Chapter 23
The Battle for Peace
Matt stumbled incessantly through the shadow-steeped forest, tripping over roots. He was still so weak from his wound, he had trouble keeping up with Segoleh and the other warriors as they continued their trek towards Odawa and the high camp of Iroquet. When Segoleh reached the Ottawa River, he beckoned Matt to join him.
Matt collapsed on the reeds at the water’s edge and shuddered from exhaustion and pain.
“You cannot continue?” asked Segoleh.
“No,” said Matt, through clenched teeth. What did they think, he had superhuman strength? That he was some sort of spirit being? Ha! No one who’d been shot with an arrow just the day before could keep up this grueling pace. Which reminded him of his father. Now that Matt understood Sarah’s visions of the Mohawk and arrows and him getting shot, he wondered why his dad hadn’t come to his rescue at the crucial moment? Why had he let Matt flicker out of time for that instant by the Algonquin camp, but still let an arrow slice through him during the voyage down the Gatineau? So much for a guardian angel.
Segoleh squatted down beside Matt and scrutinized him from head to toe. “When we cross river, you can rest in canoe. After that, some warriors carry you.” He winked, clapped Matt gently on the back, and said, “Will get better.” A grin grew on his face until he couldn’t contain a loud snort of laughter.
Matt was confused. “Why do you laugh so much? Do you enjoy other people’s suffering?”
Segoleh smeared the mirth from his face with a hand. “No. Not enjoy. Life too short to be serious all the time. That why I named Segoleh—he who laughs.” He smiled and patted Matt on the head. “No worry. Warriors will give you rest.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Matt, wondering how he’d like being jostled about by the less than sympathetic Kanienkehaka warriors. But that was the least of his problems. He still needed to figure out how to stop this war. His reasons weren’t entirely selfless, either. The last thing he wanted was to fight and die for a cause that he didn’t believe in.
“Greatest challenge will be crossing river undetected,” Segoleh said.
Matt took a deep breath. “All right. Where do we cross?”
Segoleh pointed to an island that stretched halfway across the river—bands of trees that marched haphazardly over thin strips of land like a drunken parade.
“Petrie Island,” he said. “Don’t you think they’ll have scouts watching these cross-over points?”
“We eliminated first scouts,” replied Segoleh. “They will not have had time to replace them.”
Matt winced. “They really will hate us.”
“They already do,” he said.
An idea flickered at the edge of Matt’s consciousness. He remembered reading about the Five Nations peace treaty. How the nations actually desired peace over war. If he could just convince this stubborn warrior . . .
“But you can change that. You Mohawk—” He paused when Segoleh stiffened at the name. “—Kanienkehaka made peace with the Five Nations because it was in your best interest. You can do the same—”
Segoleh snarled and waved his hand. He no longer looked even slightly amused. The topic was obviously closed for discussion.
The other warriors removed the leaves and branches that had camouflaged their canoes at the river’s edge. They portaged downstream until they reached a spot directly opposite the island. The boats were slipped silently into the water and the men hopped in. Segoleh helped Matt into a canoe with another warrior, where he slumped in the carved wooden hull. They set off across the river, slicing through the current with ease, and rapidly gaining the island.
This island was acutely familiar to Matt. He had spent many a lazy summer day sunning on the beach, wandering through the trails, or catching frogs and turtles in the nature preserve—until he was caught and banished from the park. But that Petrie Island, with its picnic tables and roads and well-established paths, was not this Petrie Island.
The men crept through high weeds and brush, then through a dense forest of silver maple, basswood, and elm, until they reached the narrow stream on the other side. Segoleh instructed a warrior to carry Matt, but Matt protested at first, despite his weakness. He didn’t want to be borne on the man’s back as if he were a baby. Instead he trudged beside them, stumbling and clutching branches for support. Once he fell flat on his face. Lifting his head, he saw something he wished he hadn’t. A body lay on the ground beside him, face down, with grey, somewhat bloated skin and an arrow-shaped bloodstain on its deerskin shirt. Matt scrambled to his feet and rushed towards the group of men, which had gotten ahead of him. His knees shook uncontrollably and his heart hammered in his ears when he reached Segoleh’s side.
Segoleh looked down at him in concern. “Are you ill?”
Matt took a deep breath and wiped a stream of sweat from his brow. “I am,” he said. “If you hadn’t noticed, I was shot just yesterday.” Though he tried, he couldn’t inject his usual sarcasm into the statement. The body in the woods had really spooked him. War and dead bodies and arrows piercing your flesh might happen every day in Segoleh’s world, but for a kid from the suburbs of twenty-first century Ottawa, this whole experience was something of a nightmare. Matt bit down on his tongue. It seemed to clear his head.
The group splashed through the swampy brook that separated the island from the mainland, heedless of the grasping mud. Segoleh helped Matt ford the stream, since he could barely break the suction at his feet, but stopped him on the other bank.
“We have a long walk to the camp of Iroquet,” said Segoleh. “Rest here.” He motioned to a clear spot on the ground. Matt collapsed. His shoulder throbbed; his head pounded. It was one thing to drive on a paved expressway from the suburb of Orleans to the city of Ottawa, but quite another to have to walk through dense thickets of brush and weeds and between clutching branches of trees just to get there. He hung his head and noticed the odd colour of his skin. It looked mottled, bluish, like the cadaver he’d seen on the island. How could he go on?
Segoleh handed Matt a bowl of what looked like porridge. He sniffed it. Definitely not oatmeal. Cornmeal maybe, with a fishy odour. Despite an initial shudder at the smell, Matt devoured the mixture. He was starving.
When he’d finished, Segoleh prodded the group to their feet and onto a narrow path towards the camp of Odawa. Matt trudged behind him, somehow keeping pace. But at times he fell behind, happily lost in the underbrush, until Segoleh hustled back to retrieve him. Finally, the warrior insisted on carrying him, slung over his shoulder like a bagged deer. When Segoleh grew tired, he tagged another warrior and passed Matt to the man while he prowled ahead again. Every jolt of the warrior’s step, every shrug of his shoulder, sent a knife through Matt’s wound. Sometimes he was sure the warrior tripped or jostled him on purpose. At least he was getting a rest, though. For a while he even lost consciousness, blissfully feeling nothing and only coming to when the others halted on the path.
The grim-faced warrior sloughed Matt from his shoulder and dropped him on the ground. He landed on his backside with only a mild jolt. Matt blinked and looked around. There was a break in the canopy of trees for a change and a lazy river flowed through the gap. They must have reached the bank of the Rideau River. The Kanienkehaka stayed well back of the open area, hiding in a copse of birch and pine trees. Segoleh whispered instructions to his warriors. Then he spoke to Matt.
“We will cross here. The camp is at the top of the cliff.”
Matt scanned the floodplain and the high promontory of Parliament Hill, only there were no tall buildings, no turrets and spires to mark the view. The camp upon the hill, a scattering of tan wigwams and wisps of white smoke, was clearly visible between a break in the tall trees. Even from this distance, Matt could see the well-armed welcome party marching down a path from the camp to the river. They must have already been detected.
“You will use tomahawk with good arm,” said Segoleh, handing him the weapon.
; Matt grasped the wooden handle and stared at the sharpened stone blade in alarm. Did Segoleh actually expect him to crack open Algonquin skulls? He pictured Chogan and shuddered. “I can’t do this!” he exclaimed.
“The bear dung must die,” said Segoleh. “You fight with us, or you join them.”
A lump swelled in Matt’s throat, nearly choking him. He’d never been one to stand up courageously; he usually played the role of class clown or troublemaker. And he had no hope of saving himself—he was going to die today, one way or another. But he couldn’t go out killing the people he’d come to admire.
He tossed aside the tomahawk, crossed his arms and tried to straighten his wobbly knees. “I won’t fight, and I won’t join them in death. You have a chance to stand against the real enemy.”
Segoleh’s eyes narrowed. His hand clamped his own tomahawk.
Matt swallowed audibly, but he didn’t cringe and cower. If he could stand up to Madame Leblanc, to the principal—and to Nadine, for that matter—he could face this vengeful chief. “You have to take a stand with the people of this land.”
“Take a stand?” asked Segoleh, the frown deepening on his face.
“For the land and the people who love it. Don’t give it away. Don’t sign the papers they shove at you.” He waved his hand to the south, where he knew a trickling influx of Europeans had begun. Strangely, his hand looked wispy, blurry. He studied his arm and it gave off an eerie glow—then he caught a glimpse of a large scaled head peering at him through a gigantic growth of ferns. Matt shook his head and Segoleh stood in front of him again, but his face looked paler.
“Are you spirit?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I am,” said Matt. “I’ve come here for a reason. And I think it’s to stop the bloodshed. To tell you what will happen if you don’t. And to make you wary of the white man.”
Segoleh hung his head and rubbed the bald portions of his scalp, as if he were contemplating Matt’s words, but couldn’t quite come to accept the notion of peace. “Should I forget my family? What Algonquin did to them?”
“Should they forget what you did?” asked Matt. “No, I doubt either one of you will forget or even forgive. But you have to stop fighting each other and plan for your future, or you’ll have no future.” He paused and noted that his body had gone gossamer again. Now to apply the shock technique and gain the upper hand, just like when he’d handed Madame Leblanc the cell phone and told her to call his unreachable father.
“But go ahead. Fight. Die for nothing. Let the voices of your nations fade until they can’t be heard anymore. I dare you.”
Segoleh jerked as if he’d been slapped. Matt couldn’t believe it. Somehow he’d gotten through to the warrior, not by his ghostly appearance, although that couldn’t have hurt, but by the impact of his words. By his audacity. For once, it might have stirred something besides rage.
Segoleh licked his lips and furrowed his brow so deeply Matt could see trenches developing. “I not want our voices to fade. A Kanienkehaka is never diminished this way.”
“We will hear you again,” said Matt, “but it’ll be too late.”
Segoleh shook his head. “I cannot allow that.” He sighed and his hand fell away from his tomahawk. “If this only way to keep Kanienkehaka strong, then I will follow your path. We talk with bear dung.”
Matt nodded, and nearly whooped, but caught himself just in time. Must maintain dignity. Very important for a peace negotiator. Of course it might still amount to nothing if Segoleh decided to ambush the Algonquin while they were having a powwow.
“But you have to swear you won’t attack the Algonquin chief or his people during the talks.”
Segoleh paused and Matt was almost afraid he’d flip back and renege on his promise, but at last he muttered, “I swear. Now you must cross river and persuade bear dung to smoke and talk.”
Matt started. “You want me to talk to them?”
“Yes. They will not speak with us, not after raid on other camp. They will be out for blood.”
Matt’s heart rapped against his chest. His palms grew slick. “Even if I could swim across the river with my wounded arm, how do I get to where I can talk to them without them shooting me full of arrows?”
“If we go across,” said Segoleh, “we have to kill them or be killed. Talks will be impossible.”
Matt sighed. “I guess I have no choice.” When would he ever learn to keep his big mouth shut? He eyed the sluggish current of the river. Under normal circumstances, this swim would be a cinch, but with his wound it would be a challenge just to keep from drowning. He looked downstream and tried to gauge the distance to Rideau Falls. His best estimate was that he was at the future juncture of the train station and the baseball stadium. Even with his injury, he should be able to swim across before he was swept over the falls.
“Here goes nothing,” he said. He glanced back at Segoleh, who nodded and grinned. He would have been reassured if he didn’t know the man found comedy in everything. He splashed in and began to swim. The water was cold, which was a blessing, since it helped to numb his shoulder. He struck out using an awkward one-armed version of the front crawl, but his head kept bobbing underneath when he swung under for the next stroke. This wasn’t working. He rolled onto his back and kicked, a much better technique. At least it kept him afloat.
It would have been a peaceful swim, had he not heard the shouts from the other side of the river. It had taken them no time to spot him. Would he even make it out of the water before another arrow pierced him?
Matt flipped over as his head scratched the sand near the bank. He crawled out of the water, his hair and clothes plastered to his skin like the fur of a drenched cat. He’d survived the smoke; now he was entering the fire.
The shouts grew louder. As Matt crawled to his knees and turned around, he saw them coming. A dozen warriors slathered in war paint approached cautiously with bows strung. They yelled at him in Algonquin. He had no idea what they were saying, but he staggered to his feet and raised his hands. He said to them in French, “I am not your enemy.”
As the others continued to yell, one man stepped forward and replied in French. “Who are you?”
“A messenger,” said Matt. “From . . . Champlain.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. He lifted his chin. “From Champlain, you say?”
Matt tried to quiet the thudding of his heart. He produced a weak smile. But there was a strange grin on the warrior’s face.
The man tilted his head in the direction of the camp. “You will speak to Iroquet.” The Algonquin gripped his bow and kept an arrow nocked as he motioned for Matt to proceed up the hill. The other warriors cast suspicious glances at the far side of the river. Some remained behind to patrol the area. Others joined the French-speaking Algonquin, prodding Matt up the trail from the river to the camp of Odawa.
As Matt trudged up the slope, the silence amongst the Algonquin was like that of an executioner leading a prisoner to the gallows. Every warrior wore a grim face decorated with war paint. Some held clubs, knives, and shields at the ready. Arrows were nocked and prepared to fly at the slightest sign of an escape attempt, or some sort of treachery, as if he were a Trojan horse. How was he going to talk peace with these people when they were braced for war?
As they entered the camp, Matt saw a trim, fierce-looking man standing in the centre of a cluster of warriors, his arms folded across his chest as he surveyed the river and the surrounding area. His gaze swept over the war party returning with its captive. With narrowed eyes, he looked Matt up and down until Matt felt the urge to squirm. Finally, he gestured at the warriors in front of him to open a path through which Matt could walk.
Matt hesitated, but the arrow aimed at his back prodded him on. He nodded solemnly to the man who was likely Iroquet, leader of the Algonquin. How he wished Chogan was here now to help him plead his case.
“Bonjour,” said Matt.
“Ceci n'est pas une bonne journée,” Iroquet responded. Th
is is not a good day.
“It’s true,” said Matt continuing in French. He fingered the wound in his shoulder. “I was struck by a Kanienkehaka arrow just yesterday. These days are not good.”
Iroquet’s brow puckered in confusion. He approached Matt, as did the other men. Matt opened his shirt and revealed a sopping dressing of leaves and deerskin. Iroquet lifted the leaves to see the puncture wound beneath. Matt flinched, feeling a knifelike jab again, but stood his ground.
“Yes, you have been struck,” he said. “What shaman performed the healing rites?”
“I’m not sure,” Matt replied. “It was the strangest thing. I was coming from Champlain to talk about our alliance when an arrow struck me.”
Iroquet arched his eyebrows. “Champlain, you say.”
“Oui,” said Matt. “As I was saying, these strange men saved my life. They dressed and spoke like the Kanienkehaka. I couldn’t understand it. They shot me with the arrow. Then they removed it and tried to heal me. During my recovery I thought I heard them discuss the need for peace. That there had been enough war between the Five Nations and the Algonquin.”
Iroquet stepped back. He spat on the ground. “Dog meat,” he said. “There are no Five Nations. They are all dog meat. They have killed my family. They have brought war to my home. There will never be peace!”
Matt chewed on his lower lip. This plan was doomed from the start, but he still needed to try. Everyone here would die if they kept fighting amongst themselves. He stepped forward, still feeling the confidence of his first success. “The People of the Flint are not your enemy.”
Iroquet laughed. “You are a strange Frenchman,” he said, “if that is what you are.” He stopped laughing.
Matt looked directly into Iroquet’s pitiless eyes. “Of course I am.”
“We will see,” Iroquet said. He growled instructions to two of his warriors, who rushed off to the far corner of the camp and spoke into a wigwam with a scrap of rabbit fur strung beside it. A man strutted out of the structure, munching on a roasted leg of what was probably hare. He wore the standard clothing of a seventeenth century French explorer; tunic and trousers, and a broad-brimmed hat peaked with a feather. Matt felt the gruel he’d eaten for lunch plummet to the pit of his stomach.
“Champlain,” said Iroquet. “Did you send this young upstart to deliver a message?”
Champlain choked on his leg. He spat out the remnant of meat and stared for several seconds. Then he wiped his hands on his coat and marched up to Matt, examining him closely. “Why would I send a messenger when I have come myself?”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Iroquet.
Matt’s chest tightened as if it were suddenly bound in elastic. He’d made a grave tactical error. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that Champlain was in this very camp. He had no idea how to fix the situation, but his snippet of genius had gotten him out of trouble before. “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t come from Champlain.”
“Really?” said Iroquet. Champlain only sniffed.
“I came from the Kanienkehaka with a message of peace.”
Iroquet’s face darkened, his fists clenched in fury. “I knew it!” He wrenched his tomahawk from his belt and raised it above his head.
“Wait,” said Matt. “I also came from your people’s village across the river, from Chogan.”
Iroquet squinted suspiciously. This wasn’t working.
“Look,” said Matt. “You can’t trust him!” He thrust a finger at Champlain, which made the Frenchman gape, but seemed to affect the Algonquin the way he’d hoped. Iroquet lowered his weapon.
“Why not?” he growled.
“Because he wants your land.”
Champlain swung towards him. “We are only here for trade. The Algonquin know this.”
“I don’t mean you, exactly” said Matt. “I mean the white man. They mean to take all the land and eventually destroy you.”
“How can they?” asked Iroquet. “The white men are but a handful.”
“For now,” said Matt. “But more will come, and soon your people will become divided and scattered—those who don’t die from the white man’s diseases.”
“The boy talks nonsense,” said Champlain.
“It is certainly strange to hear a white man condemn his own kind. But then everything about you people is strange.”
Champlain straightened his shoulders in a dignified manner. “Strange, but in my case, honourable.”
Matt snorted. He couldn’t help it, when he thought about the trickery that would eventually deprive the First Nations of their territory.
The Frenchman gritted his teeth. “You do not believe me? Then you are no Frenchman. Indeed, I think you belong with the British.” He raised his arquebus—the matchlock gun he carried—and pointed it at Matt. Iroquet made no move to stop him.
Matt stepped backward as the explorer aimed the firearm. He raised a hand in front of his head as if that would ward off bullets. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m not really talking about you. I happen to know that you’ve treated the Algonquin with honour and respect. I was talking about your countrymen, and especially the British.”
“Very good response,” Champlain said. “But I still don’t trust you.” He cocked the flintlock.
Matt looked left and right, but since he was surrounded like a besieged wagon train by hostile Algonquin warriors, there was nowhere to run. He closed his eyes.
A shriek slit the air from the direction of the wigwams. Matt opened his eyes just as two figures burst through the crowd and slammed into Champlain. The arquebus made a sharp report with a puff of smoke and a bullet grazed the top of Matt’s head, but that was it. He was alive. And even more amazing, the two people who’d tackled Champlain were Sarah and Chogan. As he gaped and tried to stop shaking, they wrestled the arquebus from Champlain’s grasp.
“What is the matter with you!” Champlain yelled, fighting his way off the ground and away from the two children. “How dare you touch me!” He wound back his fist, prepared to attack Chogan, but the fierce glare from Iroquet checked him. “Surely this boy is a traitor,” he said to the chief, pointing at Chogan.
Sarah brushed herself off and handed the gun to Chogan. Then she launched herself at Matt, throwing her arms around him. “I can’t believe it. You’re alive. When we couldn’t find you, Chogan said you were dead. I didn’t want to believe it, but you were gone, and the Mohawk massacred his family. How did you survive?”
Matt took a quick breath, but Sarah rattled on, “I’m so relieved. You don’t know what it’s been like without you. Just don’t ever leave me again.”
“Hey, you left me,” he finally got a word in.
Sarah flushed. “I . . . I didn’t want to. You made me . . .”
“It’s okay.” Matt grinned and stroked her hair. “We’ll try to stay together this time.” But when he looked at Champlain, who was muttering curses, he wasn’t so sure he could make any promises.
“You see,” he said. “They’re together. English spies.”
Champlain’s men had gathered around them and raised their own guns, but the Frenchman held up his hand to contain the volatile situation. Matt figured he didn’t want to start a war with Iroquet and the Algonquin.
“Yes,” said Iroquet. “I thought as much.” He spoke to Chogan, who was aiming the arquebus at Champlain. “He is not our enemy.”
“Neither are they.” Chogan nodded at Matt and Sarah.
“The boy talks of peace with the dog meat.”
Chogan went rigid. “Is this true?”
Matt grimaced. “Let me explain.”
“They murdered my family!” said Chogan.
“I understand that,” said Matt.
“How could you understand?” bellowed the Algonquin boy.
“Because I have no family either. I understand your wanting revenge. Believe me, I do.”
Sarah nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes.
“But thi
s war will only end up destroying both sides.”
“They saved you,” said Chogan, “so now you think you can help them finish us off?”
“That’s not it at all,” insisted Matt. “Sarah and I hold no part in this war. You have to listen to us.”
Chogan looked at his uncle, who with just a nod could unleash a hail of arrows into Matt and Sarah. He looked at Champlain’s men, who held their guns cocked and ready. “We will listen,” he said.
Iroquet’s eyes narrowed to slits, but surprisingly, he grunted agreement. He turned to Champlain, who’d puffed out his chest and was scowling. “You will stay here,” he said. Champlain’s eyes widened.
“You will come with me,” he commanded the children.
The two time travellers clutched each other’s hands and shuffled towards Iroquet’s wigwam. Iroquet held back the deerskin flap for them to enter. Matt and Sarah ducked inside. Then Chogan and his uncle strode in and sank cross-legged to the reed mat on the ground.
“Sit,” said Chogan, jabbing the ground. “You will now explain your treachery.” Chogan, the kind, mischievous boy who’d saved their lives, had not a hint of warmth in his voice.
“Ch-chogan,” stammered Sarah. “We’re friends, remember?”
For an instant Chogan’s expression softened, especially when he looked at Sarah, but his jaw reset immediately. “You saw what they did to my family. Do you think, as he does,” he nodded at Matt, “that we should make peace?”
Sarah turned to Matt, her gaze troubled but tender. “I don’t understand it, but I trust him. You and he are the only people I trust here.”
“But we do not trust you,” said Iroquet. “Explain why we must make peace. Explain how the white man will destroy us, and how you know this.”
For a second Matt couldn’t find his voice, but he took courage from Sarah’s faith in him and met Iroquet’s eyes. He didn’t flinch at the man’s cold glare. “I understand that your people have been at war for some time. I realize that the Kanienkehaka—”
“Dog meat.” Iroquet spat on the floor.
“Yes, the dog meat have inflicted serious hurt on your people.”
“My family is dead,” said Chogan, his words clipped and edged with pain.
“I know,” said Matt. “Fathers, sons, mothers, daughters senselessly snuffed out in this war. I also know that you’ve campaigned against them, too. Not too long ago, you chased them up the River of the Iroquois deep into Kanienke. The French helped you massacre them.”
“It was justice,” said Iroquet. “They have attacked us along our trade route for many years.”
“Yes,” said Matt. “I’m sure they thought their attacks were justice for other things that you’ve done.”
Iroquet bristled. “They lay claim to land that is not theirs.”
“A land dispute,” said Matt. “It’s all over a land dispute that so many die.”
“The land is our life,” said Iroquet.
“There’s plenty for everyone, except there won’t be soon.”
Iroquet grunted. “How will that happen? You have yet to prove that the treachery of the white man is more dangerous than the treachery of the dog meat.”
Proof? Matt rubbed his forehead. How can I give you proof?
“You think of the white man as traders,” he said, “and the French as allies. Didn’t they help you in your campaign against the Kanienkehaka? But they have their own agenda—both the French and the British. Wherever they go in the world, they set up their flags and they take whatever’s there—not just the riches of the land, but the land itself.”
“I do not see them taking land,” said Iroquet. “They have but one small fort.”
“There will be others,” said Matt. “And settlers. The English will fight against the French. The English will win that fight and the settlers will keep flooding in and taking more land. Champlain has dealt with you honourably, but those that follow won’t. They’ll squeeze you out of your land little by little. Eventually they’ll outnumber you.”
Sarah elbowed Matt. “You can’t tell them this, Matt,” she whispered. “You’re changing history.”
Matt tipped his head towards her and lowered his voice. “Sometimes we can’t let things keep going the way they are. If just one person would step in and try to help, everything can change. You taught me that, Sarah.” He squeezed her hand and continued his disclosure.
“The white men will deceive you. They’ll lie about the agreements you make and will trick you into signing papers that will give them ownership of your land. They’ll bring their diseases and make you sick. More of you will die from their sicknesses than in any war you can imagine.”
Iroquet’s face creased into a network of wrinkles. “How do you know this—what will happen? No one knows what will happen.”
Matt glanced at Sarah, whose tan cheeks were pale, and took another breath. “We come from the other side.”
“The other side of where?” asked Iroquet.
“Not where,” said Matt. “When. The other side of time. Where the forests are disappearing and the Algonquin almost gone.”
Iroquet laughed. “You are a good liar.”
“I know that,” Matt said. “But this time I’m not lying.” He stood abruptly, and strode out of the wigwam. Iroquet was quick to follow, his knife drawn. “Here,” said Matt, “is a massive structure made of brick and mortar, totally different from wood and bark.”
Champlain, who’d been hovering near the wigwam, jumped back in surprise when Matt walked out. Iroquet glared at the Frenchman, but he followed Matt and listened attentively.
“This is where they run the nation of the white man. Over there,” he pointed to the outskirts of the camp, “is a manmade river that brings boats down to the larger river over the cliff, through a system of artificial pools called locks.” Matt smiled at Sarah, who was ashen by now.
“All around us are stone buildings that stretch up to the sky. Across the river, where there’s only forest now, more of these huge structures cover the land and destroy the trees. The air is barely breathable and the white men and women hurry everywhere in wagons made of metal, like the kettles you get from the French. There are very few Algonquin or Kanienkehaka left, but those few live in tiny reservations. The bear and moose, even the beaver, are getting scarce. The fish are poisoned, so when your people eat them they get sick. There’s nothing left of this.” Matt spread out his arms. “All because you’re about to let the white man take over your land. All because you keep fighting each other instead of uniting and taking steps to preserve what’s rightfully yours.” He swung a glance at Champlain.
The Frenchman glowered at Matt. “We are only here for trade. It is the English you must be wary of,” he said to Iroquet.
Iroquet, who was stretching his gaze over the land, ignored the Frenchman. His brows were gathered inward, nearly meeting in the middle. His mouth kept twisting in what Matt hoped was horror.
Chogan stepped between them and addressed his uncle. “This story seems more incredible than the story of the great flood.”
“The great flood was true,” said Champlain. He was getting tired of being ignored.
Iroquet rolled his eyes as he continued to gaze into the distance. After a long silence—one in which Matt’s hopes soared—he said, “No, it is not possible.”
Matt sagged. He thought he was getting through to the man. Especially when he’d reacted so contemptuously to Champlain’s protests. But maybe there was still a chance. He remembered in history class, before he’d nodded off, how Mr. Fletcher had mentioned that the Algonquin didn’t trust the French enough to let Étienne Brûlé live with them. “Think about alliances. Do you trust the white man completely?”
Iroquet scratched his head and considered Champlain. He didn’t answer.
“If you do, why didn’t you let the young Frenchman live with you?”
Iroquet bristled. He looked Matt straight in the eye, and Matt knew he’d struck a chord. “But you think
I can trust the dog meat?”
“Yes,” said Matt. “I have Segoleh’s oath.”
“What about my family’s deaths?” said Chogan. “How can there be peace between us? The dog meat will sneak in and destroy us completely.”
“They’ve stopped the raids. They could have attacked, but they didn’t,” said Matt.
Iroquet tapped his lips. “What must I do?”
“Meet with Segoleh under a flag of truce.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a sign saying that you promise not to carve out each others’ hearts while you talk. You’ll smoke a peace pipe. You’ll listen to each other. If you can’t come to an agreement, you’ll go back to your own camp and then make war. But you can’t attack each other while you’re talking.”
Iroquet paused again, his eyes narrowing and then widening, as if possibilities were flickering through his mind. Matt held his breath.
“We will do this,” he said.
“But this is crazy,” said Chogan. “You cannot believe them.”
Iroquet threw up his hands. “Aren’t these your friends?”
“I don’t know them anymore,” said Chogan. “I never should have shot that bear.”
“Chogan,” squeaked Sarah. “How can you say that?”
Chogan faced her, his eyes brimming with tears. “How can you come from beyond? It is ridiculous. You are many things—the bravest of females I have ever seen—but you are not a spirit. You are real.” He gripped her arms. “I trusted you, but you are betraying me if you follow Matt—if you will not let me avenge my parents. Wouldn’t you do the same if you lost your family?”
“They might already be lost,” said Sarah, tears falling freely. “Because of Matt. But I trust him. I have to. He’s trying to save your life. Don’t you see? I don’t mean just your life, but your people’s very existence and their freedom. Isn’t that more important than revenge?”
Chogan sank to the ground. Sarah sank with him. She held his hands and looked into his eyes. “Your uncle is willing to try, to try to believe—”
He bent his head and began to cry. She put her arms around him.
Matt looked at them both with a shiver of uncertainty. Maybe he shouldn’t have interfered. “Sarah,” he said. “I had to give it a shot.”
“I know,” she replied. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Who would think that two kids could wield so much power? It’s scary. We may be able to change things, but should we? What else will we change by doing this? If there’s no Canada and no United States, who will win the war against the Nazis? What other catastrophes have you set in motion? And what if we don’t even exist anymore? What if we weren’t born?”
“I might not have changed anything in our own world,” said Matt. “Remember, we could be in a different universe. It might only affect this one.”
Sarah looked doubtful. “I don’t know. It seems that both histories are pretty well identical.”
“It won’t matter if there’s no peace anyway. I probably didn’t change a thing.” But Matt knew he was wrong when Iroquet turned to him.
“I will speak to Segoleh.”
Champlain couldn’t take any more of this. He interposed himself between Matt and Iroquet. “This is preposterous. You believe this filthy lad has come from the future. No one can do this. He is telling lies to deceive you, and you will be slaughtered. The English are unprincipled tricksters. Believe me, I know.”
“Believe me,” said Iroquet. “Everyone says ‘believe me.’ So I will station my men along the river. At one sign of treachery I will unleash my arrows on the heads of the dog meat. And you will assemble your men alongside mine with your guns ready to fire. But no one will let one arrow—” he paused and stuck his face directly in front of Champlain, “—or one bullet fly, without my signal.”
Champlain stepped back, his hands strangling his gun. He was clearly not comfortable taking orders from a native. But to oppose this man was to break their fragile alliance. He nodded grimly.
Iroquet turned back to Matt. He said, “Let us speak with the dog meat.”
“Very good,” said Matt. “But might I suggest that you call them by their preferred name—Kanienkehaka. They didn’t like me calling them cannibals—Mohawk—either.”
Iroquet shrugged. “They are what they are.”
“All right,” said Matt. “Just don’t get upset when they call you bear dung.”
Iroquet pursed his lips. He was trying to hide it, but Matt caught the flicker of a grin.