breathing of the family and lay down against the wall of the wiigwam, closest to where the boy slept. At dawn, before The People stirred, he stole back into the bush and waited patiently until the boy came looking for him.
Crooked Ear had become accustomed to the smells of The People, but one day his nostrils quivered at an unfamiliar odour. He didn’t like it. He whined softly. The People didn’t seem alarmed by the smell, and the boy ignored his warning, so Crooked Ear took refuge in the forest.
Red Wolf was the first to see the stranger as he rode into camp. But it was the horse that captured his attention, not the heavyset man or the dog that accompanied them. The child had never seen such a beautiful creature. Its coat gleamed in the sunlight like beech leaves in autumn, and its mane flowed over its neck and shoulder, like a waterfall.
The man heaved himself from the saddle, hitched the horse to a tree and, moving with the discomfort of one who had spent too many hours in the saddle, approached the gathering group of people.
The boy ignored his father’s command to sit in the circle. Instead, he stood close to the horse, captivated, as it delicately tugged leaves from the tree and worked to get them past the heavy metal bit. Green slobber frothed from the animal’s lips and a sodden mess fell to the ground. Red Wolf laughed.
The stranger was a white-skin, but he spoke in Algonquian, a language that had the same roots as their own Anishnaabemowin, and was not hard for The People to understand. He told them he was the government Indian agent, and that loggers would soon be moving into the area. He said they must pack up their wiigwams and leave immediately.
“We 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.
