Kitcisìpi, 1647 CE
Kassandra ran with the Compagnie des Cent-Associés for nearly twenty years before going rogue.
She'd seen too much. Done too much. She had tried, oh gods, but she had tried. Kassandra had once more journeyed across the Atlantic, to that so-called New World, in hopes of finding more about the Ancients and their artefacts, but she had failed in her endeavour, instead getting embroiled in the petty disputes erupting everywhere across the French and English colonies.
She had borne witness to the tense first exchanges between Jacques Cartier and the Innu people living at the confluence of the two great rivers, which the latter called Totouskak. She had lived among the Wapánahki who had settled across the narrower strait of the Saint Lawrence, hearing their stories of how they had been driven north of their beloved homeland—Ndakinna—by the English colonists. And Kassandra had fought against the Haudenosaunee Confederacy alongside her Anishinaabeg allies, a war made even more vicious by the involvement of the English and the French, which pitted one against the other.
And all of this over the right to hunt for beaver pelts, over the lucrative business of making hats for the perfumed elite of the Old Continent. Gods, but Kassandra would have gladly let the whole of the French and English colonies burn, if she could have.
One summer she had been sent westward in search of new trade routes to follow in the footsteps of the famous coureur des bois, Étienne Brûlé, whom she had accompanied nearly three decades earlier during his trip to the Grands Lacs—or the Nayanno-nibiimaang Gichigamiin, in the Anishinaabemowin tongue. Kassandra had felt an easy kinship with the French explorer; the man, having been raised among the Anishinaabeg, felt more at home in the wild expenses of Nouvelle-France than in the foul-smelling, overcrowded cities of the Old Continent. Kassandra was inclined to agree: the forests of the New World were lush and beautiful, revered as sacred treasures by the people living within their midst—and for good reasons. There was more peace to find in the stillness of the northern woodlands than in any Christian church, Kassandra often thought.
Within the staff, Aletheia warned her, you have a task to fulfil, a duty to uphold. For the first time in millennia, Kassandra ignored the spirit's admonishments. She went deeper into the woods, further than any French coureur had gone, into what would one day be called les Pays d'en haut. She would forget about all of this—the conflict between the French and the English, the endless war between Templars and Assassins, the cursed legacy of the Ancients and their relics. She would let it go as she should have done so many years—so many centuries ago. Aletheia kept reminding her, there is still much to accomplish, but why should Kassandra have paid her any heed? In time, the spirit learned to keep silent, and Kassandra disappeared from civilization, not hearing the voice of another living being for many, many years.
Then she stumbled upon Miigwaans in the quiet solitude of the woods.
The young huntress had stilled at the sight of Kassandra, her bow drawn and ready. If she had released the arrow, it would have found its way right between Kassandra's eyes, of this the latter was certain. The young woman—girl, really—instead tilted her head to the side, inspecting her quarry carefully. Kassandra raised her hands, saying in the Anishinaabemowin language, "Easy… I am not your foe."
"And yet you are trespassing," the young woman answered, her voice betraying no hint of fear.
"My apologies," Kassandra replied. "I did not know that people lived here."
The huntress quirked a brow. To Kassandra's relief, she lowered her bow. "You're not the first foreigner to give that sorry excuse," she said, the hint of a smile playing alongside her lips. "You speak our tongue strangely."
"I was taught your language by the people who live further west, near the Great Lakes."
"Our sister tribes of the Council of Three Fires, eh? No wonder you have such a peculiar accent." The young woman then motioned at Kassandra's own bow with her chin. "You hunt as well, stranger?"
"I do."
"I didn't know French women could hunt." There was an impish glint in those dark eyes. Oh, gods, Kassandra thought, heart clenching in a painfully familiar way. Not this, not again…
"I am not French," Kassandra said. She hadn't meant to scoff, but she did anyway. The huntress's eyes glistened with more mischief.
"Oh? There is a story there, I feel."
Yes, and one you will never learn, Kassandra wanted to say, but instead the words that tumbled out of her mouth were, "I would share it, if you allow me to find dinner for tonight."
The girl laughed. Oh, but what a lovely sound it was, fresh like the clear drops of a spring waterfall. Dimples formed on each of her cheeks every time she smiled. "My, my. If you wanted my help, you only needed to ask. No need to be coy, Gagaanwa'amii."
Kassandra did not know what she meant by that nickname; words seemed to have failed her utterly. The huntress—Miigwaans was her name—was but a slip of a girl, yet she advanced through the forest with easy confidence, as sure-footed and keen-eyed as a Daughter of Artemis. She brought Kassandra back to her village, which was built on an island. Later, the French would call this place L'Isle-aux-Allumettes: now it was Kitcisìpi, home of the Kichesipirini—the people of the Great River.
Miigwaans' friends and kin regarded Kassandra with either sharp suspicion or fond amusement. Their leader, one-eyed Tessouat (of whom Kassandra had caught a glimpse at Totouskak nearly four decades ago, when she had been travelling with old Samuel de Champlain), was none too happy to see her; not so long ago, their nation had been afflicted by a terrible disease which, according to the Midewinini, the wise man of the Kichesipirini, had been brought by those strange pale-skinned travellers.
"Don't let the outsider inside the village," he had thundered when Miigwaans had introduced Kassandra to her people, "for she is Wìdjigò, selfish bearer of warfare and sickness alike!"
"She needs our help!" Miigwaans had argued. She'd added, very much tongue-in-cheek, "Look, the woman is but skin and bones! She needs someone to teach her the way of the forest or she will starve, poor thing!"
"And you will be the one to teach her, hm?" an old woman had asked, eyes gleaming playfully. Kassandra hadn't known back then, but that was Miigwaans' grandmother Memengwaa, the oldest soul in the village—and Miigwaans' very own twin in looks, only thrice older.
"Of course," Miigwaans had answered, with endearing stubbornness, and that had closed the matter. Once Memengwaa had given her blessing, even Tessouat and the Midewinini could not have Kassandra thrown out of the village. The old woman was the greatest storyteller in the tribe, and people looked up to her for wisdom and guidance.
The rest of the Kichesipirini welcomed Kassandra with open arms, especially the young warriors and hunters. She disdained the Christian faith almost as much as they did, which rather amused the village elders. The Black Robes, as they called the Jesuit missionaries, were a dour lot, prattling on and on about the wages of sin and the doom of their souls. Kassandra, in contrast, took to the ancient teachings like a fish in water. The Kichesipirini also loved her tales of ancient gods and brave heroes—though the children found them quite silly.
"The world wasn't created when the Earth mated with the Sky!" a boy once said, laughing, when Kassandra told the story of Gaia and Ouranos. "Gitchi Manitou made the world."
"They created people, then gave us medicine and knowledge so we'd survive," another added. "And then Nanabozho named all the animals and the plants and—"
Miigwaans often glanced at Kassandra whenever the little ones gathered around them for stories at night. There was no mistaking the fond look in her eyes; the young huntress seemed as if she was laughing at her own private joke. Kassandra knew better, she did—and yet she would always return that secret smile, cheeks slightly flaring.
Memengwaa herself would cackle at the sight. While the Kichesipirini called Kassandra by the name Miigwaans had first used for her—Gagaanwa'amii, on account of the fact that she towered over the tallest men in the village—to Memengwaa, she was Nookomis—grandmother. She was the first person Kassandra had ever met who had caught a glimpse of her true nature—and for this she loved the woman fiercely, finding a kindred spirit in this cheeky old soul.
Memengwaa had taught Kassandra how to smoke tobacco, always laughing as the latter coughed and wheezed. In turns, Kassandra brought her back French wine whenever she and Miigwaans returned from the trading posts. Memengwaa had grimaced the first time she'd had a drink, cackling and saying, "And the paleskins enjoy this swill? Pah! It tastes like beaver piss!"
"If I could, I would make you taste Greek wine," Kassandra answered with equal mirth. "It is much, much better, sweet as a maiden's kiss, truly."
"Tell me of your homeland, Gagaanwa'amii," Miigwaans asked, sweetly enough that Kassandra could only sputter in response, to the great amusement of both grandmother and granddaughter. Whenever she fluttered her eyelashes, Miigwaans very much resembled Anais, Kassandra's girlhood love from Kephallonia. Kassandra was a thousand years too old to fall for that cheap trick—and yet fall hard she did, butterflies gathering in her belly whenever she caught one of Miigwaans' coy smiles directed her way.
(Miigwaans was as persistent in love as she was during her hunts, that much Kassandra could say.)
Whenever they cuddled under a pile of furs during colder nights, Kassandra burrowed her face into Miigwaans' thick, dark mane; it smelled of cone pines and leather, a comforting scent that brought memories of another huntress who had lived long, long ago. Miigwaans was fiercely protective of her people—much like Kyra, who had also shared her stubbornness. She sang as sweetly as a lark, soothing her young nephews and nieces whenever they were sad or scared; it reminded Kassandra of the way Natakas had sung Myrrine's lullaby to their son to put him to sleep.
Every moment she was reminded of these past loves—and of how tragically all of these idylls had ended—Kassandra told herself, just one more month, and then I am gone. And yet the months turned into seasons, the seasons turned to years, the years turned to decades. Streaks of silver started to show in Miigwaans' raven-black hair, and her nieces and nephews became fierce hunters and warriors in their own right. Old Tessouat died in battle against the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, his son taking up his name and mantle as chief. Soon, the villagers were whispering among themselves; would they be forced to leave their beloved home, like so many other clans of the region? The threat of war hung over them like the dark clouds announcing the storm, after all. Kassandra knew how this story would end; she'd seen that tragedy play out a thousand times before.
(Gods, but she did not want to see it again, not to these people whom she'd grown to love as her own, who had taught her how to laugh and sing and live again.)
When sweet Memengwaa finally drew her last breath, all but declaring the village's doom, Kassandra gathered her pack and prepared to leave.
She made her exit early in the morning, heading toward the thick of the forest before anyone could notice she was gone. Of course Kassandra had not been cunning enough; in the very clearing she had met Miigwaans, almost two decades ago, her beloved huntress was waiting, bow resting on her thighs as she sat on a broken log. Miigwaans' face was lined like old parchment, but her eyes remained sharp as ever. Their dark depths shone with contempt.
Kassandra sighed as Miigwaans drawled, "I would not have taken you for a coward. A liar and a braggart, maybe—but not a coward."
"You know what I am, now," Kassandra answered. "The truth of my existence. You know I am not what I appear to be."
She closed her eyes, taking a deep, painful breath. She could remember Anais' name—but not how they had met in Kephallonia. She could not recall what Kyra's beloved island was called, where was the home she had fought so hard to protect. Who was the kind healer she'd met in Phokis, the man whose tender touch had nearly made her weep? And, oh gods, Kassandra had forgotten the beauty of Daphnae's face, but not the terrible sound she'd made when she had died in her arms, heart pierced by Kassandra's arrow. All of them had deserved better, yes, just as Miigwaans did now—but all they had been given was Kassandra and her broken sieve of a memory. "Oh my darling, it is for the best, you do not deserve to—"
"Perhaps you should listen to my words before deciding what is best for me," Miigwaans snapped.
Kassandra shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "You deserve someone who will grow old with you, someone who can give you a family—"
"I am not a young girl, not anymore." Miigwaans stood up, casting her bow aside to grab Kassandra's hands. Her skin was rough from a life's worth of work, making a stark contrast with the smooth perfectness of Kassandra's own flesh. "Who are you to tell me what I want, Kassandra of Greece?" It was rare that she used Kassandra's real name; she was utterly in earnest, then. "I don't care what awaits us years from now. Stay, Kassandra, please, stay."
"I…" Kassandra could not complete her thought. Miigwaans had not been the first to give her such a plea. Anais had done it tearfully. Kyra had been almost spiteful. And yet Kassandra had left them because—well, what else could she have done? Kassandra never stayed, even before she'd inherited her father's thankless task—except once, with Natakas. And the father of her only child had paid for this mistake with his life. "Miigwaans, I can't—you shouldn't—"
"I'm not afraid," Miigwaans replied. "Why should you be afraid? Why are you still running away? What in the world is terrible enough to frighten you, of all beings?"
"Forgetting," Kassandra answered in a mutter. "Forgetting you, as I have forgotten them."
Strangely enough, Miigwaans smiled, putting a hand over Kassandra's cheek. "Well, that doesn't frighten me. What if I become but a fragment of a memory? Why should that make me sad? You've made your beloveds immortal through your stories. Even after I die, I will live on, just as they do. A sweeter fate I cannot imagine."
Kassandra glanced at her feet. The huntress tilted Kassandra's chin upward so the latter could finally meet her gaze. More gently, she asked, once more, "Stay?"
Kassandra sighed. Caressed Miigwaans' cheek as well. The Kichesipirini—well, all of the Anishinaabeg, in truth—believed that stories were the most sacred of gifts. Kassandra could not vow that she would fully remember Miigwaans as she truly was—proud and stubborn, with laughing eyes and fleet-footed steps—but at least she would try.
"All right," Kassandra said, unsure and afraid—and mad, utterly mad with love for the woman facing her, grey hair and crow's feet and all. "I will stay."
A/N: Here's a lil' glossary:
Kichesipirini: A nation of the Algonquin people living next to the Ottawa river.
Anishinaabe (plural Anishinaabeg): A group of Algonquian nations that include the Algonquin, the Ojibwe, the Odawa and the Potawatomi (the latter three living around the Great Lakes and forming the Council of Three Fires). They share similar dialects and cultures.
Totouskak: Now the city of Tadoussac in Québec, Canada.
Innu: Algonquian people living mainly in northeastern Québec and Labrador.
Wapánahki: an Algonquian people (also called Abenaki), now living in southern Québec and northern Vermont.
Haudenosaunee: the Iroquois confederacy, which sided which the English against the French and Algonquian people. The Mohawk (or Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, aka the people we see in ACIII and Valhalla) were part of the Haudenosaunee.
Compagnie des Cent-Associés: Compagny of the Hundred Associates, which monitored the fur trade during the first half of the 1600's.
Coureurs des bois: Forest runners, French explorers who participated in the fur trade and often married and/or mingled with First Nation people.
Pays d'en haut: Northern countries, more or less the territories now west and north of Montréal.
