Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 26: A Harsh Winter
Trois‑Rivières, New France, February 1656
The uneasy peace lasts through the early part of the long winter. The snow hinders travel, and Iroquois raids become fewer. The tension between the French settlers and the Algonquian simmers under the surface. The compromise negotiated with Agnès’s help pleases nobody, but is tolerated and respected by most. Winter may muffle the sounds of the forests, but it doesn’t quell the fear.
Agnès summons me when she is lonely. She often requires me to adopt a corporeal form, more for her comfort than any specific need. She has a strong natural alignment to the Realms of Earth, Heavens and Soul, so there is little drain on her spirit magic from summoning me into a solid body. I adopt the appearance of a young Abenaki woman, drawing on her memories of her childhood friend who died from one of the many diseases French immigrants bring to these lands. Although my freedom of movement is limited to carrying out Agnès’s desires, I appreciate the chance to occupy a solid body, even for a short time.
With freedom, no matter how limited, comes a risk. In a corporeal form I am vulnerable to injury and death like any other living being. The bracelet allows me a small amount of self-preservation magic of my own while I am carrying out a mission for Agnès. I can influence a mind, or magically move a small object, but only if I focus on the person or object. If I am taken by surprise, then I am at risk. But it’s a risk that I willingly embrace.
I’m sat with Agnès as dusk approaches when we hear shouting. We both move towards the palisade, drawn by French voices sharp with panic, and Algonquian voices, tight with anger. The crackle of torches cuts through the darkening sky. Smoke rises from the direction of a farmstead north of the settlement, a thin black column twisting into the dark grey sky. An accident or an Iroquois raid? Agnès’s breath catches as she follows the group of men running to investigate.
The farmstead is half‑burned and its roof has collapsed. The fence beyond is splintered. The French soldiers stand in the churned snow, muskets raised, their faces pale. Two bodies lie near the barn, one French, one Iroquois. Blood stains the snow in dark patches.
Agnès stops at the edge of the clearing, heart pounding. A French soldier sees her and shouts, “They ambushed us! Treacherous devils!”
Another spits into the snow. “We should burn every native camp from here to the river.”
Agnès’s stomach twists. At times like these, the French settlers are all too quick to place blame on all indigenous tribes, including their allies among the Algonquian tribes. The patience of the Abenaki and Nipissing have been sorely tested in their tolerance of French settlement on their ancestral lands. She turns toward the forest, where Algonquian hunters gather in tense silence. Their leader, Wàbik, steps forward, eyes burning.
“This is French arrogance,” he says to Agnès. “They provoked the Iroquois. They always provoke.”
Agnès lifts her hands. “Please ... listen...”
But neither side wants to listen. The French soldiers shout over her. The Algonquian hunters shout back. The air crackles with fury. Agnès moves between them, her voice rising.
“Stop! Stop!”
But they are too enraged to listen. She tries again, louder. “This was a scouting party, not a war band! The Iroquois did not come to attack the settlement!”
A soldier snarls, “How would you know? You speak the Iroquois tongue too?”
Wàbik snaps, “She speaks truth. You French never listen.”
The argument spirals. Accusations fly, reinforced by insults and threats. Agnès feels the moment slipping away, like a rope fraying in her hands.
“Help me, Jeannia,” she says.
I move beside her. In my guise as an Abenaki young woman, I’m seen by everyone but generally ignored. Both sides look to Agnès to translate their words.
“Agnès,” I whisper. “You cannot stop every storm.”
Her breath trembles. She knows I’m right. She knows that this clash was inevitable after months of tension. Fear feeding fear, pride feeding pride, the fight over territory and hunting rights pressing on every border like a tightening noose. But she still tries. She steps forward, voice steady despite the shaking in her chest.
“No one wins if this continues,” she says. “Not the French. Not the Algonquian. Not the Iroquois. Only those who come later and walk over your graves will win.”
The clearing falls silent. Not peaceful, just silent. The soldiers lower their muskets. The hunters lower their bows. The fire crackles in the ruined barn. Agnès’s shoulders sag. She couldn’t prevent the initial violence, but she has prevented more.
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