Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 24: The St. Lawrence River
Trois‑Rivières, New France, 1655
The St. Lawrence river is a lifeline for the new French settlements of Quebec, Trois-Rivières and Montreal, struggling to survive along its northern bank. Frontier life is harsh and cruel, but many consider the profits to be made from the fur trade to be worth the hardship. Misunderstandings and bloodshed between the new arrivals and indigenous tribes are common, but for now, an uneasy truce exists between the French trappers and the Algonquian speaking tribes. Meanwhile, unaware of the true value and secrets of the Maristela Bracelet, a merchant travels from France to Quebec, with the bracelet among his collection of trinkets. There he trades it for some furs.
The river mist clings to the wooden palisades of Trois‑Rivières like breath on cold glass. Dawn has barely broken, yet the settlement is already stirring. Its habitants hauling water, the Jesuit missionaries murmuring prayers, Algonquian traders stepping lightly through the frost‑hardened earth. This place is a hinge between two worlds, and every morning feels like a negotiation.
A canoe glides toward the landing. Inside it sits Pierre Lavigne, a French merchant with broad‑shoulders and wind-burned skin, smelling of salt and damp wool. He has travelled upriver from Quebec with trade goods wrapped in oilcloth: a collection of iron tools, dyed cloth, beads, and one small velvet pouch he guards more carefully than the rest.
Agnès‑Waban Ahoté waits for him. They have been friends and occasional lovers for years, but neither seeks a long-term relationship. Agnès stands at the edge of the landing, her arms folded and her long braids wrapped in leather. She draws her wool mantle tight against the cold. Her posture is calm, but her dark eyes are sharp and watchful. They miss nothing. She is a métisse, a 22 year old mixed-blood daughter of two worlds, trusted by neither, but needed by both. Her French father was a trapper, one of the first Europeans to venture as far upstream as Trois-Rivières. He was killed in a senseless fight over beaver pelts. Her mother was Abenaki, one of the Algonquian tribes. After living in Trois Rivières for a decade, her mother returned to her village as soon as Agnès was old enough to look after herself. She died of disease last winter.
Pierre steps ashore and greets her with a hug and a weary smile. “Agnès. I need your silver tongue again.”
She lifts her chin. “Who are you speaking with?”
“Algonquian hunters. They’re angry about French traps near their winter grounds.” He lowers his voice. “I need safe passage. Or at least a truce long enough to trade.”
Agnès nods. She has done this scores of times before. She’s translated threats into softer words, softened insults into neutral phrases, carried fragile trust across a widening cultural gulf.
Pierre rummages through his pack. “Payment, as usual.”
He proffers cloth, beads, and a small knife. Agnès shakes her head. “I have enough of those.”
Pierre hesitates, then opens the velvet pouch. Inside lies the Maristela Bracelet, its gold warm as firelight, while its stones glint like river ice. It looks impossibly out of place in this rough settlement of timber and smoke. Agnès inhales sharply.
Pierre notices. “You like it?”
“It reminds me...” Her voice softens. “My mother wore the French jewellery my father gave her before she died.”
Pierre shrugs. “Take it as a token of our friendship.”
Agnès reaches out, fingers trembling slightly, and closes her hand around the bracelet. She doesn’t know what she is accepting. Not yet.
That night, the settlement sleeps under a blanket of cold air. Winter isn’t far away. The river is a dark ribbon, the forest a wall of shadow. Agnès sits alone in her small cabin listening to the wind rattle the shutters.
She turns the bracelet in her hands. She thinks of her mother’s face, a memory half remembered, half imagined. She thinks of the French settlers who call Agnès a savage, some to her face, but many more behind closed doors. She thinks of the Algonquian elders who call her French and treat her as an interloper in their villages. She thinks of belonging, and not belonging, and the ache of living between two opposing worlds.
Loneliness presses against her ribs. She slips the bracelet onto her wrist. The gold warms instantly. A soft breath of air moves through the cabin like a sigh. Agnès freezes. The shadows shift. And then I am there in my ghostly ethereal form of Jeannia-that-was, dressed in the same soiled linen shift I wore all those years ago in the Burgalimar castle dungeon.
Agnès gasps, stumbling back, hand flying to the knife at her belt.
“Who ... what...?”
I raise my hands gently. “I am not here to harm you.”
Her breath comes fast, sharp. “You’re a spirit.”
“A companion,” I say softly. “Bound to the bracelet. Called by you when you touched the gems embedded into its band.”
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