, he had even taken it upon himself to turn them into true Mohawks.
François finally approached Akwiratheka and embraced him. He was so broad that François felt as though he were wrapping his arms around a centuries-old tree.
When they separated, François looked up at the wooden structure. It resembled some kind of raised platform supported by four pillars. A few meters away, in a carefully cleared area, an oval-shaped hole had been dug.
Of course, François knew what they were building.
"You made it quite high," he remarked. "It almost looks like a watchtower."
Akwiratheka folded his arms across his chest, his expression serious.
"Our matriarch deserves exceptional funeral honors," Akwiratheka explained in a deep voice, so low that it seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.
He turned toward the imposing platform.
"She devoted her life to the village, her clan, and the Confederacy. And…"
His gaze rose higher and became lost in the vast blue sky. Two large birds with black wings seemed to dance as they traced wide circles overhead.
"She is the last child of the former chief, Hendrick Theyanoguin."
The French officer continued to look at the platform, then studied his father-in-law more closely. He had aged. The wrinkles around his eyes were much deeper than they had once been, and his hair appeared drier. Some of it had even turned white.
Despite all his self-control, it was easy to see how deeply his sister's illness affected him, even though they shared no blood relation.
The matriarch, although she appeared very old, was not actually that old. Only sixty-two. But in this century and in these lands, that was a respectable age. Few people here lived beyond seventy.
Her father, Hendrick Theyanoguin, had reached the age of sixty-nine, which was remarkable. If he had not been killed at the Battle of Lake George, he certainly would not have lived much longer than a few more years.
With the matriarch's death, it would not merely be a page turning. It would also mark the passing of an era, along with all the knowledge she had not been able to pass on to her successor.
"We are almost finished," Akwiratheka continued, gesturing toward the structure. "We still need to reinforce the center so that it can support the weight of the matriarch and the gifts. There will be many of them."
Onatah bit her lower lip and asked in a small, strained voice that was almost unrecognizable:
"And the grave?"
"This way," Rawenniyo said as he approached. "Tehonwaskaron took care of it while Father and I worked on the platform."
They walked toward the pit, which was deep and wide enough to accommodate the matriarch's body as well as the objects that would accompany her on her journey.
A simple barrier made of branches surrounded the opening to keep animals from getting inside.
Onatah approached it, glanced down into the bottom, then took a step back.
"Well?"
She looked at her brother, her eyes slightly reddened.
"It's very good, Tehonwaskaron. You did a good job."
She placed a hand on her brother's shoulder. He was now much taller than she was, but no matter how much he had grown, he was still her little brother.
A sad smile appeared on Tehonwaskaron's lips, but it was easy to see that he was struggling not to cry. François knew that he had been particularly close to his aunt.
He looked away.
This platform is only a temporary resting place, he thought, but it is very well made.So this is where the matriarch will rest.
He silently admired the landscape.
With the tall, dense trees completely surrounding the clearing, he felt as though he were inside a bubble, cut off from everything else.
It is a good place.
His gaze returned to the grave, empty for the moment.
When the time came, the matriarch would be laid inside it with her feet facing west, to ease her journey into the world of the Spirits. She would then be covered with bark and earth until a mound marked her final resting place.
Her bones would not be exhumed until the Feast of the Dead, when they would be joined with those of the other members of the community who had died during the preceding years. François had heard about the ceremony and knew that it was a major event practiced by several Native American peoples. It often coincided with the relocation of the village.
In all the years I have been here, I have never witnessed this ceremony. It will certainly take place very soon… If I can attend it, it could be very useful to me if I ever have to describe New France to my readers.
"Let's take a break," Akwiratheka suddenly declared in a slightly louder voice, making him jump.
He walked over to a large, rounded gray stone that looked as though it had been polished by waves for centuries. Beside it, lying in the grass, was a small bundle of clothes and personal belongings rolled together.
The chief sat down, and his two sons soon followed. François and Onatah took their places as well.
Akwiratheka pulled a very long pipe from the bundle of clothes, carefully wrapped in a piece of fabric. François recognized it immediately, having seen it several times before.
It was almost plain compared to the one the chief used during ceremonies and negotiations. Both ends were carved and painted, a few feathers decorated the stem, but the light-colored wooden body was almost entirely devoid of ornamentation.
François had received a similar one as a wedding gift. He sometimes used it to relax in the evening before going to bed.
The chief took it in both hands and raised it to eye level, a faint smile on his lips. He contemplated it for a few seconds before saying:
"For men who work too much."
Tehonwaskaron gave a small laugh.
The aging warrior took out a small engraved box and removed some tobacco, which he placed in the bowl. He put the box away, then took out a flint and, with an expert movement, lit the tobacco. A powerful smell quickly spread around them.
Akwiratheka brought the mouthpiece to his lips and drew deeply for several seconds. He held the smoke for a moment before slowly releasing it. It formed a bluish cloud in front of his face.
The chief handed the pipe to Tehonwaskaron, who took a long draw before passing it to Rawenniyo. Then it was François's turn, as the pipe passed in front of Onatah without stopping.
The officer showed no hesitation and brought the pipe to his lips. He inhaled the smoke, and his eyes immediately widened in surprise.
Cough! Cough! Cough!
François began coughing as though he were trying to cough up his lungs, which made Tehonwaskaron burst out laughing. Akwiratheka smiled and took the pipe back while his son-in-law wiped his eyes.
"Diantre!"
He coughed again.
"Chief, you loaded that thing like a cannon!"
"Heh heh. And that's nothing! Sometimes I load it even more."
Rawenniyo and Onatah exchanged a glance. The scene reminded them of a distant memory.
Without them even realizing it, the atmosphere had become lighter. They continued smoking in silence for a few moments in the middle of the great clearing, until Onatah turned to her father.
"Father, were you able to speak with the matriarch today?"
Akwiratheka's smile gradually faded, almost in slow motion. He looked down at his pipe as though he were seeing it for the first time.
"We speak every day. But today… we only spoke for a few minutes. For what we still had to say to each other, that was enough."
His shoulders sagged.
"I preferred to give others a chance to see her one last time."
Onatah remained silent for a long moment. She lowered her eyes, then asked:
"What did you talk about?"
"Many things. The village, mostly. Our relations with the French. The English. Our future."
He looked at François.
"She wanted to make sure that after she was gone, I would continue to maintain our relations."
"And what did you tell her?" the major asked.
"I reassured her. I told her I had no reason to destroy them. Our dealings with the French are good. We have goods to sell you, and you have things we are interested in. And your prices are acceptable. As long as both sides benefit, I see no reason to change anything."
Rawenniyo and Tehonwaskaron nodded at the same time. The effects of this rapprochement extended far beyond their village.
"Our trade has increased considerably over the past few years," Rawenniyo admitted.
Akwiratheka slowly rolled the pipe between his fingers.
"She asked me to listen more. And to always think carefully before acting."
He smiled.
"As always."
Akwiratheka's children could not suppress a small laugh. But his next words caught them completely by surprise.
"She also suggested that I go to France, to meet your king. Just as my father did with the King of Great Britain."
François froze and stared at the Mohawk chief, convinced that he had misheard him. Onatah, Tehonwaskaron, and Rawenniyo all opened their mouths so wide that an apple could have fit inside each of them.
"T-To… France?" Rawenniyo stammered.
Akwiratheka nodded slowly, his expression serious.
A profound silence fell over them.
"That's… That would be a long journey, Father."
Tehonwaskaron nodded vigorously, clearly far from enthusiastic about the idea of his father traveling to those distant lands inhabited almost entirely by white people.
"Yes! Father, you should think carefully about this! What if something happens while you're away?"
"I know. I am aware of the risks. And I told the matriarch as much. She nevertheless believes it would be a good idea."
"Perhaps… but… is it really necessary? All this just to meet one man?"
His gaze met François's. Fortunately, the French officer did not seem offended by the remark. Others might have taken it differently, for to the French, the king was not merely a political leader. He was God's representative, His arm on Earth. Meeting him was supposed to be an immense honor and privilege.
Akwiratheka shrugged, his expression neutral.
"According to the matriarch, there would be several advantages to doing so. She explained them to me one by one, but honestly, I am still not convinced."
Onatah narrowed her eyes. As the silence stretched on, she finally spoke.
"I think it would be a good idea too, Father."
Everyone turned toward the young woman.
"The French still know very little about us. At best, they know that we exist and that they trade with us. But what do they really know about our people, our traditions?"
She held her father's gaze.
"By meeting you, they would discover who their friends are—the people helping them protect their borders. It would also be an opportunity to talk, to exchange views and opinions. You could even make requests without having to go through Governor Vaudreuil. It is easy to ignore a letter, but it is different when someone comes to speak to you in person."
Akwiratheka remained silent.
Her arguments roughly echoed some of those put forward by the matriarch. The great chief could not ignore the advantages.
François, meanwhile, imagined the Mohawk chief arriving at Versailles. A man who had spent his entire life in the fertile lands surrounding the Great Lakes, discovering the streets of Paris, the carriages, the palaces, the gardens, the powdered courtiers, the spectacles, and people who had probably never seen a man with such dark skin dressed in such a manner.
He scratched his cheek, uncertain about the consequences such a meeting might have.
Hmm… I think it could be beneficial for everyone.
"I agree with Onatah," he finally said.
Every gaze turned toward him.
"For what reasons?" Akwiratheka asked.
"Because you have seen the Saint Lawrence Valley and its cities several times, Chief, but never Paris or Versailles. I sincerely believe that it could be a very enriching experience for you, as well as for the gentlemen who make decisions thousands of lieues from here. Meeting one another might allow our two peoples to understand each other better, or at the very least pique their curiosity."
Akwiratheka frowned slightly.
Seeing his expression, François assumed that he was imagining himself in France and everything that might happen there. If he were treated like some exotic animal put on display, he certainly would not hold back.
The young major shuddered at the thought of what he might do.
In truth, he was thinking mostly about the village. Neither the ocean nor Versailles frightened him. What worried him was what might happen in his absence.
Fortunately, he did not have to make a decision now.
"I will discuss it with the elder women, the sachems, and before the Council."
He looked at his sons.
"If I go, I most certainly will not go alone. They will not want me to be the Confederacy's only representative."
There was no need for him to explain why. Everyone present knew his reputation.
The conversation ended there, and the small group returned to work. A little over an hour later, the platform was finished. They gathered their belongings and returned to the village together.
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When it was time for the evening meal, Chief Akwiratheka gathered his family and several important members of the community around a large fire inside his longhouse. The matriarch was asleep.
They ate and talked for nearly two hours, and it was on this occasion that François was able to meet the wives of his two brothers-in-law.
The first, Kaniehti:io, was Rawenniyo's wife. She was twenty years old and had remarkably fair skin, making her look Spanish or perhaps Italian. Her features were also quite different from those of most Mohawks François knew.
The young woman noticed his curious gaze and, rather than taking offense, smiled kindly at him.
"Is my face really that interesting? You've been watching me for a while."
François gave an embarrassed little laugh. He could feel the others watching him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to seem rude. It's just that… if you don't mind me asking, was one of your parents or grandparents European?"
Once again, she showed no sign of anger. Her husband, however, did not appreciate the question.
"It's all right," she whispered, placing a hand over her husband's. "It's no secret. My mother was indeed white. She was captured during a raid in French territory and then adopted by my clan to replace one of its members who had died."
The gazes directed at François intensified. He suspected that everyone was wondering how he would react. But he did not protest. He knew how complicated family situations could be among the Iroquois, particularly in Akwiratheka's case.
He inclined his head respectfully toward the young woman.
"I see. I'm sorry if my question made you uncomfortable."
"Not at all. I'm used to it, and I'm hardly the only one. Besides, my mother was treated very well, just as I was."
The conversations resumed, and the awkwardness quickly faded.
Not far from where Rawenniyo's wife was sitting was Katsitsano'ron, Tehonwaskaron's wife.
She was small and seemingly delicate, like a porcelain doll. Yet the young woman was eighteen years old. Her long black hair was carefully braided, and her large doe-like eyes gave her face a deceptive sweetness.
From his conversations with Tehonwaskaron, François had understood that this appearance concealed a much stronger personality. With her, there was only one way to do things properly—and that was her way. Insisting otherwise meant risking her anger.
Both young women came from nearby Mohawk villages. Since the Haudenosaunee were a matrilineal society, children belonged to their mother's clan and, traditionally, a married man joined his wife's longhouse. Thus, it was Akwiratheka's sons who had left the village to settle with their wives, not the other way around.
That did not mean they had disappeared from the lives of their relatives. They returned to the village regularly to visit their family and friends.
François looked at Onatah, sitting beside him on a thick blanket, one hand resting on his knee.
Her situation was different.
According to tradition, her husband should have joined her longhouse. But he was French and an officer in the King's service. Moreover, he had been granted extensive lands in French territory, a concept that was itself foreign to the Haudenosaunee. François therefore could not settle in the village as a Mohawk husband would have.
The very idea of Onatah leaving the village and her longhouse to settle with him had created considerable tension. For how could Onatah remain a member of her longhouse and Turtle Clan if she lived with her husband on the other side of the border?
The women of the clan had been deeply troubled by the situation, but the problem was less physical than symbolic. Onatah could not lose her place within her family. A compromise therefore had to be found.
Eventually, the clan decided that Montrouge Manor, which was still under construction at the time, should be regarded as a longhouse.
That was how Onatah had retained her place, rights, and responsibilities within her clan: she had not left her people; her home was simply farther away than those of the other women of the clan.
Naturally, her children had joined the Turtle Clan and were considered fully Mohawk. This did not in any way contradict the fact that, according to the French authorities, they were French—subjects of the King of France.
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The rest of the meal passed without incident.
The conversations continued late into the evening, touching on almost every subject imaginable. The harvests, trade with the French, a few problems that had arisen in neighboring villages, an outbreak of smallpox, but also much lighter matters, such as the great rugby tournament.
Once again, François was struck by this people's ability to move forward despite their grief when he saw them talk and sometimes even laugh.
Eventually, everyone went to bed.
At dawn, the matriarch was still breathing.
But only barely.
She had also lost the ability to speak.
Her eyes remained closed, and her breathing had become so faint that the elder women watching over her had to lean very close to her face to make sure she was still breathing.
Everyone knew what it meant, and the atmosphere in the village became even heavier than the day before.
Visits were restricted to her closest relatives, each person being allowed to spend only a few minutes at her side. And although the entire village seemed to be holding its breath, ordinary activities continued.
Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, the matriarch passed away.