The Indian agent had lost a lot of time by diverting into town and riling up the farmers with his story of child-eating wolves. Crooked Ear was, of course, the primary target of his revenge, but by the time the effect of the poison bait rippled through the environment, the wolf was long gone. The Indian agent didn’t waste any emotion on other wild animals that he knew would feed on the bait: bears, foxes, raccoons, martens, and wolverines. These animals were disposable as far as he was concerned, so he spared no thought for them or their abandoned offspring. Had he realized that birds such as ravens, vultures, crows, jays, and owls would also die when they fed on poisoned carcasses, he would not have cared much either. As long as the woodlands continued to harbour game animals such as deer, elk, and rabbits he was happy. He had no knowledge that rain and melting snow would carry poison into the streams, rivers, ponds, and lakes, contaminating the fish and waterbirds he enjoyed on his dinner plate from time to time.
The Indian agent was focused on one thing alone: catching 366. He cantered, hoping to catch up before the trail went cold. He sensed a shift in the wind and looked up. Clouds scudded from the north. It was not a good sign and he knew it would be wise to turn around and head home. If he got caught in an early snowstorm, the footing would be difficult and the going slow. It would be sensible to let the Mounties pick up the boy from the reserve when the weather improved.
He reined in the gelding and called to the dog, but the animal was snuffling through the dirt and vegetation fifty yards ahead, and ignored his master’s command. The dog had picked up a fresh scent! Excitement coursed through the Indian agent and a sadistic grin lit his face. “So, Horse Thief, you’re close by, eh?”
His joints were stiff with cold, and when he dismounted his feet hit the ground like two bricks, sending a jolt right through him, but he was elated. He kicked at the remains of the boy’s fire to see if there were any glowing embers. A look of satisfaction spread over his face; he wasn’t far behind. He cast around for any sign of wolves, fear tugging at his gut, although with his rifle slung over his shoulder, he felt braver. The only paw prints he saw were from his dog. The animal had trampled the area in his excitement, inhaling the feral smells that encircled the boy’s bed.
A few minutes earlier the agent had been ready to turn for home, but sensing that he was within striking range, he wanted to press on. However, the light was fading. It would soon be dark. He decided to make camp and catch the boy in the morning.
The Northern lights danced again across the night sky, but neither the Indian agent nor his quarry a few miles along the trail saw the shimmering green curtains of heaven.
In the cedar bower at the edge of Black Lake, Crooked Ear’s feverish heat warmed the boy. The wolf whimpered in his sleep, his paws twitching. At one point he howled, but the boy, sleeping under the dream catcher, didn’t stir.
Red Wolf was a baby again. His father held him up to the heavens to be blessed by the spirits.
“Creator, thank you for this boy child who has completed my life,” HeWhoWhistles said. “Spirit of the red wolf, watch over my son. He shares your name. Let him also share your speed and grace, your honour and courage, your strength and compassion.”
Then Red Wolf was wrenched from his father’s hands and whisked into the air like a dry leaf in an autumn storm. He tumbled through space until he came face-to-face with a wise and serene wolf.
“The time has come, little brother. You must run now, like never before. I will stay with you.”
The child felt himself changing. He was on all fours, marvelling at his sleek red coat and bushy tail. Then, surrounded by wolves from snow-white to black and through all the shades of brown, red, and grey, he found himself running. He was fast and powerful, graceful and courageous. Pride welled inside him like a spring, bubbling up from the earth. But most important of all, he was free.
When he awoke at daybreak, he felt more like Red Wolf, less like George, definitely not like 366. He poked his head from under the cedar fronds and saw Venus, the morning star for whom his mother had been named, still glimmering in the dawn sky. It was a sign, he thought. Crooked Ear had already nosed his way out of the cedars and was helping himself to the remainder of the fish, licking up the last scales and bones from the ground. The boy was hungry, but he was glad, at least, that the wolf had a good appetite. It meant that he was healing.
“I hope you can run today,” he said. “We must get home before the blizzards come.” Crooked Ear seemed to understand, and with barely a limp he trotted forward. The boy gathered up his bag, put on his boots, and chased after the wolf.
Back down the trail, the Indian agent was not happy. There was an icy chill in the morning air and he couldn’t get warm. He had spent a restless night trying to fit his body around the bumps on the cold ground. When he had heard the howl of a lone wolf, he sat upright and grabbed his gun. His hands were so cold he could barely feel the trigger. After that, every rustle in the bush brought a renewed surge of panic that loosened his bowels and sent him scurrying outside the tent, gun in hand, trousers around his ankles.
His courage returned along with the daylight. He tossed grain for the hobbled horse, and with his gut telling him the boy was just a few miles ahead, he was soon back on the trail. When they reached the creek, the dog could find no scent. The animal ran up and down on both banks without success. The Indian agent, however, could see a faint path on the far bank. He turned his horse toward the creek and dug in his heels. The horse balked. The man’s temper rose and he leaned out of the saddle to snap a slender branch from a tree. Squaring the horse to the creek, he gave him a whack on his rear end and the animal threw himself across the water.
When they reached Black Lake, the dog ran along the sloping black rocks until he found the boy’s campsite in the cedar bower. The agent held his hand over the ashes and felt a trace of warmth. Horse Thief was close.
He heard a splash. Brown lake trout were jumping through the clear water. The thought of fried fish made his mouth water and overrode his urge to catch the boy. He took his fishing gear from the saddlebags and cast into the lake. Almost immediately a fish was on the line. He ripped the hook from its gaping mouth and left it to flounder on the rocks, turning his attention to the remains of the boy’s fire. The charcoal re-ignited easily, and soon the fire was blazing.
He hadn’t noticed the pair of ravens on a nearby tree. They were unusually quiet. One of the birds swooped down, grabbed the fish in its beak, and struggled to lift itself back into the air.
“Hey! You miserable buzzard!” the agent shouted. “That’s my breakfast!”
He lunged at the raven, but his feet slipped on the damp rocks and he sprawled face first.
Within a few laboured wing-beats the raven dropped the heavy fish. It slapped onto the granite. Optimistic that breakfast was yet again within his grasp, the agent scrambled toward it, but he was thwarted. The second raven swooped down and carried the fish away. The man cursed and threw stones. Enraged, he barely noticed the ice pellets stinging his upturned face.
The first raven circled back. It was coincidence that the bird voided just as it flew overhead.
For the Indian agent it was the last straw. Spitting and spluttering in disgust, he kicked dirt over the fire, climbed on his horse, and headed home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Freezing rain encased the naked branches of the trees and icicles clung to the guard hairs of Crooked Ear’s coat. The smell of wood smoke reached the wolf’s nose long before the boy’s. A few more minutes and they both saw it curling from the chimneys of shacks and cabins. Away from the cover of the trees the ground was slick, and coupled with his haste to reach his parents’ cabin, Red Wolf slipped and fell several times. But at last he threw open the door. A rush of smoky warm air hit him. His parents looked up in surprise, then they were both talking at the same time, both trying to hug him and feed him.
All too quickly their excitement and delight turned to concern.
“They will com
e for you! They will take you back!” HeWhoWhistles said, his voice pitched with stress.
The child cringed. He saw himself tied to the post at school, flinching as the whip cut into his back. He had been right; his mother and father couldn’t protect him. They would send him back.
“We can leave the reserve,” he said, searching for the right Anishnaabemowin words and stringing them together as fast as he could, desperate to say these things before his enthusiasm was tainted by the hopelessness he read on his parents’ faces.
“We can live in a wiigwam, as we did in the old times. We can hunt and trap and fish. We can eat berries and nuts and —”
“The big snows are coming,” HeWhoWhistles interrupted.
Red Wolf felt as if he had been thrown into a raging river. He was being pulled under by the weight of drenched clothes.
“If the snows are big enough they won’t come for me,” he murmured, phrasing it neither as a question nor a fact, but a fervent wish that might stop him from drowning.
“We can hope,” HeWhoWhistles replied, already longing for the life his son was suggesting, but weighing the difficulties born of maturity. “We have no supplies ready, son. We need toboggans, snowshoes, strong shelter, warm clothes, food. It will take time to prepare. If we go now, unprepared, we will die.…”
The unfamiliar words droned on and on, leaving Red Wolf in a blur of incomprehension. But at school he had learned to read faces and body language; he knew that his father was giving valid reasons for not leaving the reserve immediately.
“If we go without passes, they will chase us down and throw us in the place we cannot get out of. Our only choice is to go far away, to the north where they will not follow.”
HeWhoWhistles paused to think. Is there a place where the pale-faced ones will not follow? His voice took on a tone of resignation. “We cannot leave now. We must prepare. We will go in spring.”
The boy understood, and his heart sank even lower. What if they come for me before spring?
Later, when Red Wolf slept and Crooked Ear lay curled up against the outside wall of the cabin, HeWhoWhistles paced the wooden floor, searching for a solution, but he could not find one.
I was deceived. I brought my family to this place of misery and captivity. My woman weaves mats and baskets, and sews coloured beads on moccasins to trade with the white man for firewater. His thoughts brought a sneer to his lips.
Our son is not ours anymore. Our daughter… she will be taken from us, just as Mishqua Ma’een’gun was taken.
They have fire-sticks. They have places that a man cannot get out of.
I cannot protect my woman and my children.
I wish I could go back in time and choose a different path. I would go north with my brothers and live Anishnaabek Bemazawin, the True Life, just as in the old days. I would teach my children to live the natural way. We would know hunger. It would be hard. But I would be a man and we would be together.
The elk and moose and deer have gone away from here. They do not wish to live close to the white ones who show no kindness or respect.
He sighed deeply.
We cannot leave this place unless they say we can. They give scraps of paper to say when to go and when to come back. Who are they to say such things? He lowered his head into his hands. The snow has come early. Maybe it will melt before winter sets in hard. Then the men will come on horses and take my son. He prayed that the snow would stay, that it would worsen and lie deep on the ground. With daylight he would search for a place to hide Red Wolf for the winter. He would find a cave or build a shelter deep in the woods. In spring they would all leave the reserve together.
The black horses were lathered in sweat, their recently acquired winter coats too warm for the unseasonably mild November day. The men had already shed their waterproof capes and furs, bundling them behind the British Cavalry saddles and, as the midday sun intensified, they unbuttoned their scarlet Norfolk coats, too.
As they approached Anishnaabe territory, they checked the readiness of their weapons. The sergeant didn’t anticipate any problems finding or identifying the boy; he would be the only school-age child on the reserve. But past experience had shown him that the natives could behave with irrational savagery. He was not going to take any chances with the lives of his men. They re-buttoned their jackets and trotted onto the reserve, the lead rider bearing a lance, the sergeant and other soldiers riding in single file on the narrow trail.
Crooked Ear smelled them long before they reached the area where the cabins, shacks, and wiigwams stood. He whined at the boy and nudged his hands. Red Wolf was in tune with the animal’s body language and realized at once he was in danger. He looked around but saw nothing. Crooked Ear whined again and trotted off into the bush and the child followed, but it was too late. The lead rider had caught sight of him running into the distance. The sergeant shouted the order and the horses broke into a gallop.
Red Wolf ran as fast as he could, trying to reach the deep forest where he knew the low hanging branches would hamper the progress of the horses. The sound of pounding hooves grew louder and louder. He pumped his legs as hard as they would go, ducking under the first tree limb, scrambling over fallen logs and swatting branches from his face. The hoofbeats stopped, but someone was chasing him on foot. Red Wolf was already fatigued. The policeman was fresh. The boy tripped over a root, and before he could scramble to his feet, a massive leather boot stomped down on his upper back, pushing his face into the dirt. He struggled with all his remaining strength to rise, but his arms were wrenched behind his back and his hands were tied. Exhausted, he allowed himself to be led back to his parents’ cabin.
StarWoman could not bear to watch. She snatched the hand of her young daughter and ran in the opposite direction, as far and as fast as she could, deep into the bush. She didn’t return until nightfall.
HeWhoWhistles remained, an 1876 Winchester pointed at his chest. He watched the police tie Red Wolf to the saddle, and he searched for words to tell his son that he blamed himself for what was happening, that he despised himself for his weakness, that he wished with all his heart that he could go back in time and make things right. But his dark eyes were damp with tears and the words stuck in his throat.
From the back of the horse, Red Wolf looked into his father’s face and was angry. Hatred surged into his throat like vomit; hatred for HeWhoWhistles for not being all-powerful, hatred for StarWoman for not being there. He hated them both for not loving him enough to fight for him. He fought back his tears and said nothing.
On the narrow trail, the horses picked up the pace, keen to be heading home. Occasionally they tensed, pricked their ears, and snorted restlessly, sensing that danger was close. The riders glanced around, but they didn’t see the wolf following at a distance.
As darkness fell, the boy heard a lonely howl and he knew that Crooked Ear, at least, was missing him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
George was fortunate. Father Thomas had reflected upon Turtle’s overly severe punishment and had restricted Mister Hall’s whippings to ten lashes. George was tied to the courtyard post by his wrists and all the students were made to gather around and watch. The knotted rawhide whip ripped into the flesh of his back and coiled around his ribcage. George didn’t make a sound. And at the very end Henry started to stomp his boot on the ground. Others picked up the rhythm, until George felt the ground pulsing like a drum. Mister Hall was livid. He shouted himself hoarse.
George didn’t know that the entire student body went to bed that night without supper. He was in the infirmary. He didn’t cry as the nurse washed and packed salve into the lacerations, or as she wrapped him in bandages.
After his recovery George realized that his position in the schoolboy pecking order had changed. Boys no longer tormented him, and even Henry behaved differently, his taunts seemingly more for show. Under different circumstances the two boys might have become friends, but George’s anger seethed inside as if a fire burned in his chest. His ra
ge was not compatible with friendship.
After a fresh snowfall, when the barbs of the fence were piled high with soft white cones, an illusion of peace blanketed the school. A passerby would never have suspected the despair contained within the walls. But the winter months at Bruce County School were the hardest months of all. No matter how bad the weather, animals still had to be fed and mucked out, snow had to be shovelled, firewood had to be chopped, and stoves kept burning. Despite their non-stop efforts to heat the building, the dormitories were so cold that the boys’ breath lingered in front of their faces, condensing on the windowpanes, and freezing overnight into delicate crystalline ferns that swirled across the glass.
With winter came sickness and death, but as much as Red Wolf would have welcomed death, he continued living, day by awful day; days that finally warmed and lengthened until June came to an end, and once again he waited by the window with the other boys, an ember of hope flaring in his chest. He tried to extinguish the little flame but it refused to die.
He waited and waited but his father never came.
No tears trickled down his cheeks. He felt no loss or sorrow, but his anger burned behind cold, impassive features. The next day Father Thomas escorted George to his office. There was no preamble, nothing to prepare the boy for the shock that was to come. Father Thomas spoke the words in the same matter-of-fact tone that he used to announce the day of the week.
“Your father has been hanged.”
“What is hanged?” George asked.
The priest thought for a few moments, searching for the right words to describe this European punishment. He didn’t approve of capital punishment and found hanging to be rather barbaric.
“Never mind, George. Suffice to say, your father is dead.”
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