Hello! Here is a new chapter!
I hope you will enjoy it! It's a heavy one!
Thank you Porthos10, DaoistjuhIup, Barbebelle, Mium, AlexZero12, A_Revolving_Door, Galan_05, Ic2096, Elios_Kari, KanKarp, bepoed, Black_Wolf_4935, Bellnconnue, Neatsterino, and DaoistsoZu8Y for your support!
PS: I had a thought last week while watching the trailer for the new Jumanji movie on YouTube: it is so different from the first one, with Robin Williams, that I see them as two fun adventures that happen to share the name Jumanji, rather than as a continuation of the original movie.
So I started wondering: if Welcome to the Jungle had been made with the same serious, sometimes dark tone as the first movie, would it have been a success? And if so, would you be interested in a fanfiction someday?
Writing a fanfiction is a difficult exercise because you have to respect what already exists. Apart from this story, I have only thought about writing a Star Wars fanfiction, to reimagine the sequel trilogy, which I disliked for many reasons. I never wrote it, though, because I found several rewrites on YouTube, some of which were really good, in my opinion.
What do you think? Please let me know in the comments!
See you soon!
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The air was heavy.
This was especially true as they drew closer to the matriarch's longhouse.
The village was very quiet. Even the dogs, usually quick to bark whenever someone came a little too close to their territory, remained obediently lying down. It was as though even the wind barely dared to stir the leaves and blades of grass.
Mohawks—men, women, and children—entered the longhouse one after another, their arms laden with gifts, sometimes food. They remained inside for only a few minutes before coming back out to make room for the next visitors.
The elder women of the village made sure that nothing and no one disturbed the matriarch during her final moments. It was they, rather than Akwiratheka, who had sent Ratonhnhaké:ton to Montrouge to warn Onatah and her husband.
They had also sent someone to Québec to warn their warriors who were there for an important rugby competition, especially the matriarch's nephews, Kahiones and Tayohseron.
Likewise, they had sent messengers to the nearby villages so that the entire clan would be informed of the imminent death of the last daughter of the former chief, Hendrick Theyanoguin.
Unfortunately, it was highly unlikely that Kahiones and Tayohseron would arrive in time to say goodbye to their aunt. According to the healer, it was now a matter of hours rather than days.
François felt his wife's hand tighten around his. She was trembling and doing everything she could to hide it.
From the corner of his eye, he watched her profile. She looked so brave.
But he knew the truth.
They stopped a few meters from the western entrance of the longhouse. It was through this door that, when the time came, the matriarch would leave her home to be taken to her burial place.
The previous visitor, a warrior from the same generation as Chief Akwiratheka, emerged from the imposing building, lowering his head to avoid a series of protective talismans and amulets hanging from colorful cords.
They exchanged a brief greeting, but not a single unnecessary word, as though saying anything more might somehow hasten the matriarch's departure.
It was their turn.
Onatah tensed even more and squeezed François's hand tighter.
"Let's go," he whispered softly beside his wife's ear.
She did not answer.
Finally, they entered, taking great care not to bump into anything or touch anything.
The air inside was denser than outside, and faintly scented. François recognized the smell of several medicinal plants.
The matriarch lay there with her eyes closed, as usual, utterly still. She seemed so old.
François felt his heart tighten.
Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he quickly fought them back.
Then a long wheezing sound escaped the matriarch's chest. She stirred gently.
She had dozed off and was waking up. Her head turned slightly toward the two visitors, then her dry lips parted with difficulty.
"Who is there?"
Her voice was barely audible.
Before François or Onatah could answer, an elder woman addressed the matriarch in a gentle, respectful voice.
"Matriarch, it is Onatah and her husband. They have come to see you."
The old woman seemed to search her memory for something. It was only after a few seconds that she remembered everything.
"Onatah… yes. My dear niece… Beautiful like her mother… and stubborn like her father."
Even on the threshold of death, she still seemed capable of making a joke.
"And… François. Yes. That is good…"
A faint smile stretched across her cracked lips.
Someone brought her something to drink, and she could barely swallow a sip of fresh water.
"As you can see, children, they are… taking very good care of me. The elder women… have prepared everything."
François discreetly looked at the few women surrounding the matriarch. Their role was to make sure she lacked nothing and to carry out her final instructions.
One of them, quite small and with a face at least as wrinkled as the matriarch's, bowed slightly.
"We have prepared the matriarch's finest clothes, as well as the jewelry and personal belongings that will accompany her into the Sky World."
François nodded almost imperceptibly. By now, he was quite familiar with their beliefs.
For the Haudenosaunee, as for Christians, death was not an end but a passage. However, after that stage, there was not really a heaven or hell.
The soul of the deceased would remain among the living for ten days, after which it would be released. It could then enter the spirit world and join the ancestors.
François knew, however, that the reality was more complicated.
Another life probably awaited every soul. The only unknown was this: where and when would it be reborn?
"I haven't seen my father," Onatah said with difficulty, interrupting her husband's thoughts. "Isn't he in the village?"
"No," another elder replied calmly. "But he isn't far away. He is preparing the burial place."
François's mouth fell open in astonishment. Even after all these years, he was still discovering things about Iroquois society.
Indeed, he had not expected them to speak so openly, here and now, about the matriarch's grave while she was not yet dead. But no one seemed shocked, so he remained silent.
"I see," Onatah said in a tiny voice.
She turned toward her aunt, who had raised her head as though looking at the ceiling.
"Matriarch, can you hear me clearly?"
"Yes, my child. I can hear you."
"Are you… in pain?"
The matriarch did not answer immediately.
"No, it is all right. I feel… well. A little… tired, that is all."
François could hear Onatah swallow with difficulty. Holding back her sobs seemed increasingly difficult as well.
Without him knowing how, the matriarch noticed and spoke softly:
"It is all right, my dear. I am not afraid. This is part of life… No one can escape it."
She smiled.
"I have had a good and long life. I have no regrets. Heh… hehehe, I even got to hold my little grand-nephews in my arms."
A single tear finally rolled down Onatah's warm cheek.
"Matriarch…"
"I have… given my instructions for the village. And I have named my successor."
Onatah and François turned toward the matriarch's apprentice, so inconspicuous in her corner that they had not noticed her presence until then. She was sitting perfectly still, her face frozen, her features marked by grief.
Although she had been trained for years to one day assume the matriarch's many responsibilities, she now seemed to doubt everything.
If she had not been nervously fingering a small wampum bead necklace, she might have been mistaken for a statue.
"Onatah…"
"Y-yes!"
"I have… an important task to entrust to you. And a difficult one."
Gulp!
"Take good care of your brothers… Make sure they do not quarrel after I am gone. And my brother… you know how stubborn he is. If he does not listen to the advice people give him… scold him for me."
More tears began to stream down her cheeks.
"I will," she managed to say despite her tears.
The old matriarch nodded once, for she was no longer capable of doing more.
"Brave little one. Know that… I am very proud of you."
With difficulty, she turned her head toward Onatah and gave what looked like a smile.
"I would like to give you something… My earrings. You loved playing with them… when you were little."
Onatah could not help but smile as she remembered something she had once been told.
As a baby, she had pulled on everything that dangled. Hair, necklaces, the old chief's neck—he had truly regarded her as his granddaughter long before Akwiratheka's adoption—and the matriarch's earrings. One day, she had hurt her badly by pulling a little too hard on one of them.
Onatah bowed very low and thanked her aunt.
"Ah… Yes, one more thing."
"Yes?"
Onatah straightened and noticed that the matriarch had managed to open her eyes and look at her, though they were barely open.
She felt her heart skip a beat.
"I know… that losing a child is painful… but do not let that event deprive you of the happiness you might find in holding other children in your arms. Have many, and watch them grow."
Onatah's eyes widened in surprise, then she began to blush furiously until she was as red as a beet.
It had been more than a year since she and her husband had been intimate. During the final third of her pregnancy, François had occasionally caressed her, but they had done nothing more. He had merely touched her rounded belly, her buttocks, and her breasts. Going any further had seemed impossible to him, knowing that a little life was growing inside her.
And afterward… there had been Angélique's death.
Even though it had happened in December and August was gradually approaching, the tragedy was still too fresh in their minds. Whatever desire they might have felt for one another quickly faded.
It was only recently that François had begun touching her again.
Hearing the matriarch's words, he blushed as well and quickly lowered his eyes, as though he might find an answer to all his questions on the floor. This made the old women in the longhouse chuckle softly.
The conversation remained light until the end, and strangely enough, François was almost forgotten, despite the fact that the matriarch had specifically asked for him to be there. Only at the very end did the old Iroquois woman ask them to leave her alone with François for a few moments so that they could speak privately.
The elder women were not particularly pleased, but even while dying, the matriarch retained all her authority. Even the woman who would become the next matriarch left the room and waited outside.
Silence fell over the longhouse.
"Is… everyone out?" the matriarch finally asked.
"Yes," François replied simply, his face serious.
He had an idea of what subject she wanted to broach now. Yet he found it strange that she had asked to be alone with him. Onatah knew his secret. She even knew things about his former life that François had never confided in anyone else. Excluding her from the conversation seemed excessive to him.
But the old woman undoubtedly had her reasons.
"Good…" she whispered.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Her breathing had become slow.
"I can feel… that I don't have much time left. Speaking is becoming difficult. Staying awake, too. And soon… even breathing will require too much effort."
François said nothing. What could he say?
He watched her struggle, unable to tear his eyes away from the face he had known for so many years.
"So I want to use what little strength I have left to speak honestly with you, François. One last time."
"What do you wish to talk about, Matriarch?"
A brief silence followed.
"What is going to happen. Because I am worried. Not for myself, because I accepted my death a long time ago. I know a new life is waiting for me somewhere. I don't know where… or when… but it is waiting for me. Thanks to you, I know that."
A faint smile appeared on her time-worn face.
"I only hope I find a good family. I have never lacked love in this one."
François's lips trembled almost imperceptibly. He lowered his eyes.
"No," she continued after a few seconds. "If I am worried… it is for the safety of my people, of this village, of my clan, and of the entire Confederacy."
The young man felt his heart tighten. Slowly, he raised his head.
Even now, even though she might be gone within the hour, the Matriarch was thinking of others.
"Tell me, my boy…"
She stopped again to catch her breath.
"Do you think we have managed to leave the path you described to me so many times since the Spirits placed you in our path? The one that was supposed to lead either to our submission, our displacement, or our disappearance beneath the rule of the British colonists."
The Matriarch closed her eyes. She waited, motionless, for François's answer. Only her emaciated hands moved, trembling as they clutched the colored cloth spread across her legs.
François did not answer immediately.
Despite all the hours he had spent thinking about it, he could not be certain of anything.
"It is impossible to know for certain, Matriarch," he finally said cautiously. "I cannot see the future. But I believe we are on the right path. The Haudenosaunee and the French have been friends for several years now, even if we have not fought side by side, and I do not think our two peoples were ever this close in the timeline I came from."
He paused briefly, trying to put his thoughts in order.
"You know, I have thought about it often since the end of the war. Not every day, but regularly. And I wonder what has changed. I have lived in this era for so long now. Every time, I have to dig through my memories to recover information. Sometimes it comes back on its own, but very often… it is more difficult."
François frowned.
"I think… history has already changed. I cannot say by how much, but it has certainly changed. Take Boston and the surrounding region, for example. I believe they were never supposed to remain in our hands. I'm not even sure the city was supposed to be destroyed during the war."
The Matriarch remained silent for so long that François briefly wondered whether she had fallen asleep while he was speaking.
He leaned forward and started when her voice suddenly broke the silence again.
"What makes you think that?"
The young man cleared his throat, straightened, and briefly closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath and tried to picture his old living room, the furniture he had not seen in fourteen years, and, behind the screen of his large television, images moving rapidly.
"In my old life, there was a game. A game that told a story about a brave warrior, very agile… and very dangerous as well, who lived in the British colonies."
The images gradually became clearer in his mind. A figure leaping from rooftop to rooftop, then jumping onto a column of enemy soldiers and slaughtering them within seconds.
"For us, the players, it was an age that had ended long ago, centuries in the past. That was precisely what made the game so interesting and popular. But for us… its story takes place during the war that is about to begin."
"The war that is about to begin," the Matriarch repeated. "You mean the one between the colonists and the British army."
François slowly nodded.
"Yes."
He thought back to what he had seen and heard in New York, and his expression hardened slightly.
"I remember very little of the exact story, and even less of the characters and dates, but I think what was told in that game will not be too far removed from what is going to happen."
His voice grew quieter.
"I was just a stupid kid back then. A kid who paid attention to nothing. I thought the past was not worth studying because it belonged to the past. I didn't realize how important it was, that it was part of who I was… and I certainly never imagined that all that information would one day be useful to me."
He opened his eyes again.
"But I remember one thing about that game. Boston was there, and it was not a ruin. And it was not French."
The Matriarch sighed.
"A game…"
François heard the disappointment in her voice. He could only lower his head, a deep sense of guilt weighing on his heart.
"It is the only clue I have. I'm sorry, Matriarch."
"It is not your fault, my boy. You didn't know. And… who has never been wrong?"
She turned her head slightly toward him.
"Ah… Then, if history has not changed enough to prevent this war, its course could determine everything that follows."
Her tone hardened.
"Tell me, my boy. Now that I am standing at death's door, what have you seen in the British colonies?"
François grimaced.
The Matriarch did not know the details of his mission, but she knew that he had spent several months infiltrating the British colonies. Naturally, he was not supposed to discuss his little adventure with anyone.
But she was indeed standing at death's door. Telling her now could do no harm.
Little by little, François felt his hesitation melt away like snow in the sun. Then he spoke, holding nothing back about his opinions.
"There will be a civil war. That is a certainty now. The governor knows it. Marshal de Contades knows it. Even Versailles knows it. The only real uncertainty is when things will finally tip over. The colonists' anger is immense, and it no longer concerns merchants alone. It is spreading rapidly among the rest of the population. And some people who are actively seeking confrontation are working hard to keep that anger alive."
"And the authorities?"
The question was abrupt, but François immediately understood that the Matriarch was trying to conserve her strength.
"They are not all speaking with one voice. On the ground, they are trying to buy time. To calm people down despite their limited means. In London, I don't think they truly understand how serious the situation has become. Parliament can take measures, but none of them are capable of actually solving the underlying problems."
He sighed as he thought about the people he had encountered during his mission.
"And every mistake made by London is immediately exploited by those calling for greater autonomy."
The Matriarch remained silent, so François continued.
"Before last winter, Parliament sent regiments to the colonies. Officially, it was to preserve peace and protect His Majesty's subjects."
A bitter smile appeared on his lips.
"I am certain many colonists interpreted that gesture differently. They must feel even more as though they are living in an occupied territory. That those redcoats are there to silence them."
He slowly shook his head.
"And then there is still the question of taxes. Britain's economic situation remains disastrous despite the efforts that have been made. London is constantly in need of money, which pushes Parliament to create new taxes or increase existing ones. And since the colonies have no representatives in Parliament, every measure is perceived as yet another infringement upon their rights."
"I… understand," the old woman replied in a rasping voice. "But you haven't answered my question. If there is a confrontation, who will win? And above all… how will France react?"
François slowly shook his head.
"From what I saw in New York, even though many people are angry, they do not seem ready to take up arms."
"Why?"
"Because there is a difference between making speeches, distributing pamphlets, or confronting a patrol, and facing an army on a battlefield. Despite what happened during the last war, the redcoats still have a solid reputation."
His fingers tightened against his thighs.
"On the other side, there will only be farmers, craftsmen, merchants… perhaps some militiamen. They may certainly know how to shoot, but they will lack training, discipline, weapons, powder, food… Everything, in other words."
He emphasized each word.
"Without outside assistance, I believe the movement will be crushed very quickly."
The Matriarch thought for a moment.
"Outside assistance… from France, perhaps."
"Yes."
"I suppose… that is what is supposed to happen… since you told me that Britain lost that war."
Each word seemed more difficult for her to pronounce than the last. Forming a complete sentence exhausted her, and it showed.
"I think so too, Matriarch. And yet, from what I have been able to understand, His Majesty seems determined to remain neutral in the event of an uprising in the British colonies. My colonel told me about a declaration of French neutrality. Apparently, Spain has done the same."
The Matriarch opened her eyes and suddenly began coughing violently. The coughing caused terrible pain in her chest before spreading rapidly through the rest of her body. François rose and saw the old woman slowly raise a hand toward an earthenware jug.
"Water? Yes, right away!"
He filled a small wooden bowl and very carefully lifted the old woman's head to help her drink.
"Thank you. Ah… that feels… good. Even though it is… as exhausting as speaking."
She was now having great difficulty breathing. At that moment, she looked so fragile.
"So," she resumed after a long pause, "France and Spain would remain neutral… I find that very difficult to believe. France and Britain have hated each other for far too long. Ah… If I were in your king's place, I would certainly take advantage of the opportunity to weaken my enemy."
She coughed weakly once or twice.
"Even a dying old woman can understand that. Have… any official declarations been made?"
"Not that I know of. They are only rumors for now."
"Then we must treat them as such," she said firmly. "And even if it were true, nothing guarantees that this decision would last."
François could only nod.
"Indeed. That is politics. Kings change their minds when their interests change. If His Majesty decides that there is something to be gained by entering the war on the rebels' side, he certainly will. Of course, I hope he won't."
The Matriarch's breathing had returned to normal when she turned her head toward the French officer once more. She managed to open her eyes just enough to look at his face. He looked so different from the man he had been when he first walked through the gates of the village.
"You once told me about the Nation that was supposed to be born from that war."
"The United States of America."
"Yes."
She drew a slow breath.
"You told me… that their birth brought about many changes in France… A more equal society. A people with more power… and an elected leader."
The faintest hint of a smile appeared on her lips.
"A little like us."
François smiled in return.
"A little."
The Matriarch quickly became serious again.
"Aren't you afraid that none of this will ever happen?"
François's expression grew solemn as well. He remained silent for a moment.
Of course he was aware of it.
"Matriarch… I have been living here for fourteen years."
He wiped his damp palms against the white wool fabric of his breeches.
"Fourteen years. That is almost as long as the life I lived before my journey."
His gaze did not waver, and his voice remained firm.
"My life is here. I have a family, a wife, children, responsibilities, an estate. Friends, men who depend on me. People I love. I have built something."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"I am no longer the man I once was. Of course, I have not forgotten who I was. I have kept some of my ideas, but I have had to reconsider my position on several matters. It was necessary. So that I could fit in."
The Matriarch said nothing.
"What would I gain, apart from trouble, by clinging to ideas that I am the only one defending?"
He then imagined an absurd situation that made him smile.
"Imagine, for a moment, that this village had to choose a new chief and that everyone, absolutely everyone, wanted Tayohseron to take his father's place. Now imagine that I came along and did not merely propose another name, but an entirely different system. Would people not look at me strangely?"
The Matriarch remained silent.
"In France, the reaction would be even stronger. If I started openly talking about a republic, they would probably throw me in prison. And I can't say I find that prospect particularly appealing."
He absently massaged his thighs, which were beginning to go numb.
"But that is not the most important thing."
His voice grew more serious.
"I told you about the Revolution. About what is supposed to happen afterward. The chaos, the wars, the deaths… Even if the outcome is good, the process is not something I can accept. Not at all. Who would want a hundred years of chaos, of political systems being overturned and purges taking place?"
His gaze fell upon the gold wedding band on his right hand.
"I have to think about my family. It is in their interest for the established order to be preserved. That is why I did everything I could, in my reports, to convince Versailles not to intervene. We can simply let the British weaken themselves."
Since the Matriarch still showed no reaction, he concluded in a softer voice.
"However, I have not abandoned all my ideas. I truly want a fairer world. I want the gap between the nobility and the people, who sustain France through their hard work, to become smaller. And I do not think we need to go through a revolution to achieve that."
He looked up at the longhouse's ceiling, and a discreet, hopeful smile appeared on his face.
"People's attitudes are changing. Slowly, it is true, but they are changing. Young people already think differently from their parents, and their children will think differently again. I believe we are naturally moving toward the world I dream of. And I have no doubt that Europe's rulers, whether princes, kings, or emperors, will play an important role in that process, because they themselves are different from their predecessors."
His smile widened slightly.
"So no, I am not afraid."
He waited.
The Matriarch still showed no reaction.
François looked at her, lying perfectly still before him, and felt his heart tighten.
His smile disappeared, and he sprang to his feet.
"Matriarch?"
Nothing.
He leaned toward her and placed two fingers against her wrinkled neck.
One second.
Two seconds.
"H-ha…"
He felt something. A weak but present pulse. He could barely feel it, so violently was his own heart pounding in his chest. And he heard a faint wheezing sound.
He collapsed backward, relieved.
"She fell asleep…"
François suddenly felt like laughing.
He ran a damp, trembling hand over his face.
The officer remained there for a few seconds before carefully getting back to his feet. He left the longhouse without making a sound.
At the entrance, he found Onatah, the future Matriarch, and the elder women speaking quietly among themselves. They fell silent as soon as they saw him emerge.
"Are you finished?" one of them asked, barely concealing her impatience.
"In a way. The Matriarch fell asleep while we were talking. I gave her some water."
The women did not let him say anything more and went back inside. Onatah and François exchanged a glance, and she gently shook her head. She motioned for him to follow her.
They slowly walked away from the longhouse.
"What did you talk about?" she finally asked after they had passed the Peacemaker's stele.
"Many things," François replied vaguely.
She stared at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face.
"Is she afraid?"
He answered without hesitation.
"No."
Then, after a brief silence, he added:
"Not for herself. She is mostly worried about all of us."
Those words brought a sad smile to Onatah's face.
"She will never change."
Her hand searched for François's, and he took it.
"Until the very end, the Matriarch will remain the Matriarch."
François gently closed his fingers around his wife's. He turned and looked thoughtfully at the longhouse one last time, as though the building itself might disappear.
Then he turned away and continued on his way with Onatah.