"Tell us, Officers," Alain urged. "What was that fire all about? Any clues? Did Victor Reeves show up eventually?"
Edgar snuggled even further into the chair, as close as he could get to Frances, who, though she had obviously hastily washed her face and brushed her hair, looked tired and dishevelled. They both shook their heads and Edgar answered.
"Victor never showed up. We did find that smarmy little weasel of an assistant, Evan Fobert, though." At Frances's squeal of protest, he smiled and said, "I know, it's not professional, but he's just a little too smooth for me. I can see why Reeves employs him though. He could probably talk the paint off my car." A round of appreciative laughter ensued. We all felt the same way about Evan Fobert, it seemed. "Anyhow, Fobert said he thought Victor had headed into Ottawa earlier this week so he could be there for a meeting, but he didn't seem very sure of anything. He claims Reeves goes off on his own a great deal and according to his own drummer. Fobert assures us that someone will be able to track Reeves down pretty quickly though."
"Meanwhile, Dave actually sent us away very soon after everyone else. The scene was already trampled enough and if he's to find out what the cause was, he needs some time with just his trained crew. So he asked us to inform someone from the Reeves' camp, and then go on home, which we did. But he did say that it looked and smelled like arson to him. I guess he has a real nose for gasoline, which he told me privately, seemed to be spread all over the place."
"Who would have done it though? Kids?" May asked. Her face was pink from wine and the warmth of the fire. With her long black hair pulled forward, I thought she looked beautiful, though her eyes were still tired and worried.
"Dave doesn't think so," Frances said, "though he wasn't specific. Unfortunately, he mentioned…" I had a sudden dreadful feeling that I knew what she had been going to say, but Frances was a quick study. "…it could have been someone who wanted the subdivision stopped or at least delayed."
"That could have been any of the villagers then," Langford said, but I could tell by May's look that she was making connections too. Oona? Frieda? Agnes? Henry?
My tentative feelings about the sanctuary in which we live were quickly diminishing. I reminded myself that my friend's beloved aunt was still missing and that her uncle had been involved in violence for the first time in his life. Things were not exactly stable in Burchill when I considered the disappearances, the arson, a legend-come-true stalking the villagers, the hatred brewing against the developers.
"Everything has been so strange for me over the last couple of weeks, starting with my aunt's disappearance," May mused, as though she had been reading my mind. "I keep trying to guess about what happened. Why the twenty circles around the tree? Why did Frieda follow her? Where the hell is Agnes Lake? Who is Walking Bear? It's driving me nuts, not knowing. And now this fire. Do you think it's all connected?"
There was a thoughtful silence, and then Langford said carefully and quietly, "I really think it must be. My private theory is that it's all being perpetuated by the same person or persons, as they say in the movies. I think it must be a plot to get rid of the subdivisions. Whoever it is must know that Walking Bear would be a powerful symbol and message for our native villagers and that soon all the white villagers would be scared and wondering, too. The next step was to burn the new buildings. What I don't know is how or if Oona, Frieda and Agnes are involved. It just doesn't seem like something Oona would do—deliberately disappear to create havoc. Especially since she knows how worried you would be, May."
"I agree, Lang," May said, her voice stuttered with tears. "But Oona has just not been herself in the last few months. She was acting so strangely, saying weird things. But the thing she didn't seem upset about any longer was the subdivision. It almost appeared that she was questioning her whole life, all the time she had spent on conservation and the environment. I wish I could think she was behind this Walking Bear thing. At least then I would know she's alive."
Edgar leaned closer in a gesture of support. "Let's think about this, everyone. If Oona ran off to terrorize the villagers, maybe Frieda followed to help. Maybe Agnes too. Maybe all three of them hatched this plan to get rid of the subdivision. It wouldn't have to be completely altruistic. Certainly I can't see any self-sacrifice on Frieda's part. It could be that the greater the population of people, the fewer animals there will be, which would cut down on their hunting profits."
Alain spoke up, his slight French Canadian accent tinting his TH's. "I think you could be right, Edgar. Perhaps Oona and Frieda had been friendlier in the last little while, but Oona did not tell you that, May. That might explain why she was a little cool and talking crazy things."
"If that's true, then at least she's alive," May said. "But why would they disappear? It makes them look pretty suspicious. They could've carried off this ruse by pretending they were out hunting. Or in Oona's case, she could just claim she was at home the whole time. Again, I just don't think it makes sense, even though I'd like it to."
We all sat quietly again, a little disappointed that our theory had huge holes.
"The Bahswaway gets searched tomorrow," Frances reminded us. "If there is no sign of Oona or Frieda, then our theory is going to seem more plausible."
"What will you do if and when the pond is found empty, Edgar, which I fully expect it will be?" I asked.
"I'm going to call for a deeper search of the forest. We haven't even covered all the way up to the sacred caves. I'll have to get the Native Council to agree, but I think it will be acceptable."
"Will you take me with you, Edgar?" May asked.
Alain piped up, "Then it will have to include me as well."
Edgar thought a minute. "I don't see why not. There isn't a crime scene as of yet, so I can ask for any volunteers I want. And if we're right, and either Oona or Frieda or Agnes or all of them are involved in some way, they will be guilty of nuisance and not much more at this point. That is, as long as they didn't burn down the subdivision."
"Then count me and Emily in on the search," Langford said, to my delighted surprise.
"It will be good to have all of you there, just in case," May said, and we all knew what she meant—just in case something had happened to Oona. May was not to know for several days just how bad it could be.
I wander through centuries made wise
with ancestral suffering.
Chapter 20
Somewhere in the still and dark of the night, the man had been freed of his gag. Immediately, he had begun poisoning the air with his invective. Sharp, filthy, demeaning words that made Frieda shudder with anger. She was fearful, tired, aching for Walking Bear's touch. The man's commanding, insulting voice filled her with disgust and hatred. She wished fervently that she could fling herself at him, claw at his eyes, punch his mouth into silence. Frieda knew the air inside their hideaway was laced with rage and hate, and that she was contributing to it. She tried to join the chanting of the Other, who seemed to be huddled somewhere to Frieda's right, but she knew she was missing some of the words, not concentrating enough, her heart not there. Thus her energy was not strong.
Frieda could not be certain when she became aware that there were others present in the cave. Her eyes, still filled with the heat of her fever and pain, could not make out the lines clearly. But her nervous system told her the story in detail. Her stomach rolled with shock, her heart pounded, her upper body twitched with fear. Mouth and throat dry, she was unable to call out as she saw Walking Bear swing around toward the silhouettes that loomed up in the recesses of the cave, their shadows thrown by the firelight so that they appeared even taller, the energy of their anger twisting their shadows into menacing spectres that leaned into the space and overwhelmed their quarry.
Frieda heard Walking Bear's grunt, saw the strong shoulders fold, heard the sound of scraping and falling on the ground, heard the thunk of a kick or a club pounding into the prone figure.
The man's voice had been silenced, but an energy of expectation had
replaced his fear and anger.
No longer could Frieda hear or see the Other. No longer did she care. Frieda's cry was one of grief, of devastation. Her saviour, her friend, her guide, crumpled on the ground writhing in pain, now silenced by the thud of those massive blows. Frieda's face dissolved in tears, her voice rang out in desolation.
Nooo...maílingan...glottal...stop...
She rolled onto the ground, the pain of her injured leg searing up her right side, knocking thought from her head for a moment, sending tremors throughout her body. She continued to shriek and protest as she rolled toward Walking Bear. Once she was there, she forced her screaming body to its feet, rage propelling her upward, until she flung herself onto the back of one of the assailants, pummelling with her fists, screeching Ojibwa threats as loudly as her voice would carry.
The attacker stood up straight, away from Walking Bear, steely eyes turned toward her. Something bright flared and roared from the hand of the other attacker. She was flung backward against the hard earthen floor. The noise filled the cave again. Smoke and light and a metallic odour overflowed, sucking out the air.
Frieda moaned and turned onto her side, hugging herself, shaken that the pain could actually be more ghastly than before. A thick, brackish liquid spurted from her stomach through her fingers. Frieda drew in a stunned, ragged breath, and swiftly, the pain shot through her side, her heart, her head. She moaned, but no sound issued forth. She laid still, the darkness filling her.
It was hushed and tranquil in the cave when she blinked her eyes open. Only a dripping sound emanated from the man. He lay on his stomach, his head twisted sideways. The Other was nowhere. The energy of her presence had dissipated.
Frieda saw Walking Bear, crumpled and destroyed, huddled in the corner. She had to touch that soft fur, stroke the head that had bent over her with healing and love, with unconditional forgiveness. Makwa...izhichige...Bear, I will show you I love you by my action, I will reach you, touch you, give you what you gave me, together our energy, our manidoo, will overcome.
Frieda snaked her way closer, then forced her body to sit up, close enough to touch the silky coat. Walking Bear's breath was low and shallow. The energy of Being was seeping out slowly. Frieda placed her hand on the brown, fur-covered back, feeling the movement. She allowed her energy to flow from inside herself out to her friend, her mentor, her saviour.
"Makwa, izhichige," she said, over and over, until she could feel the heart beating a little stronger, the breathing composed, the body subdued as it invited the healing to begin. "Our manidoo will overcome," Frieda said, her words hardly distinguishable in the silence of the cave.
Chapter 21
We had actually forced ourselves onto other topics when Edgar's cell phone rang. A few brief words on his part and suddenly there was silence in the room.
Edgar looked at all of us and breathed deeply. "Well, that was good old Evan. It seems Victor Reeves' cell phone is not answering and he never checked into the Ottawa hotel he was heading to."
"What the hell?" I couldn't help the exclamation. "Another disappearance?"
"I'm not going to think that way yet," Edgar said, "but I suggest we get on home, old girl." He pulled an obviously exhausted Frances to her feet. "I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a very long day."
After Frances and Edgar had gone, Langford, May, Alain and I adjourned to the kitchen, where we finished another bottle of wine along with a mountain of cheese, crackers and grapes. When I reflect back on that evening, I think of it in two ways; one, as an outlet for all our fears, musings and theories and two, as the beginning of our real, solid relationship with the Reneaux. We hadn't yet come to the point where we could talk to them about our past, but if that evening had not developed the way it had, perhaps we would never have moved to that stage at all.
The next day dawned grey, wet and miserable, the kind of day that makes people want to hunker down under their blankets and forget about the world outside. The weather was not good news for the divers about to enter the pond, nor was it making the search for Oona and Frieda any easier. The only positive was that any residue from the subdivision fire had been completely wetted down overnight.
As a result of the rainy conditions and the early hour, the umbrella-gripping group that gathered by Bahswaway that morning was small. Although the temperature was still unseasonably warm, the rain was cold and harsh, which only partly explained why we huddled so closely. Henry, Langford, May, Alain and I stood on the pond-side of the yellow tape, while several other villagers huddled under the trees a few feet away. Oona's sisters had not been able to face the ordeal and were waiting anxiously at home.
The two divers were young men, with the small waists and thick legs that you often see on professional swimmers. Their wet suits were already slick before they descended into the black water, their masks and tanks slowly sinking into oblivion before us. The crowd was silent. Only the pong of the rain drops on the tree trunks and hard ground could be heard and occasionally, the faint scratch of some official's walky-talky.
I distracted myself from the shivers that began to play with the tiny hairs of my arms, by scanning the faces around me. Henry Whitesand looked small and fragile. His usual proud stance had crumpled and he had suddenly become old. All his pain was etched into his face. His fear about what they might find in this icy black pool. The memories of his vibrant, determined sister, who had survived the tragic death of her husband and two children, to end up as a cipher in the forest. The worry and anger about how his life in Burchill had been torn apart.
I couldn't help but wonder if he had helped to start the fire in the subdivision, but right now all I felt for him was pity.
Barry Mills, Michael Lewis, and Edgar stood silently around the yellow tape, theoretically keeping people on the safe side of the barrier, although no one was really expected to attempt to cross it. They appeared solid and strong, but I knew the weight of these latest Burchill mysteries was heavy on their shoulders.
Steve and Ruth McEntyer stood side by side, their faces mostly covered by hoods and umbrellas. Margaret Johnston smiled wanly at me. Doc Murphy remained grim, befitting his medical role in the search. As I let my eyes and thoughts dwell on each one of the villagers, I realized again that I was slowly beginning to feel that I truly belong in this place.
The last face I searched was May's. Her eyes were huge and round, her broad face pinched and flushed. I leaned closer to her, clasping her hand in mine. At that moment the pond filled with bubbles and ripples and the divers surged to the surface. They conversed for a while with Edgar and the others. Then suddenly they were gone again, the ice and scum closing over them like a lid. It seemed interminable before they were once more forcing their diving helmets above water, a large tarpaulin between them, obviously weighted down with something.
At the sight of their burden, Henry's legs wobbled, and Alain and Langford had to hold him up. A sharp keening arose from his lips, a sound so foreign from a human, yet so plaintive, that it made both shivers of fear surge through me and tears of sympathy rush to my eyes.
We all seemed to lean forward, as if to get closer to the action.
Edgar held up his hand, signalling both for Henry to quiet down and for us to wait. After a few moments of searching through the tarp, which had been spread out too far for us to see, Doc Murphy straightened up and spoke to Edgar. It was only then that the big police chief lumbered toward the crowd, a serious but determined look on his face. When he reached Henry and May, he put an empathetic arm around the old man and a big hand on May's shoulder.
"It's okay. It's not Oona. It's not Frieda, either."
"How can you be so sure so quickly?" May asked, her voice trembling.
"Because most of them are very old bones and all of them are also very young," Edgar said, his voice almost a whisper. "We've found the bones of several children or even babies at the bottom of that well."
"The other legend..." May whispered to me, and I knew what she was thinki
ng. If the story of the children in the well was true, what were we to think about the tale of Walking Bear?
As we trudged back to our homes, gladdened by the thought that Oona and Frieda might still be alive somewhere, yet shocked at what had been discovered, we could not possibly know how entangled we would become in the mystery of those tiny bones, just a couple of years later.
Chapter 22
I was barely able to tell that it was May's voice on the phone the next morning.
I had spent the rest of yesterday in a pleasant cocoon, wrapped up in my shawl, Angel at my feet, a fire lit to take away the dampness and a great book to read. Every once in a while, Langford would come out of his studio and supply me with sustenance like a giant cookie or a cup of hot chocolate. It was a decadent afternoon and evening, quiet and peaceful, and I felt very much rested.
Guiltily, I realized that I had not thought of Oona or anyone else but myself, whereas I could hear the pain and stress in my friend's voice. "Has anything happened, May?"
"No, and that's the real problem. I can't stand it anymore, Em. I have to do something."
"But what can we do? Edgar is doing everything he can—"
"I know," May interrupted, an impatience in her tone that I rarely ever heard. "But he's reluctant to go into the sacred grounds and search the caves. I think he should have done that long ago. I know the elders are protective of it, but this is ridiculous. What if Oona is injured and out there somewhere and we are letting her die?"
I left a short silence while May's quiet sobs drifted over the telephone line. "May," I said gently, "Edgar is planning to do a search. He said he would include us. It was just sensible to wait until they had searched the pond. I'm sure he'll call us, maybe even today."
I must admit here and now that I was used to my friend's compliant and easygoing nature, so her response, especially the ferocity of it, took me completely by surprise.
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