did you do? Promise LaFramboise a free fishing trip?” I asked, surprised the SQ officer had relented.
“I wish it had been that easy,” he replied. “While he refused to concede that the ramming was accidental, he did at least agree to our own police handling the investigation. Meanwhile, I’m to act as surety for John-Joe. So I guess it’s single rations and cold showers for you, eh guy?” Eric pulled the brim of John-Joe’s cap completely over his eyes.
Pushing the cap back, John-Joe smiled weakly, shrugged his shoulders, then with a quick “Thanks, Eric,” walked towards the entrance to the bar, where he was greeted with slaps and loud guffaws.
“You okay, Meg?” Eric asked, turning a concerned glance towards me. “I shouldn’t have involved you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Except it now appears we probably didn’t have to go that far.” And I proceeded to tell Eric about my latest confrontation with Gareth.
While we talked, another CanacGold plane landed on the lake. It ploughed through the whitecaps towards Whispers Island. A strong gust sent a shower of golden leaves skittering across my line of sight and brought the sound of chainsaws.
A boat suddenly appeared around the headland and raced towards us. Eric and I stopped talking and watched its approach. I felt uneasy. There was something about its haste that suggested this was not a carrier of good news, which was further reinforced by the grim look on the messenger’s face as he docked the boat.
“What’s up?” Eric shouted.
“We’ve gotta do something, Chief,” the messenger cried. “They’re gonna start cutting tomorrow.”
“Cutting what?” Eric shouted back.
“The ancients’ trees,” came the answer as a shiver of dread ran down my spine.
“It’s time to do something drastic, like chaining ourselves to trees,” I said.
Eric nodded. “Or more effectively, tree spiking. Unfortunately, it has one major drawback. It can kill a man.”
Eric explained how the blade of a chain saw would jump and possibly shatter when it encountered metal spikes hammered into the trunk of a tree. The only way to prevent injury was to discourage the loggers from cutting the trees. The best way to do this was to inform them of the danger by posting signs. It was assumed that, armed with this knowledge, the logger would rather go against company orders than risk losing a leg or an arm.
Eric finished by saying, “But I’m not ready yet to go this far. I don’t want a man’s death or his maiming on my conscience if he chooses to ignore our warnings.”
“Nor do I, but do we have a choice? We need to stall CanacGold while I try to find documents that can stop them,” I countered. “Despite appearances, Gareth isn’t completely bad. I’m sure he wouldn’t risk men’s lives if he knew trees were spiked.”
Eric smiled wanly. “I hope you’re right. I’ll let you know our plans once I talk to the band council.”
As I motored home through the rising chop, a plane took off, only to be replaced by another landing. After tying 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
