the jerk at Indian Affairs said. Give me a break. Miners don’t hire Indians, they think we’re just a bunch of layabouts and drunkards.”
“But Eric, doesn’t the company have to get the band’s permission to use the land?”
“Yup. So I wasn’t all that worried when I first talked to the Ministry this afternoon. But they came back later saying they don’t need our permission, the island doesn’t belong to my people.” No longer able to sit still, Eric began pacing back and forth like a caged bear along one side of the verandah.
“Of course, it does,” I said.
“That’s what I tried to tell this jerk. But he said the records show it isn’t part of the Migiskan Band lands.”
“Who’s supposed to own it?”
“They do, the government.”
“Can’t you fight it?”
“Sure, with a land claim. But that’ll take years to go through the courts. Meanwhile, the mine goes ahead.”
“They’re government. Aren’t they suppose to make sure the mine doesn’t destroy this place?” I saw mountains of mine tailings spilling into the lake, dead fish floating.
“Jerk didn’t seem too worried about that aspect. Nope, I’d say it’s about regional development and all that bullshit. As if the Fishing Camp and other band enterprises don’t provide enough.” Eric wheeled around in front of me and started walking back along the railing.
“Eric, sit down, you’re making me dizzy. How do we stop it?”
“With the land.” He returned to the wicker chair. The last of the setting sun etched every worry line on a face that had seen more of the sky than the inside of an office.
“How? I thought you said it didn’t belong to you guys.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but I’m not convinced it belongs to the crown either. Between you and me, I’ve never been entirely sure whether it was part of Migiskan lands. My grandfather used to say Minitig Kà-ishpàkweyàg was ours to watch over, not to use.”
“You referring to Whispers Island?”
“Minitig Kà-ishpàkweyàg is what the ancients called it, means Island Where the Tall Trees Stand,” he replied and took a long slow sip of his scotch.
“Fitting, but if you guys don’t own it and the government doesn’t, who does?”
“You.”
“Me? Where did you ever get that stupid idea?”
“My grandfather again. Once when he was talking about the island he said ‘We do this for Miss Agatta’.”
“But that doesn’t mean Aunt Aggie owned it.”
“No, it doesn’t, but it could.”
“Eric, Aunt Aggie didn’t own it, I should know. All her property passed to me when she died, and it sure didn’t include Whispers Island.”
“Why don’t you check?” he asked.
“Aunt Aggie hated that island. As far as I know, she never set foot on it in the sixty years she lived here. Hardly the actions of an owner.”
“Maybe it belonged to your great-grandfather?”
“Believe me, Eric, no Harris has ever owned Whispers Island.”
“Look, I know it’s not much to go on, but couldn’t you at least check it out? It’s all we’ve got right now.” He looked at me with all the hopefulness of a young boy.
Then, almost as a foreboding, a loon’s haunting laugh echoed from across the lake. It sent shivers up my spine. “All right, I’ll check. But we’d better come up with a surer way to stop this mine. Do you know who’s behind it?”
“CanacGold.”
If I wasn’t alarmed before, I certainly was now. Any idiot who could read the newspapers would know that this multinational mining company was bad news. Their name had been splashed all over the front pages these past months. One of their gold mines had caused a major environmental disaster in some South American country. A dam had burst, spilling out millions of gallons of cyanide. Countless fish and other wildlife had been killed, and whole villages forced to move. Last thing I wanted was the same thing to happen here. Echo Lake was my home now. I didn’t want it destroyed.
Eric had no sooner started up his bike than I was on the phone to François Gauthier, my notary. He would know if Aunt Aggie had owned Whispers Island, since his father had handled Aunt Aggie’s property long before I was born. But he only confirmed what I already knew. Whispers Island was not included in the fifteen hundred acre property of Three Deer Point, nor had Aunt Aggie owned it separately and sold or bequeathed it to someone else.
François did, however, offer a ray of hope.
“There is a mistake, madame,” he said in that slow stilted manner he used when speaking English. Unfortunately, my French was limited to a halting high school vocabulary and not up to discussing anything as important as land. “I know much about the properties in your region, and this is the first I learn this island belongs to the government. The records for these lands are very old and sometimes confusing. I suggest my clerk check the municipal records.”
I hoped he was right, and the property owner would turn out to be someone other than the government. He promised to let me know by Friday, four days from now.
I could think of only two other places to check. My mother, who sometimes knew more than she let on. But she wasn’t home when I phoned, so I left a message.
And the attic.
When I’d moved in, I’d found it locked with the key missing. Although I’d finally found the key hidden away in the back of a drawer, I still kept it locked. I had better things to do with my time than wade through the collection of junk that filled it from floor to ceiling.
I suspected there was a lot of Aunt Aggie’s past buried in there. I debated beginning the search after dinner that night, but figured since her junk wasn’t going anywhere, there was no reason why the search couldn’t wait until tomorrow when Marie would be there to help me.
I returned to Aunt Aggie’s rocker in time to see the thin red line of day collapse into night. I rocked back and forth, fortified myself with vodka and worried about the damn gold mine, and Gareth.
A faint sound made me look towards the trees near the salt lick. With ears cocked, Sergei sniffed the air. I placed a firm hand on his back as a dark shape silently emerged from the shadows, placing first one long graceful leg and then another into the fading twilight. A head heavy with antlers reached down to lick the salt.
Sergei stood up. I pressed harder. The stag’s head jerked up. As if transfixed in a photograph, he stared at us, ears forward, head alert. A hoof slowly hammered the ground. I too was transfixed, locked into the majesty of the moment. And then with a bound, the deer was gone.
FOUR
Marie
