LITMIR.BIZ

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at its sight, so did Eric.

      Next, the policeman held up a hunter’s orange cap, crushed and filthy, with the earflaps turned up and a band of green and blue beading.

      “Goddamn it!” shouted Tommy and plunged into the lake. Without hesitation, Eric dove after him. Within two brisk strokes, he reached the flailing form and grabbed Tommy’s collar. Arms flinging, water flying, Tommy tried to fight him off. Chief Decontie waded in to help. Together they pulled a sodden but subdued Tommy to shore.

      “A qui appartient ce casque, cette carabine? You tell me!” ordered LaFramboise thrusting the crumpled cap into Tommy’s dripping face, as Decontie held his arms behind his back. “C’est à vous? Belongs to you, eh?”

      “No!” shouted Tommy through clenched teeth. He looked at Eric, who nodded imperceptibly. “It’s Papa’s.” He finished, his eyes downcast, his mouth tight in grim resignation.

      “Yes, that’s Louis’s gun. I’d know his p’tit gars anywhere,” confirmed Charlie.

      “Eh bien, for sure, this gun kill Louis Vert,” LaFramboise announced.

      TWENTY-NINE

      I’d no sooner arrived home than clouds blackened the sky, and the rain came down. For the next four days, it poured almost as if Marie’s kije manido were mourning her senseless death, until the day of her burial, when the sun finally shoved the low clouds away.

      And through these cold, wet days, I waited in dread of the phone call that would confirm what the cave’s evidence so clearly pointed towards, Marie had shot Louis and then herself. But it was too easy a verdict, one I didn’t want to accept. I even tried to steer Sgt. LaFramboise away from the obvious by finally telling him my suspicions about the two sets of footprints on the beach the morning after Marie died and Tommy’s use of a boat that same morning.

      Early that morning, the phone call finally came, from Eric. Murder-suicide. Louis’s p’tit gars the weapon. Case closed. It looked as if LaFramboise had paid as much attention to my evidence as he would to a mosquito. Even Eric felt the verdict was fair. Maybe it was. I wasn’t sure. But I was an outsider. My evidence could tear the band apart, so I hadn’t told Eric what I suspected.

      Instead, I retreated as I usually did to Aunt Aggie’s rocker on the verandah with a tumbler of vodka clutched in my hand. I tried to wash away my uncertainties with the usual tonic of rhythmic rocking, the hypnotic view of Echo Lake, and of course the mind-numbing vodka.

      Except after a few sips, I put the glass down. Eric was right. I didn’t need this stuff. In fact, I hadn’t felt the need to drown myself in it since my confrontation with Gareth. It looked as if fear of him had been the motivation behind my drinking. Once that fear was gone, I no longer needed the crutch.

      I continued rocking and thinking about Marie. Reluctantly, I came to accept that murder-suicide was the only plausible verdict. After years of abuse from Louis, she had finally snapped. When she realized she’d killed him, she had fled to the island, where, in a state of remorse, she’d killed herself. The footprints were purely coincidental, made by other people who just happened to be visiting the beach around the same time. As for Tommy and the boat, there was obviously another explanation. I would ask him at the first opportunity.

      And this was how I felt as I drove to Marie’s healing ceremony in the early afternoon. Originally, I’d decided not to go. It was a traditional Algonquin ceremony intended to ease the pain of the death of one of their own. As an outsider, I felt it wasn’t my place to attend. Besides, I didn’t want to create any discord should Tommy or other band members object to my presence. Instead, I would only attend her funeral service, which was to follow afterwards in the Migiskan Church.

      But a quick call from Eric wanting me to explain my absence convinced me otherwise. He said I was no less affected by Marie’s death. I too could benefit from the healing process. And if anyone objected to my presence, he’d deal with them. Swayed but still fearful of causing a disturbance, I agonized a few more minutes before deciding. By the time I arrived at the low cedar strip building of the Ceremonial Hall, the ceremony had started.

      I almost turned back at the sound of chanting. But deciding that Marie was more important than my discomfort, I entered the already crowded room. The chanting stopped. Every face turned towards me. Embarrassed, I stopped. And then the elder sitting at the circle’s entrance, an older woman I didn’t know, turned towards me and smiled.

      Although I didn’t understand her Algonquin words, the meaning was clear: “Please, enter the circle.” She indicated its clockwise direction. Thankfully I knew enough to honour the circle, otherwise I would not only have embarrassed myself further by walking in the wrong direction, but would also have angered the spirits.

      I searched for a place to sit, but Marie’s friends had already filled in the circle. Those not early enough to get a seat on the surrounding cedar benches sat cross-legged on the floor a respectable distance from the centre. Eric smiled from the far end and pointed to a few spots on the floor where I might squeeze in. However, before I reached these, John-Joe, acknowledging my presence with a sombre nod, vacated his seat on a bench and took one of the free spots on the floor. I gratefully accepted his offer.

      I smiled hi to the few people I knew, Marie’s friend Dorothy, dressed soberly in black, my coffee drinking buddy Frosty in a clean shirt. Not far from Dorothy sat Charlie Cardinal, beside a fat downtrodden looking woman, probably his wife. I even nodded at him, figuring he wasn’t totally bad, given his special bond with Marie.

      Tommy sat cross-legged near Eric. He didn’t so much as glance in my direction, let alone acknowledge my presence. From the closed-in look on his face, I didn’t think he was paying too much attention to anyone.

      Kneeling before a small pottery bowl of burning smudge, the elder resumed her quiet chanting. She placed bits of dried sweetgrass and cedar into the bowl and fanned it with her brown-speckled eagle feather. Her clothes were simple, a plain cotton skirt and a black turtleneck sweater covered by a fringed deerskin vest. Over her grey-streaked hair she wore a band of pink and blue beads. But it was the expression on her heavily lined face I found the most remarkable, a look of serenity that bespoke of someone wholly at peace.

      Although I’d never been to a healing ceremony before, I recognized, from the smudging ceremonies I’d attended, the traditional elder’s medicine bundle lying in the centre of the circle. Its sacred objects were scattered over a well-used piece of deerskin with its four corners marked in turn by a traditional yellow, black, white or red flag. Though these four colours have many different meanings, the one I preferred equated them to the races of mankind, and because the circle provided equality, no one race was placed higher than the other on the circle.

      This elder’s sacred objects were an odd assortment of natural and man-made; a fine piece of jade next to a small crystal vase, black mussel shells sprinkled over what looked to be a shocking pink velvet shawl. While none were what I’d call medicinal, all would have sacred meaning to this elder. Perhaps a special person had given her the vase, or she’d found the shells on sacred ground. Even the unusual pink colour must have significance, for in addition to the shawl and her headband, there was a dyed pink ostrich feather and choker of pink beads.

      With the smoking smudge pot in her hand, the elder walked slowly around the circle, stopping at participants to allow them to cleanse themselves with its sweet smelling smoke. The first time I’d attended a ceremony, I’d felt a bit ridiculous performing the motions of the ritual washing. Now, with a few more ceremonies under my belt, I found myself wafting the smoke over my body twice to ensure I was cleansed enough to open the path to Marie’s spirit.

      I’d expected the mood of the ceremony to be sombre and sad. Instead, people smiled and talked quietly amongst themselves as the elder moved from participant to participant. I found myself liking this relaxed, friendly mood, a sharp contrast to the religious restraint I was used to.

      When the elder had finished, she returned to her seat at the circle’s entrance and began chanting in Algonquin. Then she switched to English, the one

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