answered for us. “Marie was a good woman. She endured much hardship with little complaint. Now she is with the spirits. They will know if she killed him for good reason. If not, she will answer to their anger.”
She paused and scanned the waiting faces. “But I think, if she killed Louis, she had good reason, very good reason.”
As the elder continued in Algonquin, I considered the door she’d left open with her words, “If Marie killed Louis”.
I thought over the many examples I’d just heard of the uncomplaining resolve with which Marie had faced life. They helped to finally convince me that she would never have killed Louis, no matter how hard she was pressed. And because Marie was a survivor, she would never have ended her own life. So I promised myself I would find her killer, no matter how disruptive it might be to the band.
THIRTY
Marie’s simple Christian burial service was in keeping with her wishes to be buried as her mother had been buried. And it was short. It seemed we’d barely sat down in the small clapboard church of the Migiskan Reserve before we were filing out again, behind her coffin. Tommy, Eric, Charlie and the other pallbearers slowly carried the plain casket of freshly honed white pine through the open doors into the late afternoon sun. In contrast to the heightened emotion of the healing ceremony, a sense of futility and dejection hung in the air. Faces closed, eyes down, we followed her body to the small weed-ravaged cemetery next to the church.
The hole was waiting, a yawning black gap in the dead autumn grass. Gold needles from nearby tamaracks rasped the smooth surface of the coffin. With a few more hushed prayers, and some quiet tears, Marie was assigned to her final resting place, beside her mother, Whispering Pine.
Directly behind, I noticed two white marble headstones, considerably larger and more elaborate than others in the small cemetery. They leaned towards each other, almost as if they sought to undo the separation brought by death. On one of the headstones, etched in black lichen, were the words “Two Face Sky 1893 to 1925”. On the other, “Summer Wind 1904 to 1925”.
“Her grandparents,” Dorothy murmured into my ear. “They died in a fire on Whisper Island.”
And so my question was finally answered. But it left me feeling discouraged. It meant Marie and I hadn’t been as close as I’d believed. I thought we’d bridged the gulf dividing us. I was wrong. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me that the ancestors on Whispers Island were her own. Even Dorothy was surprised I didn’t know. She’d assumed Marie had told me what was general knowledge within the band.
I became even more dejected when Dorothy told me something else I should’ve known. Aunt Aggie was the person who’d rescued Marie’s mother from the fire. Apparently my aunt, after spying the flames from Three Deer Point on that winter day long ago, had skied across to the island. She’d risked her life to snatch the tiny Whispering Pine from the burning lodge seconds before the roof collapsed, consuming her parents and baby brother. I thought of her unexplained scars and knew this fire had been their cause.
Dusk was falling by the time I returned home. Sergei was waiting at the door, tail wagging, happy to see me. His devotion was nice, but it wasn’t enough. I would miss Marie’s friendship. She’d been a welcome interruption in this life of solitude I’d adopted.
After feeding Sergei, I retreated to the lake, where I hoped my dragging spirits would be uplifted by the boundless evening sky. Wrapped in Aunt Aggie’s ancient lynx coat, I sat at the dock’s edge with Sergei curled against my side and listened to the lapping waves below. Daylight’s sharp relief had melded into the flat opaque veil of twilight. The only defining point was the CanacGold light, which marked a path across the lake from their island camp to my feet.
Despite the light’s hint of life, I knew it shone over a silent and empty camp, the only upside in the sad tragedy of Marie’s death. Sgt. LaFramboise, for once doing something right, had stopped the mining company from further activity on the island until his investigation was completed. Unfortunately, with the case now closed, it probably meant that CanacGold would soon resume cutting the ancients’ forest. Needless to say, coming up with another means of stopping CanacGold had been the furthest thing from my thoughts or Eric’s.
We’d hit rock bottom in our fight with the mining company. We’d lost the battle to prevent them bringing in supplies and equipment. We’d failed in our spiking attempt to stop further logging. The day before, Carrie had confirmed what Gareth had threatened. The environmental watchdog had become a pussycat and wouldn’t interfere. And I’d all but given up on Whispers Island belonging to anyone other than the crown. Aunt Aggie’s records had so far revealed nothing, and it looked as if my notary’s search through the municipal records was proving to be a waste of time and money.
It appeared with each passing day that the power of CanacGold was growing, while ours steadily sank. According to Carrie, even the provincial Premier had gold glittering in his eyes. Economic votes were far more important than environmental woes, particularly those expressed by a handful of Indians and backwoods hicks.
I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t do what Gareth wanted, sell my land and leave. I was sure CanacGold would pay a king’s ransom for good access to the lake. With the money, I’d buy another much larger property further north, deeper into the forest, far from any mining or logging operation or their threat. It would certainly be the easier path to take. To sit helplessly on the sidelines and watch CanacGold destroy this northern paradise would destroy me.
My depression deepened when I realized it wasn’t yet five o’clock, and already the long, empty, black nights of the coming winter had begun. But at least no clouds hid the Star Trek splendour hovering above my head; Jupiter and its moons, the Big Dipper, Orion and the star-cluttered swath of the Milky Way. And for one brilliant blink, a shooting star streaked and vanished as if it never were. Maybe it was Marie setting out on her journey.
Through the silent gloom, I heard my telephone. It rang three times, then stopped when my voice mail clicked in. I decided it was time to go inside, put a fire on and try to think more cheerful thoughts.
Sergei raced up the stairs. As he bounded over the top, the sound of retreating hoofs burst through the silence, only to be further shattered by the dog’s loud barking pursuit. A deer. Another innocent being whose peace had just been destroyed.
The message on my answering message was short and to the point. “Mme. Harris, call me immediately. I have news,” spoke the clipped voice of my notary.
With trembling fingers, I quickly dialled his number.
“Please, François, make my day!” I burst in when he answered.
“Slow down, Mme. Harris. C’est la douche écossaise, how we Québécois say, good news, bad news.”
“Tell me the good, first. I need it.”
“It is the information you are wanting. I have confirmed that CanacGold has no legal access to the mineral rights of Whispers Island.”
“Hallelujah. You found the missing file,” I said, thinking I’d been wrong in suspecting Gareth of stealing the land registry file for Whispers Island.
“Unfortunately, it is still missing. But, my clerk learns from the municipal tax rolls that the taxes are being paid every year since the property was acquired in 1920.”
“Fine, but what does this
