“He is afraid of the old war-captain. He is a-”
Strong-Arm held up his hand and the younger chief halted, as if unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Do not let that arrow fly, Born-Under-Moon. If you believe-as I do-that we should go to war with the servants of the Onontio, then making war with the eldest and wisest is not the correct course. It gains you nothing, and it loses you the friendship of many in the Council.
“Including me.”
Born-Under-Moon looked as if he did not understand Strong-Arm’s reasoning: but he had already spoken of the other man’s bravery, and could hardly reverse himself.
“There are many reasons we should take this course,” Strong-Arm said. “If you are ready to listen, friend,” he continued, “I shall tell them to you.”
4
On Monday, the fifth of October, Samuel de Champlain rose and prayed as he had always done. After a brief and spare meal he dressed and went for a walk in the settlement of Quebec. He remained in plain sight.
He was waiting for the congestion cerebrale.
The day passed without event. Night came, and still nothing. When the sun went down he returned to his habitation, partly relieved and partly disappointed. He did not want the stroke, but knowing that it was coming he felt that he had made his peace and was ready for it to come.
On the next day he rose and did the same.
And the next day after that.
On the fourth day, Father Lalemant fell into step beside him as he walked along one of Quebec’s muddy streets. Lalemant was a young man, spare, almost gaunt-it had been clear to Champlain from the time he met the Jesuit Father that Lalemant had been very attentive to his spiritual exercises.
He kept up with Champlain’s long, steady strides.
“Father?”
“Monsieur,” the Jesuit said. “You are troubled,” he added a few steps later.
“Do I look troubled, Father?”
“To be honest, monsieur, you do. I think-” they both stepped around a small pile of refuse-“I think there’s something bothering you. As your confessor, I feel it my duty to ask you what it might be.”
“You are an acute observer of mankind, Father.”
“That remark neither confirms nor denies my observation.”
Champlain stopped suddenly; Lalemant took two more steps and had to turn around.
“I have many things that trouble me, not least that my spies tell me that the Iroquois-particularly the Mohawk-have gone on a war footing. But I sense that you mean something else. What is more-” he lowered his voice. “What is more,” he added softly, “this is not the confessional. I do not wish to discuss personal matters in the middle of the street.”
“That is just as well,” Lalemant answered. “You aren’t saying anything in the confessional these days.”
Champlain’s years of training and experience as a leader had given him the ability to stare down native sachems, grands seignieurs, and, when necessary, Jesuit priests.
Particularly young ones.
“I beg your pardon,” Lalemant said, but to his credit, stood his ground.
“You have a certain right to pry, Father,” Champlain said after a moment. “But there are limits.”
They began to walk again. Champlain began to make his way back to his own house.
Champlain spoke first. “I am expecting something to happen,” he said at last, without looking at the young Jesuit. “I have received…a message.”
As they sat in the study of Champlain’s habitation, Lalemant turned the thin sheet over in his hands, marveling at it. “This is amazing, monsieur.”
“I was alarmed myself.”
“No,” Lalemant said. “I meant-the quality of the paper.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Champlain said, snatching it out of the Jesuit father’s hands. He waved it at Lalemant. “I was referring to the contents. This is a reproduction. A…what was the word that the cardinal used? ‘Photocopier.’ A machine picture, some magic the up-timers can perform.”
“It’s about you.”
“Yes, I know. I can read. It tells me when I am to die-and how.”
“Thank you, monsieur. I, too, can read. This paper says that you are to suffer some sort of attack, sometime this month.” A look of understanding came onto his face. “This explains much,” he said.
“I am waiting for this to happen. Indeed, I expected it to have already happened-and yet I still live. And walk, and speak.”
“Perhaps you miscalculated. And perhaps-”
“Yes?”
“It is possible,” Lalemant said carefully, “that it may not happen at all. This paper, this book, speaks of a malady and the death of a man named Champlain-but it may not be you.”
“I fail to understand. It describes Samuel de Champlain, born in Brouage 1567…‘French explorer, acknowledged founder of the city of Quebec 1608, and consolidator of the French colonies in the New World. He discovered the lake that bears his name in 1609…’ Unless I am mistaken, Father Lalemant, that man sits before you.”
“Monsieur,” Lalemant said, “in some Eastern philosophies, they say that when a man steps into a river, both the man and the river are forever changed. Four years ago, the Grantvillieurs came back in time to the Germanies, and from that moment onward, the world was changed. In large ways…and small.”
“There are no Americains here. I do not think that there are any Germans or any Swedes or…but how could they change anything here?
“I have never met an up-timer. No-no, wait. In Paris I was once introduced, in passing I confess, to a man named Lefferts. He seemed to know my name. But I fail to understand-are you saying that meeting him changed my future?”
“No, no,” Lalemant said, shaking his head. “It has nothing to do with this one up-timer you met. In fact, it probably does not matter if you met him or not.
“As soon as the Americains came into our present time, things began to change. Things completely unrelated to actions and reactions. The up-timers even have a term for it: les ailes du papillon. The wings of the butterfly-also known as the ‘butterfly effect.’ ”
“And thus…”
“And thus, monsieur, renowned explorer, founder of the city of Quebec, et cetera, it may be that in this world, at this time, God the Father does not ordain that you should die.”
Champlain sat back in his chair, contemplating.
“Who else knows of this… photocopier?”
“I have shown it to no one else. But there is someone else who knows of its contents, though I am not sure how. I presume that he saw the book of the Americains.”
“Who is that?”
“The Dutch trader. Bogaert.”
“Oh,” Lalemant said. “ That one. A strange fellow. There is something-something about him that bothers me.”
“I admit I don’t much like him either. He spoke to me privately and asked me if I was feeling well.”
Lalemant began to respond, then stopped and looked thoughtful. “Bogaert trades with the Iroquois, monsieur.”
“He seemed surprised that I was hale and active,” Champlain said. “I dismissed it at the time, but…do you think he has traded this with the Iroquois, Father?”
“I am inclined to use William of Ockham’s principle of economy when examining events,” the Jesuit answered. “The Iroquois Nations have remained peaceful even through the time when the English occupied Quebec-indeed, they have caused little trouble to New France during your entire time here. Why? They fear and respect you, monsieur.”
“They fear and respect the musket and the arquebus, Father.”
“The gun is only as good as the hands that hold it. It is you whom they fear. If they believed you were dead…”
“They might go to war.”
“Indeed they might. Perhaps you should have words with Monsieur Bogaert.”
Champlain slapped the arm of his chair, and uttered a word one does not normally speak in front of Jesuits. “I believe he has gone upriver, perhaps to trade with the Hurons. He is no longer in Quebec, in any case.”