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Dawn had barely brushed the treetops when Adam was pulled from his thoughts by the awakening of the Mohawk village.
Figures emerged from the longhouses, clad in hides and furs, as if preparing for an expedition into the hinterland.
A light mist crept between the homes, woven like a white veil close to the ground. When a sunbeam touched it, it shimmered gold.
Though still dark at this very early hour, the sky promised a clear day. The moon was still visible, pale among the last stars.
Adam took a deep breath.
It felt like ages since he had last looked up at a clear sky.
Leaving behind the Great Peacemaker's stone stele, he returned to the longhouse where he had slept. All his men were already up and seemed to be waiting for him, alert.
Captains Collet, Deniers, and Belfour immediately came to meet him.
"Captain Boucher, we were wondering where you'd gone," said Collet with a formal salute.
He was a man in his thirties with a rather ordinary face—except for a large, dark mole in the middle of his forehead, protruding like a pimple. It was so unsightly it was hard to ignore.
"I woke up a bit too early," Adam replied evenly. "So I went for a walk."
"They let you wander around their village?" asked Deniers in surprise.
At forty-six, he was the oldest and most experienced among them. He had fought in many battles during the War of Austrian Succession, serving with the army of the Rhine and later in Flanders.
Like the others from the Berry regiment, he had arrived in the New World in 1757 with the second and third battalions under Lieutenant-Colonel de Trivio.
"This isn't my first visit," Adam answered. "Besides, we're not prisoners here. I think we'd know if we were."
"It's true that these savages have treated us well… considering the circumstances," admitted Belfour. "I was expecting less kindness."
He was slightly older than Adam, and Adam still didn't know what to think of him—his face, posture, and demeanor were so bland that he seemed to fade into the background.
"Hmm… I think that even if we've lost Fort Bourbon, nothing should change diplomatically," Adam said while adjusting his uniform. "After all the exchanges we've had with them, I doubt they'd want to count us among their enemies."
Tayohseron arrived with firm strides, his shoulders draped in a thick fur cloak that looked warm, heavy, and perfect for winter.
"Brother," he said in his own tongue, "the clan council is about to begin. Everyone is gathering. My father must have made his decision."
Adam nodded and took his leave of his men.
On the way to the great chief's longhouse, he walked alongside his friend and Mohawk brother.
"How did things go last night, after I left?"
"A bit tense," replied the Mohawk warrior with a faint, resigned smile. "The discussion lasted a long time."
"Do you think he'll accept my proposal?"
Tayohseron shrugged.
"I don't know. Opinions were divided. Some were very tempted—more by the idea of the wagons than by the prospect of helping you. Even though the British, through Warraghiyagey (William Johnson), visited us often, they never really compensated us for our dead, even though we fought beside them. Your words touched several warriors."
Adam nodded but didn't allow himself to hope. From what he heard, nothing was certain.
"Others remain wary," his friend added. "They see the English as long-time allies and fear that acting against them would destroy that relationship forever."
"And what do you think?"
Tayohseron suddenly stopped, turned to Adam, and placed his powerful hands on his shoulders.
"I told you from day one: you are my brother. I will gladly fight at your side. Besides, I think Onatah would never forgive me if I didn't. How could I turn my back on my sister's future husband?"
"W-w-what?!"
A broad grin split the warrior's face. He burst into laughter.
"Ahahah! What? No need to pretend. You love each other—it's obvious. Everyone sees it. My father too… even if it frightens him. But he also knows that if he so much as harms a single hair on your head, Onatah would never forgive him. He would rather die a thousand times than hear her say 'I hate you.'"
"I… I see. Thank you… I think?"
Tayohseron laughed again, gave Adam a friendly pat on the shoulder, and led him to his father's longhouse.
All the adult members of the clan, regardless of age or gender, were entering. It was in such councils that the Iroquois chose their sachems, their leaders, and made important decisions.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, Adam noticed a tension in the air—unseen, but heavy. Groups had formed, and some avoided one another's gaze.
The night had not been enough to erase the arguments of the day before.
The old matriarch was, of course, present, as still as a statue, along with her apprentice. Onatah sat a little farther away, straight and dignified, beside her older brother.
Akwiratheka, however, was nowhere to be seen.
"I must rejoin my sister and brother," Tayohseron whispered near his ear. "Sit on the other side of the fire. My father shouldn't be long."
Adam nodded and moved toward the central hearth, imposing and full of life.
The fire crackled softly. Several thick logs had been added so it would last for hours.
Opposite him, Tayohseron sat between Kahionhes and Onatah. Rawenniyo and Tehonwaskaron, however, were too young to be allowed to attend the council.
Adam crossed his legs and waited in silence for the village chief to arrive. He ignored the murmurs around him and stared at the fire separating him from Onatah.
The flames cast large, dancing, ominous shadows in all directions. The smell was strong, not pleasant, but Adam had endured far worse.
He ignored it easily, like a worker used to the clamor of heavy machinery.
Finally, Akwiratheka entered. Like his son, he wore thick clothing and a kind of cape woven from carefully braided fabric.
When he sat down, he removed it and folded his arms across his chest. The longhouse fell into a deep, solemn silence.
Adam felt his heart speed up and a knot form in his stomach.
"Yesterday," the chief began in a deep voice, "you came to ask us for help. You need our warriors to defeat the enemies of your people, the English. But we are not at war with them. I have told you several times that we, and the Grand Council, wish to remain neutral in this conflict."
Adam discreetly wiped his hands on his knees. He felt dozens of eyes weighing on him. The chief's gaze, in particular, was piercing.
"You offered us, in exchange for our involvement, all the loot carried by their wagons. Our stores are not empty, but the matriarch of our village says this winter will be long and harsh. They may not be enough."
Discreetly, the young man glanced at the matriarch, who showed no emotion.
"However, if we act recklessly, the consequences could be severe for our village, for our Nation, and for the entire Confederacy. Knowing this, you proposed that we keep our involvement a secret. We have discussed it at length, but several of you were not present last night. You now have the right to speak. Among the elder women, is there anyone who wishes to speak?"
An old woman, perhaps of the same generation as the matriarch, slowly stood and bowed respectfully.
"Chief," she said in a surprisingly clear voice, "we have long been allies of the British. We have traded with them since they arrived from their distant lands, across the great sea. Your predecessor, Chief Hendrick Theyanoguin, fell in battle at their side, against the French. We cannot forget the past for a bit of food. We buried the war hatchet. To go further would dishonor our dead."
Akwiratheka nodded simply and gave the floor to another elder woman:
"Chief, I had many children. Several died from hunger and cold. I have only one daughter left, and she too lost children. The pain is immense. I don't want that to happen again. If the coming winter is as harsh and long as our matriarch says, we must prepare. These wagons could save lives. Maybe even the lives of children from neighboring villages."
The chief listened without a word. He nodded again and let others speak.
Testimonies followed for a while, passing from elder women to elder men, then to warriors.
Tayohseron, although he had spoken the day before, also spoke again, supporting action alongside the French to see what came of it before deciding whether to go further.
The matriarch remained neutral. With wisdom, she highlighted both the benefits and the risks of attacking the British now.
When everyone had spoken, Adam felt more lost than when he had entered the longhouse. It seemed as if the chief might just flip a coin or roll dice to make his decision.
"If no one has anything more to add to what has been said... You all have different opinions, each with solid arguments. It is a difficult decision. Last night, I thought about it for a long time, and upon returning, I asked the matriarch to consult the spirits. They too find the situation complex, hard to resolve. But here is what I have decided."
Adam clenched his fists. He prayed silently.
"The Grand Council imposes neutrality on us—not to act for one side or the other. However, our village needs resources. And the English owe us a debt, for all our warriors who died alongside them. Little Frenchman, we agree to help you, but the name of our village or our people must never be mentioned. The English must never know we supported you."
"Thank you, Chief!"
"Fifteen warriors will go with you, only volunteers. They will fight by your side for a single attack, then return to the village with their share of the loot. But I warn you: if one of them dies, I will demand the life of one of your men in return. That way, I'll know you won't use my warriors as shields."
Adam's face turned pale immediately. He bowed very low.
"I will watch over them and do everything necessary to ensure they return home unharmed!"
"I hope for your sake that you do. Then we'll see if we follow you again."
Silence fell once more in the longhouse. Some seemed satisfied, others much less so.
Akwiratheka stood, thus ending the council.
Everyone left at their own pace.
Tayohseron and other Iroquois stepped forward and informed Adam they were volunteering. Within minutes, the fifteen places were filled, leaving a few young warriors disappointed.
Adam could only apologize this time and tell them he would be honored to fight alongside them another time.
He left the longhouse with the volunteers under Kahionhes's heavy gaze, then saw the matriarch returning to her longhouse.
"Uh, excuse me for a moment. I'd like to speak with the matriarch in private. If that's possible, of course."
The warriors understood and stepped away to prepare for departure. Even if it was just for one attack, it didn't mean they could leave unprepared.
They had to prepare food, blankets, coats, and of course weapons.
Adam joined the matriarch and asked if they could talk for a moment. She agreed.
A fire was already burning in her home, making the place warm, though slightly strange with all the charms and talismans hanging from the ceiling.
"What did you want to talk about, my boy? If it's about my decision to remain neutral…"
"It's partly that, Matriarch… but that's not the main reason. Actually, I've wanted to ask you questions for a long time. But every time I came, I forgot. It was never the right moment."
The old woman's expression softened a little.
"Is this the right moment?"
Adam nodded in response.
"The war is almost over. Back home, everyone thinks so, and I think so too. These are the final operations. Does that mean that… soon, I could go home?"
The matriarch's expression changed subtly, but Adam couldn't tell what she was thinking.
"How long have you been in that body, my boy?" she asked gently, settling down on a soft light brown pelt near the fire.
"Uh… I arrived in July 1757. So more than four years. Why?"
"Four years," she repeated pensively. "So short, and yet so long, isn't it?"
"A lot has happened, that's true."
"When was the last time you had dreams invoking the original owner's memories?"
"François? Hmm, I don't remember. I sometimes dream about him, but it's different now. Is that… bad?"
The matriarch didn't answer immediately. Adam felt his discomfort grow.
"How are these dreams different from before?" she eventually asked in a softer, almost compassionate tone.
Adam had to dig into his memory. He frowned and tried to put his feelings into words.
"I'm not really sure," he admitted. "Before, they were like flashes. I mean, it was weird. Images that popped up suddenly and disappeared again? They were just isolated moments in his life, fragments. Important moments, or ordinary ones."
"And now?"
"Well, it's more chaotic. There's no real logic anymore. They're no longer memories. How to explain? More like imagined moments, things that never happened. Just… normal dreams, really."
The matriarch slowly nodded.
"And how do you know these moments aren't memories, but just dreams?"
"Like with any dream, I guess? I just know. When I wake up and remember them, I know that what I saw and did never happened. Often, they don't make any sense. At best, they're inspired by a real memory, distorted."
She observed him for a long moment, then asked:
"And how do you know what really happened?"
"Uh… Because I remember?"
Adam felt a shiver run through him. Something shifted in his mind.
As if the final piece of an immense puzzle had just snapped into place. He could finally see the image clearly.
No, that wasn't it. The puzzle had been complete for a long time. He had just refused to look.
And suddenly, he realized.
"Our souls… they've merged, haven't they?"
The matriarch simply nodded in response.
"Is that bad? Could I still go home? I mean, to the 21st century?"
"My boy… I told you from the very first day. Wandering souls are the only ones who can travel along the river of time and change its course. It's complex, powerful. Unless you do nothing, this journey necessarily leads to a new path. After four years, do you think you've had no effect on the course of events?"
"H-how would I know? And anyway, I'm nobody! I'm not a general or a king!"
"Sometimes a single stone is enough to divert the course of a torrent. It doesn't matter how big the stone is. The fact that your soul and François's have merged… Maybe, indeed, it changed nothing. But if you could go back to your own time as you wish, would you find the world you knew? It's possible that the river you once took no longer exists."
Adam's eyes widened in despair. He staggered.
The possibility he feared the most—the one he had deliberately ignored to avoid the pain—was now right before him.
He had waited for this meeting to cast it away entirely, but now he was being told that there was no way back.
"H-how can you be sure? You… You could be wrong, right?!"
The matriarch stayed silent. Her apprentice, growing increasingly worried, prepared to call for help, but the matriarch stopped her.
"I could indeed be wrong. There are so many mysteries in this world. So many things we don't understand. Questions we can't even formulate. But if you think about it, isn't this the most plausible outcome?"
"S-so I can't go back? Not since the beginning?"
"Who knows? Perhaps you could have, at the start. But after all this time, is there still an Adam in the 21st century? Did he live the same life as you? Did he make the same choices, at the same moments? Did he find the object that brought you here?"
A tear rolled down his cheek. He felt betrayed, deceived.
"You knew from the start," Adam whispered, head bowed, "and you didn't tell me."
"If I had told you, would it have changed anything?"
Adam suddenly straightened up, eyes red with anger and pain.
"I could've deserted! Gone back to Europe! Found the watch in time!"
The matriarch remained unmoved by his anger.
"Really? That's possible, but your soul and François's had already begun to merge. We're all trees, my boy, and every tree needs roots. Yours had already begun to grow here."
"I thought it didn't matter?! So what would happen if I found François's watch?"
"I can't be certain of anything, my boy," the old woman replied, shaking her head. "Perhaps, indeed, you could grow new roots. But would you still be Adam? Would you be the result of François and Adam fused together? Or someone else entirely?"
Adam opened and closed his mouth several times, without saying a word. The matriarch went on.
"You've walked too far down this path. Your roots are now very deep. I'm sorry for the pain this causes you, but as I see it, if you try to go back, if you try to force your way through, then terrible things could happen."
He slowly lifted his eyes, hopeless, and looked at the old woman.
"Your souls might be forcibly separated—which can't be good for either you or François, since right now you are one and the same. You might end up in an unknown future, shaped by the choices you made here. Your soul might change again, fuse with the person you would have become. You might simply disappear. Or… nothing might happen. I cannot know, nor help you further. Once again, I'm sorry. This choice, my boy, is yours."