Chrétien de Parthenay

New France

Chrétien awoke on a cot in the barracks of Fort Frontenac. His wounds from his fight with the fearsome Tadodaho had been tended to–his arm had been treated and bandaged, and a cool washcloth covered his bruised head. As he came to, he tried to sit up and make out his surroundings. He was in a smaller room, sequestered from the barracks at large. It seemed to be the infirmary–two other cots lay beside him, empty, and along the wall was a desk covered with medical supplies, but also an eclectic variety of roots and herbs.

“You’re awake,” a voice said next to him. He turned to see an Iroquois man of all people, though he spoke in near-perfect French. He was an elderly man, dressed in leggings and a cloak of deerskin. His face was covered in strange tattoos, his head shaved bald.

“How are you feeling?” The old man asked.

“I’m alright, I think,” Chrétien replied. “Tired. Very tired.”

“But of course. You have suffered much, and I can not heal every wound you bear. You should rest and recover, but your lethargy will remain, I fear, until you can cure it yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are three kinds of ailments, my son. The first I have already taken care of–the physical. The battle-wounds from your duel with Tadodaho. The second kind I am afraid still ails you. It is an illness from your dreams. Do you remember any recent dreams, my son?”

“No, not really. Should I?”

“Always, if you can. When dreams do not come to you, you cannot learn anything from them. Within each dream is a message of hidden truth, a desire or longing that you cannot sate. This longing can torment your mind and souls if left ignored.”

Chrétien rubbed his tired eyes, trying to remember anything. He couldn’t. It was just a void in his memory, empty and dark like the ever-growing hole in his heart.

“What’s the third kind of ailment?” Chrétien asked out of curiosity.

“Ah, the worst kind. But you should not worry, for I don’t believe you are afflicted by it. The third ailment is one caused by powerful people, wicked ones that curse others.”

“What do you mean? Like magic? Witchcraft?”

“If those are your words for it, yes, but I am unfamiliar with them in your tongue. Witch?”

“A witch is like an evil woman who casts spells and curses to hurt people.”

“Ah, good. Then yes, we are speaking of the same thing, though you should know there are just as many male witches as females.”

Chrétien sat up fully, trying to focus.

“Are we still in the fort?” He asked.

“We are. It’s been a day and a half since you killed Tadodaho, and since we have been placed under your command.”

“Oh, right. Look, I’m sorry about all that. The governor made me kill him, you see. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Why do you apologize?”

“Well, I mean, he was your chief, wasn't he? Or...”

The old man laughed.

“You think us all the same,” he chuckled. “You must be new to these lands. Not to worry, you will learn better soon enough. Tadodaho was the head chief of the Onontake, the Hill People. So too he represented all the Five Nations of the Haudenosaunee as a singular leader, a king in your culture, to rule over all the other kings. That does not make him absolute, as your Louis is, but he holds more power than the other chiefs. His death will create many ripples in the lakes. You should pray that word of your hand in his death does not spread to the southeast, as you would become the target of a mighty vengeance.”

Chrétien swallowed, a new worry growing inside him. He thought back to the speed and strength of his defeated foe, even under the influence of a powerful drug. Would he be able to fight a sober Iroquois? More than one at once? After all, he had been appointed to lead a half-company of troops into battle against them, but he had only barely managed to kill one whose movements were made laggard by poison. He never would have been able to win a fair fight, and if the Iroquois learned he was their beloved king’s executioner, he would not live for long.

“So you aren’t Iroquois?” He asked.

“No,” the old man said. “We are Chonnonton. In our tongue it means ‘The Ones Who Tend the Deer’. Specifically, we are Aondironon, one of the tribes who call themselves Deer-Tenders. Or, at least, that is what we once were, for our people have been dead for over thirty years.”

With his right hand, he took hold of Chrétien’s jaw, his left pressing into his forehead to keep it stable.

“Open your mouth for me,” he instructed. Chrétien obeyed. The man looked inside his mouth, inspecting each part as he began to spin another yarn. “We are a dead people, my son, killed by the ones you call Iroquois. Once, we were our own mighty kingdom, thriving even with two foes on either side of us, the Iroquois, and the Wendat Island-dwellers. We formed an understanding with them, waging war instead with more distant nations. Our warriors were mighty and fearsome, as well as wise. Stick out your tongue.”

Chrétien did so. The old man grabbed a lamp from the nightstand to see better.

“Our great chief, Souharissen, led our warriors into glorious battle. We routed the Atsistaeronnon, the Fire Nation, drove them from their hunting lands. You can close your mouth now. I tell you this history because it’s important, because a chief needs to understand the people he leads.”

The old man took his fingers and pried Chrétien’s eyelids open, inspecting the whites of his eyes.

“Then came plague,” he said. “And war. War unlike anything we had seen before, or since. Your people brought the plague with you when you came to these lands. Even now it blows through our villages like an evil wind, ripping husbands from wives, children from mothers. We lost more to sickness than to any battle. The Island folk, if you would believe it, were once greater in number and power than the ones you call Iroquois. But the pox hit them harder, until they were weak enough to be conquered. Tilt your head to the right, so your ear meets your shoulder.”

Chrétien tried his best. The old man stood, looking into his left ear from above.

“The Haudenosaunee turned on us, having lost so many to disease. They destroyed the Wendat, then the Khionotaterrhonon Hill Folk, then turned to us. Some were taken by them back to their villages, forced to abandon their name and their people. Many were just tortured and killed. Tilt your head back to the other side now. Thank you. So the reason I laughed, my son, is because had you not slain Tadodaho, one of our warriors would have surely stepped in and finished him. I suspect you will deal with a great deal of jealousy from them in these coming weeks–each one of them wished to be the one to do it.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were the same,” Chrétien said. “Do the others speak French too?”

“No. Many of them understand it to an extent when spoken to, but the only ones who can speak it back are myself, and our chief, Jikonhsasee. She is a wise and capable leader, although she was rightfully upset to learn that your Onontio had appointed you to lead her people instead.”

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“Her? The marines don’t allow women, and certainly not to lead anything.”

“You will have to explain your strange rules to her, then. She wears the same uniform as you, and you should heed an elder’s advice, and not do anything to upset her. I worry if you were to provoke her to anger, she would challenge you to maintain her honor. Pray that never happens, for if you dueled her as you did Tadodaho, you would not last longer than a minute.”

Chrétien mustered the strength to get out of bed, and to stand.

“Where is she?” Chrétien asked. “I’d like to meet her, and the rest of the soldiers I’m meant to lead.”

“They are training in the yard, but I would caution you. Best not to deal with Jikonhsasee at half-strength, or she will eat you alive.”

“We’ll see about that. Lead me to them, please.”

Still weary, Chrétien had to focus on walking by himself as he followed the old doctor through the empty barracks outside. His company of Chonnonton warriors were running training drills, French Military-style. A tall woman stood in front of them, her hair tied in a single braid. She led the men through the drills,

“Jikonhsasee,” the old man called. “I have brought the new commander.”

“I told you to not interrupt us unless it was important, Gyantwaka,” she returned, ignoring them.

“Onontio has decreed it. He is to command you and the others. We should heed him.”

The woman turned on her heel, pacing towards the two. She stopped right in front of Chrétien, looking down at him with the eyes of a hawk. She was taller than him by a good foot at least, and her strong, wide shoulders made his already-thin arms look scrawny and weak. She bore tattoos on her face and body–all of them did.

“This is not a chief,” she said. “Or an ensign, or a commander, or even a soldier. This is a boy, shaking in boots he won’t grow into for years yet. I wouldn’t trust him to lead a troupe of ducklings.”

“You will not disrespect me so,” Chrétien rebutted, gritting his teeth.

“Why?” Jikonhsasee asked. “Because you were ‘high-born’ back home, across the distant seas? Because that idiot Onontio would rather have a feckless boy lead than a woman?”

“Look, I don’t know how your people do things, but you’ve signed on to fight for the French marines, so you need to abide by French rules. In our culture, women do not fight.”

“Women do not fight in our culture either, fool. Our women are meant for more important things–like leading. Unfortunately, we no longer have the luxury of clinging to our traditions. For decades the Five Nations have raided and butchered, while your ‘marines’ have been helpless to do anything about it. I am here to fix that problem, and to win your war for you. You should be scraping at my feet in thanks.”

Chrétien clenched his fists. He had suffered insults all his life–from his father, from Le Vicomte. But to take them from a savage who knew nothing about him, and a woman, no less? It was more than he could bear.

“Perhaps you should hold warfare in higher regard,” he spat. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have let the Iroquois beat you.”

As soon as the words left Chrétien’s mouth, he regretted them.

“What did you say?” Jikonhsasee asked, venom dripping from your lips.

“I… I’m sorry,” Chrétien began. “I didn’t mean to–”

The proud Chonnonton chief cut him off, barking a command to one of the soldiers. He brought over two spears, giving one to her, and dropping the other at Chrétien’s feet.

“Pick it up,” Jikonhsasee said.

“W-what?”

“Pick. It. Up.”

Chrétien’s eyes wandered to the other soldiers, all of whom looked at him expectantly. Their eyes were mostly filled with pity, knowing what would quickly befall him if he acquiesced to her challenge. He looked at her again, and could only see a noble warrior, bound by honor to defend an insult to her people.

“Please, Jikonhsasee,” the old man Gyantwaka pleaded with her. “You know Onontio will be angry if you kill another of his commanders."

“He should have thought of that before assigning a puny idiot to lead my people,” she spat.

Chrétien swallowed. He knew leading this company would be a challenge, and he had failed the very first trial. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Le Marquis had made a mistake giving him this honor, a title and duty he did not yet deserve.

Regardless, he did not want to die, and certainly not to fight in his condition. Even once he’d recovered, he was sure he would lose against her. He had made a stupid mistake, but he was determined to make up for it. He kneeled down to the spear, but did not take it. Instead, he bent over, prostrating himself at her feet.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean what I said. Your insults hurt me, so I said something careless to hurt you. I do not wish to fight you. Please.”

He lingered there, keeled over in pathetic apology, his nose tickled by the muddy grass of the yard. He heard her spit on him, and felt it hit him on the top of his head.

“Coward,” she said. She turned, returning to her soldiers, and they began drilling again. Chrétien’s fists clenched again, grabbing fistfuls of grass. What was he supposed to do now? This all seemed like an enormous practical joke at his expense–Le Marquis showing a seeming grace, appointing him to command an army, only to be ridiculed and emasculated by the commander that army had already chosen themselves. What was he here for, then? What purpose could he possibly serve?

After a minute, Chrétien allowed himself to rise, still kneeling in the mud as he watched his soldiers train without him. All of a sudden, a thought occurred to him. He picked up the spear, then rose, finding his footing. He walked over to the line of soldiers, taking his place at the end, and began drilling with them. The doctor Gyantwaka rushed over to him.

“What are you doing?” He scolded. “You should not be exerting yourself until you’ve fully recovered.”

“I remember now,” Chrétien said. “I did have a dream last night. I had forgotten it completely. When I was lying there, in the mud, suddenly it returned.”

He thrust the spear forward with all his strength, even as his muscles screamed at him to stop.

“My father died three years ago,” he said. “And my mother died giving birth to my sister. We had no one to take care of us, and were adopted by another man who became our new father. He is a wicked, vile man–he wants to marry my sister, and to throw me out on the street.”

He turned, following the motions of the other soldiers best he could. He recognized the drill, though it was harder to perform with a spear than a rifle.

“I dreamed last night that I killed him,” he said, thrusting his spear into the air repeatedly, his arms shaking each time. “I choked him to death with my bare hands. It was so real, more vivid than any dream I’ve ever had. I could feel his neck in my grasp, the way I crushed his windpipe with my thumbs.”

“So you wish to kill him,” Gyantwaka said.

“I do. I wish very much to kill him. But I can’t. Not when I’m this weak.”

Another thrust carried his weight forward, and his legs were too tired to hold it. Chrétien collapsed onto the ground, the spear falling from his grip.

“Take him away to rest,” Jikohnsasee commanded the old doctor, waving her hand dismissively.

“No,” Chrétien said, gritting his teeth. He grabbed the spear again, using it to support his weight as he forced himself to stand.

“You will die, boy,” she said.

“No. I won’t. Whatever you think of me, the fact is that you need me. Le Marquis will never let you lead this army by yourself–if I go, he’ll find another sorry soul to replace me. At the same time, I know I’m not ready to lead any of these men. So I’ll train. I’ll become strong enough to earn my place, to command these men and fight alongside you.”

“Watch what you promise, child,” she said. “I will hold you to it. I will work you to the bones that gently cradle your scrawny flesh. I will not let you rest until you are worthy of fighting alongside the warriors of the Deer, and that is not a thing that comes easy.”

“So be it. I am at your mercy.”

Jikohnsasee grinned.

“You will regret those words,” she said. “Until the first snows fall, you are at my mercy, and my mercy is a precious thing indeed. I am the descendant of Jikohnsasee, Born by the War-Road, Keeper of the Peace-Hearth. But there is no peace to be made now, and all that remains is fury. You will bear my fury and mercy both, boy, and if you survive them, you may just become a man yet.”

Chrétien commanded his body to move into formation as the others did, despite its desperate pleas to rest. Pain coursed through his body, and his arms began to lock and cramp up, but he bit his lip until it bled to steel himself, and pushed through it all. This was just pain, something he could overcome. The weather was already beginning to turn cold, and there was no telling when the snow would fall. He would be ready by then–to lead, to fight, to die, if needed. He would save his sister, and kill Le Vicomte, and he would not let anything stop him, not even his own body.