LITMIR.BIZ

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live on this land,” the chief stated. “They cannot cut trees here. We hunt and —”

      “The land’s been sold,” the agent interrupted.

      “Sold?” the chief asked, questioning the others as well as the stranger. “Our fathers and our fathers’ fathers have lived here for generations.”

      The Indian agent brandished a paper. “This is the title to the land. It says here that we own the land and you don’t.”

      The People passed the paper from one to the other, confusion on their faces.

      The chief tossed the paper to the ground in disdain. “These scratchy lines mean nothing to us.”

      “This is a deed,” the agent said, retrieving the document and dusting it off. “It might mean nothing to you, but it means everything to real people. It’s legal. Settlers with lawful title are ready to move onto the land. You get out, or these trees will fall on you.”

      “This is the land of The People, Anishnaabe,” the chief announced firmly.

      The others agreed, anger simmering in their voices.

      The agent held up his hands, revealing the gun holstered on his hip. “Go to the reserve. You will each have your own piece of land. You can build proper homes. You can hunt, farm, do whatever you like. The land will be yours, and nobody will ever be able to move you on again.”

      “Why should we move to a new place? Our ancestors have lived and died here since time began,” one man said.

      “Their bones rest in this soil. We cannot leave their spirits here!” added another.

      “If we go to this new place, maybe the fishing will not be good.”

      “Maybe the herds will not pass by.”

      The Indian agent realized that he was not convincing these people. “The government will give you money to buy food. You won’t ever go hungry in the winter.” He seemed to have struck a chord with a few of the people.

      “There’s even going to be a school. Education is the way to advancement in the modern world. It’s the future.”

      There were a few nods.

      The conversation grew louder and more animated, but Red Wolf didn’t hear it. He had unhitched the reins and was leading the horse to a patch of grass. Suddenly the air was filled with a strident voice.

      “Where’s my horse? Who took my horse?”

      Frantically looking around, the Indian agent spotted the rump of the chestnut gelding disappearing into the distance, its long golden tail swishing from side to side. A small boy walked alongside the horse. Outraged, the agent broke into a shuffling run, flapping his arms and grunting with the effort. The dog joined the fray, bounding ahead and barking with excitement.

      “Stop! Horse thief!” the Indian agent yelled over and over.

      Red Wolf stopped, wondering what all the commotion was about. “The horse is hungry,” he explained. “I take him where the grass grows best.”

      “Have your parents not taught you to respect other people’s —” the agent searched for the word in Algonquian but there was not one, so he used the English word “— property?”

      “What is ‘property’?” Red Wolf enquired.

      “Owning things! That horse is for me and nobody else, especially not you. You can’t just walk off with other people’s property.”

      The boy raised his head and looked squarely into the eyes of the white man. They were unlike any eyes he had seen before, the colour of a pale blue winter sky, fringed with lashes like dried grass.

      “Everything is for everyone,” Red Wolf said.

      “How old are you, Horse Thief?”

      The child frowned.

      The man rephrased the question in a manner that the boy understood. “How many summers have you seen?”

      “Five, I am told. And I am not a horse thief. I was just —”

      “Five, eh? You’ll be in school soon. Then you’ll learn some respect.”

      Gathering up the reins, the agent pulled himself into the saddle and wheeled the horse around. “I won’t forget you, Horse Thief!” he shouted, kicking the gelding forcefully with his heels. The horse flattened its ears and bounded into a canter. “We’ll meet again, soon. And then I’ll teach you a lesson.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      The People were divided. Some wanted to migrate further north, hoping to find another area that was rich with game and fish, a place where the white man would never come.

      “There is no such place,” others said.

      Voices were strident as everyone tried to make his or her point.

      “Many white-skins are coming, more than all of our people.”

      “They are greedy.”

      “They want everything for themselves.”

      “Why do they cut down the trees that hold all of creation together?”

      Nobody knew.

      A woman whose weathered face bore the signature of a long life of hardship struggled to stand. Gradually the discussion stopped, everyone waiting to hear the old woman’s wisdom.

      “For the sake of the young ones, go to this place they call ‘reserve,’ where the children will never be hungry. The Great Spirit teaches us to care for everyone, the old ones who will soon leave our wiigwams and go to meet the Ancestors; the young ones who have recently come into our wiigwams, filling us again with love and hope; and the generations in between. Today it is hard to know what is best for us all. So I ask you to choose what is best for the children. They will carry the life of The People forward. For their sake, I beg you, please do not go where the snows will be deeper and the winters colder, where the game may not come, and the fish may not swim, where your baby’s lusty cries will grow weak and fade to silence. Go to a place where you will have shelter, where, at the end of a long winter, you will still have food to fill your children’s bellies.”

      “But what about The Life?” a man asked. “Anishnaabek Bemazawin. The Life of hunting, trapping, and fishing, of gathering the bounty of Mother Earth. The Life to roam throughout the land of our grandfathers?”

      “What good is The Life,” replied the old woman, “if our children have starved to death?”

      For a while there was silence. Even those who opposed the old woman’s views gave her the respect she deserved.

      But the passion to live off the land was powerful, especially in the young men. Later that evening they gathered in smaller groups, eager to voice their opinions. HeWhoWhistles’ was one of reason.

      “The pale-faced one is asking us to make our mark on his treaty,” he said. “He waves his markings at us and tells us what it means, but we cannot interpret the scratchy lines! Some of you have said that the white-skins are not to be trusted. Should we trust their signs?”

      There was a movement of heads. “No.”

      HeWhoWhistles continued. “We have learned to read the signs of the animals, signs that help us and protect us from harm. Now our young ones must learn to read these new signs. Then, in days to come, we will not be deceived.”

      He sighed heavily. “I do not wish to go to the reserve that they speak of. But I will go. I will go because they will make school for my son.”

      “We do not need their school. We teach our children everything they must know, just as our fathers taught us.”

      “We live in different times,” HeWhoWhistles replied. “We cannot teach our children the ways of the white-skins. They must go to school and become

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