LITMIR.BIZ

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up my boat, I remained on the dock and watched as the Zodiacs ferried the new load back and forth to the island. Partway up the island’s backbone, the top of a tall fir tree wavered, then fell through the yellow canopy of surrounding birch. Another dozen trees, and they’d be cutting the ancients’ forest.

      Not feeling very optimistic, I climbed the stairs to my cottage and headed to the attic to retrieve the other wooden box. For the rest of the afternoon I sifted through its contents. At first, my hopes were raised when I read 1935 on one of the documents but were slowly dashed as each successive document proved useless. Not a word about owning Whispers Island, not even an acknowledgement of its existence, although I did see several references to the selling of a parcel of land along the main road.

      The mishmash of documents did, however, tell me how lonely and isolated Aunt Aggie’s life was. None of them contained anything the least bit personal. No treasured letter from Edith or other friend; no memento photo of Aunt Aggie or her constant companion Whispering Pine, let alone one of a visitor. Rather, they represented a lifetime of caring for Three Deer Point; bills for supplies, taxes and the like, correspondence to lawyers, and a very detailed account of her maple sugar operation.

      And they revealed her generosity. There was a letter from a grateful neighbour thanking Aunt Aggie for the loan of a fairly significant amount of money and the promise to repay it as soon as times were better. And an itemized list of other loans she’d made.

      Occasionally, the roar of engines would send me to the window, and I watched with increasing dread as another plane took off while one landed. And as the afternoon progressed, the yawning gap in the island’s profile grew larger.

      The last plane was flying into the orange ball of the setting sun when Eric called.

      “Any luck?” he asked.

      “No,” was my frustrated reply.

      “Chin up, it was an outside chance you’d find proof this quickly. We’ve decided to begin the spiking tonight. Come to the Fishing Camp dock at midnight. Wear dark clothing and bring your canoe and a hatchet or large hammer.”

      I hung up feeling hopeful this would buy us some time, but also anxious over where it could lead.

      TWENTY-SEVEN

      The murmuring chants of a smudging ceremony came to greet me as I silently paddled through the black water of Forgotten Bay towards a growing circle of light. The breeze carried the faint scent of burning sweetgrass.

      As I tied my canoe to the Fishing Camp dock, a voice whispered from the shadows, “Here, Meg. Put this on.” John-Joe passed me a container of a dark, greasy substance. “To blacken your face. We’re calling this our Oka war paint.”

      I then noticed the others, ghost shadows against the lake’s shimmer, their black faces invisible in the veiled light of a waning moon, their eyes lit by the low flame of the burning sweetgrass. About twenty were sitting in a circle around a chanting elder, whom I recognized to be Eric under his camouflage.

      Eric motioned me to where he sat in its centre with a container of burning sweetgrass. With his eagle feather, he washed the smoke over me, while I rinsed myself with its pungent odour, the way he’d taught me. He then gestured for me to join the ceremonial circle by entering it in the clockwise direction, he, as its elder, had set. We sat in silence while Eric chanted. With the container in hand, he slowly walked around the circle, stopping to cleanse each of us in turn.

      “This will give you strength,” he said, as the smoke gently flowed around me.

      When he was finished, he sat for several minutes in quiet contemplation, then he reached over to a pile of long iron spikes and began passing them out. Afterwards, he told us the plan.

      Each canoe was to work as an independent unit spiking every fourth tree in a designated part of the ancients’ forest. The idea was to spread the spiking throughout the old growth stand, making it impossible for CanacGold to clear-cut. He and John-Joe would post the warning signs. Although the sound of hammering would eventually alert the CanacGold men staying on the island’s north end, Eric felt we’d be able to spike enough trees before they reached us on the ridge.

      He finished by saying, “Remember, the word is quiet. I do not want to hear a single squeak out of you as we approach the island, not a splash or a whisper. If they hear us coming, it’s game over. So be quiet. Don’t even breathe!”

      As we loaded ourselves very silently into the canoes, two people to a boat, John-Joe passed each of us a long slender hawk feather, intended to give us the eyesight and lightning strike of a hawk.

      I stuck mine into the side of my black toque, pointing its tip skyward. I imagined myself an ancient Anishinabeg warrior about to descend upon an unsuspecting camp of squatters, which CanacGold was, as far as I was concerned.

      My fellow warrior was Tommy, which surprised me, since Eric had told me he was in Somerset looking for his mother.

      “Did you find her already?” I asked, crawling into the stern of my canoe. “Or was it the police?”

      His eyes glared back at me like two glittering orbs from his blackened face. “What do you care? You won’t believe me anyway.” He clambered into the bow with such force that he almost tipped us over.

      “Easy,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, it was a mistake, okay? I wanted to believe you were hiding her. Tell me, how’s she doing?”

      “No idea. I haven’t found her yet, and I don’t think the police have either. I’m only here because Eric needed me. I’m going back first thing tomorrow.” He thrust his paddle deep into the water and shot us towards the other canoes.

      “But how can I completely believe you, if you don’t always tell the truth?” I asked. “It turns out you were at the Fishing Camp the day your mother disappeared. Why did you lie to me?”

      He turned around and gave me another angry glare. “None of your damn business.” And he jabbed his paddle into the water with such force that it propelled us to the head of the line.

      “Shush . . . keep it quiet,” hissed someone from behind us, which put an immediate stop to further questioning.

      Twisting my paddle into a j-stroke, I turned us towards the opening of Forgotten Bay. Under the dome of the midnight sky, we followed what Eric called ke’taksoo wowcht, the spirits road of the stars, towards the invisible island. We slipped through the black shimmering water like a ghost armada, propelled by a chorus line of silent paddles.

      Tommy and I followed the knife-edged trail of Eric’s canoe, which, like the rest of the flotilla, merged with the wavering shadows of the shifting ripples. We were all but invisible to each other and hopefully to any watchers. The only indication of our presence was the sound of the bow waves slapping against the moving hulls.

      The wind had died, leaving a breathless air, heavy with the pungent smell of northern woods and nervous sweat. It was a night when even the merest brush of a paddle on the gunnel would be heard on the distant shore. From behind us came the quiet plop of a jumping fish while the haunting call of a barred owl drifted from another shore.

      Before long, the solid mass of Whispers Island loomed into sight. All was still as we stole past the shrouded shore. The only sign of life was the limp flutter of the CanacGold flag under the harsh brilliance of a floodlight. I trusted Charlie and his men were back in the village and the CanacGold men sound asleep in their tents.

      Further along, John-Joe turned inshore, where he and his partner were to wait for sounds of our activity before beginning the task of placing the warning signs. I could hear the gentle roll of gravel as they pulled the canoe up onto the land. We slid past, our destination an indentation in the rocks around the point, which thankfully was at the opposite end from the CanacGold camp.

      With only a few scrapes, I managed to manoeuver the canoe through partially submerged boulders towards a flat sandy wedge. Using our paddles for support, Tommy and I stepped one after the other onto rocks. And with a final heave, we hauled the dripping hull

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