Henry plodded at her side. As she had so often, she marveled at her great-uncle’s spirit, his perseverance, his silent determination, and even his calm, which came to her despite the fierce wind that blew against and between them. She took strength in his strength.
And all the while as she pushed forward, she visualized Cork waiting for her. Safe. Unharmed. She imagined embracing him, feeling that comfortable, familiar warmth envelop her. The grizzle of his unshaved face roughing her cheek. His lips, always a little chapped in winter, against her own.
“Can’t be much farther,” Markham called over his shoulder. “Damnation, this is a long way on foot.”
“You okay, Uncle Henry?” Daniel said. He was ahead of them, walking beside Markham. He spoke loud to be heard above the wind.
“I have walked in worse,” the old man said. “And most days I still walk farther than I will this day. It would take more than a winter storm to hold me back, Nephew.”
The Mide stopped suddenly, and because of that Rainy did. And then Stephen and Daniel. And finally Markham. The constable turned back and said, “What is it?”
Henry said, “Listen.”
Rainy heard nothing but the cry of the wind. She closed her eyes, blocked out her other senses, and turned her whole self to listening. Then she heard it, too. A great rumbling from up the canyon, distant at first but growing louder with every second. It was preceded by a torrent of wind more violent than anything the storm had yet produced, as if something huge and terrible was approaching and pushing the air before it. She opened her eyes and found herself staring into the face of Markham, illuminated in the glow of the flashlight. His eyes were huge and white and filled with terror. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
It was Stephen who spoke for him, spoke for them all. He said simply, “Oh, shit.”
CHAPTER 57
The ground shook as if in an earthquake. The concussive effect was a hurricane wave that rocked the pickup and hit Cork’s eardrums like blows thrown from a heavyweight. His face was peppered with a shotgun blast of hot grit. The night became instantly black, and for a moment, he thought he’d been blinded. Then he realized it was simply that the lights, which had illuminated the dam, had gone dark.
A roaring filled his ears. He wasn’t certain if it was the effect of the blast or the sound of water rushing from the new lake down the canyon. In his mind’s eye, he could see the deadly torrent, a great churning, uprooting trees and tossing boulders about like toy blocks. If it was the roar of water and John Harris had been correct, Gordonville and anyone between it and the dam stood no chance.
A flashlight came on. Aaron swung the beam across them all. He said something, but his words were lost in the terrible roar. He showed the light on his face and mouthed: Are you okay?
They all nodded, then Cork asked, “The dam? Is it gone?” Except, he couldn’t hear his own voice.
Aaron shook his head and gave an exaggerated shrug.
Cork took stock of everyone around him. They all stood as if paralyzed, their eyes glazed. In the glow from the flashlight, their faces looked as if they’d all broken out in some terrible rash. His own felt abraded and tender from the blast of grit.
Aaron touched his arm and jerked his head in the direction of the dam.
Cork nodded and followed him, and the others fell in behind. The explosions had spread rock debris across the parking lot, and they walked carefully among great rugged chunks of stone. Aaron swung the beam of the flashlight across the pickup that had been parked there. The glass had been blown out of every window. In the pickup bed lay the night watchman, covered in dust and grit, still unconscious, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. They moved on and came to where the eastern wall of the narrows had collapsed. A mountain of rubble blocked their way, and somewhere under it lay the crushed remains of Robert Baker, the man who’d called himself Fox. Aaron shot the flashlight beam toward the body of the dam beyond, but the swirl of dust was too thick to be able to see if the whole structure still stood intact.
The roaring in Cork’s ears had begun to abate, and as he made his way with Aaron and the others over the rubble, he could hear, faintly, the clatter of rocks as they tumbled away underfoot. Aaron played the light beam across the whole of the concrete edifice. Enough dust had settled to see what they’d all been wondering about. The dam across the narrows still held. Aaron swung the light toward the block structure of the power house below. It lay buried under tons of rock now. The surface of the Manitou River glinted in the light beam. The water was mud brown from the dirt and dust that it carried, but the flow was neither more nor less than it had been before.
Together, they walked to the edge of the west wall debris, making their way among big chunks of fragmented gneiss. Like Fox, Mrs. Gray was somewhere beneath all that tonnage of shattered stone. The great pouring of concrete under Cork’s feet felt remarkably stable, and he had two reactions to that. One was relief that nothing would immediately threaten Gordonville and the people there. But the other was a profound sense of failure and, with it, sadness. What the dam had been meant to do, it still would, eventually. Caldecott’s Highland Mine would get its electricity. And the great efforts of Aaron and the others to save what they loved would be in vain.
He finally heard the first voice since the explosions had deafened him. It was Bird.
“All for nothing,” the kid said.
“No,” John Harris told him. “The dam’s been compromised. It didn’t give way today, but it might tomorrow or next week or a month from now or a year. Even the greed of powerful people can’t change that.”
“Can they reinforce it or maybe even rebuild it?” Aaron asked.
“They’ll want to try,” Harris said. “There’s a lot of money involved. But I swear to you, I’ll do my very best to see that doesn’t happen.”
Lindsay looked lost. “What do we do now?”
Aaron said, “I’ll drive down to Gordonville and report what’s happened, alert them to the danger.”
“No, I’ll do that,” Cork said. “The rest of you might want to go back to the lodge and get your stories straight. And think about a lawyer. The questioning by the RCMP is bound to be brutal.”
Aaron considered Cork’s offer and said, “Migwech.”
They returned to the parked vehicles. Cheval gave Cork the keys to the pickup truck. “What will you tell them about us?” the big man asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Cork said. “I believe that I’ll tell them the truth. Or as much of it as a man who’s been blindfolded can.”
“We didn’t blindfold you,” Isaac said.
Cheval laughed. He clapped Cork on the shoulder, a blow from a gentle bear. “You’re a good man, O’Connor.”
Cork turned to Harris. “You have some decisions to make, Johnny Do.”
Without hesitation, Harris replied, “Like you said, Corky, what can a blindfolded man tell them?”
Bird limped to Cork. “I’m sorry about . . . everything. It wasn’t anything personal, you know.”
“I know.”
The kid reached out and offered his hand. Cork took it easily.
Aaron accompanied Cork to the pickup.
“It’s not over,” the chief of the White Woman Lake Odawa said.
“Until we walk the Path of Souls, it never is.”
“The canoes I left in the Boundary Waters. I wouldn’t be unhappy if you retrieved them and kept them.”
“I’ll do that,” Cork said. “But only until you’re ready for them to come back to you.”
“Migwech, niijii.” Thank you, my friend.
They shook hands. Cork got into the pickup and headed down the road that followed the canyon.
* * *
The figures emerged from the whirl of snow, trudging along at the edge of the pavement. Cork saw the beams of their flashlights first, then the
ir bodies, brilliant in the headlights. He was absolutely amazed to see the faces of Stephen, Rainy, Daniel, and Henry. With them was a man sporting a walrus mustache and an RCMP cap.
Cork brought the pickup to a stop and stepped out. Because they were blinded by the headlights, they couldn’t see him until he came forward. When she recognized who it was, Rainy’s face lit up with a radiance that filled Cork’s heart with a great, burning love. She ran to him, threw her arms around him, and planted a long kiss on his lips. She pressed her cheek to his face, and he could feel how rough his unshaved cheek was against the welcome softness of her own. She pulled back and looked at him, and her eyes were full of tears.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Really.”
She touched his face. “Good. Because you look like hell.”
The others surrounded him and hugs were exchanged, then Cork faced Meloux. The old man studied him head to foot, his dark eyes unreadable.
“You were the last person I thought I’d see here,” Cork said.
For a long moment, the Mide didn’t speak. Then: “You are different. Have you lost something?”
Cork laughed. “Almost my life, Henry.”
“No, Corcoran O’Connor.” The old man sounded satisfied. “That was gone from you for a while, but I think you have found it again.”
They introduced Constable Markham and explained their presence. Cork told them about the dam.
Markham said, “I could have sworn I heard a flood coming down the canyon. Then nothing happened.”
“Might have been the echo and re-echo of the blasts,” Cork said. “Or maybe it was the whole damn canyon shifting. Who knows?”
“I’m going to have to commandeer that vehicle you’re driving, O’Connor. I’m still going to White Woman Lake, see if I can secure things before that deployment from Thunder Bay arrives.”
“You won’t have any trouble there,” Cork said. “I’ll come along, if you don’t mind.”
Daniel raised a hand. “Us, too. Otherwise, we’re stuck in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere.”
“Might as well. We’ve come this far together,” Markham said. “I’ll drive, though. In the back of the pickup, everybody. Except you, old-timer. Why don’t you sit up front with me? It’ll be rough going.”
Cork thought the Mide might say something that would put Markham in his place. Instead, Meloux smiled graciously and said, “You are kind.”
Markham shrugged, but it was clear he was pleased. “I try to be. Doesn’t everybody?”
Cork sat in the pickup bed and snuggled against Rainy.
“Not everybody,” he said quietly. “But enough.”
CHAPTER 58
The wedding took place on a surprisingly warm Saturday in mid-November. The ceremony was held at the O’Connor home on Gooseberry Lane. It was a small affair, with only the immediate family and closest friends in attendance. Daniel’s sisters and brother had come from Wisconsin. Leah Duling was there, of course. Father Green from St. Agnes shared the duties of presiding with Henry Meloux.
The house had been decorated with daisies, Jenny’s favorite flower. Everything smelled of sage and cedar. Annie O’Connor had returned for the ceremony. When she’d learned about everything that had happened, she’d forgiven her siblings for keeping her in the dark, but she’d made it clear that if they ever did something like that again, she’d stake them both over an anthill and cover them with honey. She and Stephen smudged the guests as they arrived, offering them each a daisy to hold during the nuptials.
Jenny wore a simple white dress, which she’d embroidered herself with little butterflies around the hem. Daniel was dressed in dark pants, a white shirt, and a vest decorated with beautiful beadwork, a gift from his family.
Mal had arrived the day before, and Rose sat with him, holding hands. Her heart was filled to overflowing with gratitude. Her prayers had not been in vain. Everyone she loved had returned home safely. When it was time, she and Mal stood and came forward as sponsors for Jenny, as was the Ojibwe tradition. Rainy and Leah stepped up for Daniel. Rose stood with tears running down her cheeks as Jenny and Daniel exchanged the vows they’d written. Father Green delivered a blessing and then Henry spoke. His words were Anisihinaabemowin. Rose had no idea what he said, but it flowed like music from Henry’s lips, and it was clear from the effect that it had on Jenny and Daniel and Rainy and many of the others that it was beautiful and meaningful. Then Meloux spoke in the language that Rose and the others who were not Anishinaabe could understand.
“This is what I have told them. Go now together into the world and embrace the life the Creator has always imagined for you. And remember the gifts of the Seven Grandfathers. These will help guide you to a good life, which we call bimaadiziwin. Teach your children these gifts, and their children, so that they are never forgotten. Minwaadendamowin, which is respect. Debwewin, which is truth. Aakodewewin, which is bravery. Nibwaakawin, which is wisdom. Miigwe’aadiziwin, which is generosity. Dibaadendiziwin, which is humility. Zaagidiwin, which is love. Hold these gifts in your hearts, Jennifer O’Connor and Daniel English. And may this life you create together only add to the beauty of this world which Kitchimanidoo has imagined for us all.”
At the end, Rainy and Rose, with the help of little Waaboo, placed a colorful wedding blanket around the couple, and Jenny and Daniel kissed. With that, they were wed.
There was to be a big reception at the community center on the Iron Lake Reservation. Everyone on the rez had been invited, and lots of folks from Aurora were coming. There would be Ojibwe drummers and a band made up of Daniel’s friends. When he wasn’t dancing, he planned to sit with them and play his accordion.
Rose couldn’t have been happier if she’d given birth to these children herself. But there was an edge to her happiness. She’d always been regular as clockwork, but her period was late. She’d also been having trouble sleeping and had begun to put on a little weight. These were all, she knew, classic symptoms of menopause. The end had finally come to any hope for having a family of her own.
As the house began to empty, she spotted Henry Meloux standing alone near the closed patio door, watching her with a curious look on his face. He inclined his head, and she walked to him. He reached out and took her hands. His old palms were warm and wrinkled, but she could feel great strength there. He looked deeply into her eyes.
“Something has changed about you,” he said.
The old Mide missed nothing, she thought. “I’m entering my change of life, Henry. Menopause.”
The old man shook his head and smiled so large and beautiful and radiant that his whole face was like a second sun. “I do not see an ending. I see a beginning. I believe that you and your husband will return here within the year.”
“For something special?’
“A naming ceremony.”
“A naming ceremony? For a new child? Jenny and Daniel’s? That’s wonderful news, Henry.”
“Not theirs.”
She studied the old man’s shining eyes and suddenly she understood. She was afraid to dare that it might be true. Yet, she had never known Henry to be wrong about a thing like this.
“It might be a good idea to tell your husband,” the old Mide suggested.
In a daze of happiness, she turned. As if her feet had wings, she flew to Mal.
* * *
Cork stood alone in the kitchen. He’d stepped away from the gathering, not at all certain if he wanted anyone to see his face, his eyes especially, which were blurred with tears.
November, he thought. For much of his life, it had been a month full of nothing but loss and darkness and despair. But this day it was different. November had changed. Or maybe it was him. He wondered if this had been Jenny’s intention all along. To offer him something different, something hopeful in a month that so often had felt hopeless. He would ask her, when the time was right.
It had been a remarkable month. The viability of the Manitou Canyon Dam was being officially reviewed. True to his word, John W. Harris was very public in his condemnation of the project. That his own granddaughter had been a part of the plan to render the dam inoperable was huge news, and the world seemed to be listening. But as Harris had said amid the swirl of dust atop the dam, there was such big money involved that it would be a battle, and God alone knew who would prevail. He’d secured the best legal defense possible for his grandchildren, and for Isaac McQuabbie, all of whom had been released on bail. If the media reports were any gauge, popular opinion was falling hard on Lindsay Harris’s side and the side of the White Woman Lake Odawa.
Chief Aaron Commanda and his nephew Bird had vanished. No one in Saint Gervais had the slightest idea what had become of them. Or at least that’s what the Odawa there were telling the investigators from the NSCI and CSIS. Everyone in the settlement swore that Andre Cheval had not been absent at all the day the dam had been attacked. Down in Gordonville, no one could say conclusively that the floatplane they’d seen when Aaron had brought his nephew into the clinic belonged to Cheval. As far as Cork knew, neither the NSCI nor the CSIS had been able to find evidence nailing Cheval to any involvement in the Manitou Canyon Dam Affair, as the media had dubbed it.
Ben Trudeau, who’d been indicted on several charges, had maintained his silence in regard to any part he might have had in the kidnappings. He was being represented by a Cherokee attorney who had a reputation for finding a way to clear her clients’ names. The attorney was mute, of course, about who was footing the bill for Trudeau’s defense.
As for the others who’d been involved, Cork had learned a good deal about them. Robert Baker, a.k.a. Mr. Fox, had been a kind of golden boy in the First Nations community. He’d been a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford and was a member of the Canadian Bar Association. Before joining the faculty of the McGill Law School, he’d been involved in a number of high-profile uphill legal battles, working to protect the rights of First Nations people. Cork understood why, in the end, dynamite must have seemed like a quicker solution.
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