The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World by Martin Fournier

wandered off, bringing his uneasiness with him, leaving the Seine behind as he took to smaller streets lined with more modest homes, where there was less chance of coming across another aristocrat.
    Where should he look now? He glanced up at the sun to gauge what time it was. It must have been around noon. Without any real conviction, he gave himself a few more hours to find his mother. He walked blindly through narrow streets that cut across each other to form a confusing maze. He cut a random path, remembering that he had vowed to go into a church. But church steeples were less common in this neighbourhood. A tall, gaunt man suddenly stood in his way.
    â€œLooking for something?”
    Three more men surrounded him. He had allowed himself to be surprised by thieves, like a halfwit.
    â€œIf you have money, we can help you,” added the ringleader facing him.
    â€œI don’t have a
sol
,” Radisson replied curtly.
    â€œGive me your jacket then. That will do me for today.”
    The tall man stared him down as the three others jostled Radisson to shake him up.
    â€œGive me your jacket! Be quick about it!”
    Radisson stiffened and took a step back. He didn’t want to give in to the threat because if he handed over his jacket they would see he had money. The ringleader took out his knife.
    â€œHand it over or I’ll cut you to pieces!”
    â€œNow the fun begins,” the thief to Radisson’s left whispered into his ear.
    â€œI’ll be scraping your insides up off the street in no time,” said the thief to his right.
    The third man punched him hard in the back. A shiver ran down Radisson’s spine. He was afraid he might be killed. He was sure the ringleader wouldn’t think twice about carving him up to see what he had on him. He had to defend himself.
    â€œLet me be!” exclaimed Radisson, trying to sound as anxious as he could manage. “I have money. I’ll give you everything.”
    â€œGood. Now we’re talking. Stand back, lads. Watch as he hands over his money to me.”
    His tactic worked like a charm. Radisson used the moment of respite to take out his knife.
    â€œYou think you’re gonna frighten me with that?” laughed the ringleader, getting ready to attack.
    But Radisson charged at him, shouting his Iroquois war cry at the top of his lungs. He cut through his shoulder into the bone and the man fell to his knees, moaning. The fight was over for him. Radisson turned to the three remaining bandits, still rooted to the spot at the sound of his fearsome cry. They each ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. Radisson chased after the man who had been looking forward to tearing his guts out, swearing he would pay for the others.
    The man ran quickly, though, and knew the neighbourhood well. He tried to lose Radisson in the maze of tiny streets, but an Iroquois can keep going for longer than any Parisian and Radisson was sure he would catch up to him. He was gaining on him, brandishing his knife when the spirit of his father Garagonké intervened: “Follow the path of peace, my son.” And so, instead of striking him, Radisson shoved the man in the back. He fell flat on his face. Radisson put the brakes on, ran back to where the man was lying, and knelt down over the thief. He grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back and threatening him with his knife.
    â€œHave mercy,” pleaded the man, shaken by the fall.
    Radisson hesitated, bringing the blade of his knife down onto the man’s throat, carried away by a thirst for revenge, then checked by the spirit of Garagonké: “Your way is the way of peace, my son.” He brought his knife to the man’s brow—the robber was crying now—and pressed it where his hairline began, exactly where the Iroquois would scalp their victims. He made a long cut, then buried the thief’s face into the ground, hissing at him: “You don’t deserve to