So what I’ve got here —” he paused, holding a tin box above his head and waiting for the curiosity of the crowd to pique “— is poison bait.”
“Won’t that kill other animals, too?”
“Nothing we can’t live without,” the Indian agent replied. “Fox, raccoon, bear.”
“I just lost six hens to a fox!” shouted a farmer. “The darned critter ate only one of ’em. Left the other five dead on the henhouse floor! Where am I gonna get more laying hens at this time of year?”
“I got extras. Reckon I could sell you a few —”
The agent interrupted before the meeting degenerated into a buy-and-sell session. “Over in South Fork they used this stuff, and there ain’t a single wolf left. Their children are safe. Yes, their children —” he paused for dramatic effect “— are safe.”
“The only good wolf is a dead wolf!” a farmer yelled, and the crowd roared its approval.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When George saw the still water of Boulder Lake glistening in the late afternoon sun, relief poured over him. His feet and legs ached from two days of walking and running, but he was more than halfway home.
Crooked Ear had been travelling with the boy for several hours and eagerly loped forward to quench his thirst, his front feet submerged, his long pink tongue lapping noisily. The boy threw himself face down on the warm granite and scooped water into his mouth, then unpacked his bag and looked at the small piece of bread and cheese that remained. He divided it, rewrapped half, and nibbled on the remainder.
The wolf sat on his haunches watching, head cocked, one ear pricked, strings of drool dangling from the corners of his mouth.
The boy unwrapped the cheese again and gave the wolf a sliver. “This is all I have,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “Go and catch something to eat.”
The October sun, which had lazily made its way across the sky, suddenly fell into the shining lake. The boy called out to Crooked Ear, but the wolf had wandered away in search of food, and he was alone. Hoping a fire would protect and comfort him, he quickly gathered kindling in the gloom. Squatting low to the ground, he struck a match and fed the tiny blaze with twigs, listening to the pops and hisses.
One of the sticks was green and flexible and, as he held it in his hands, he envisioned it as a dream catcher. He remembered the one that had hung over his head in the wiigwam so he would have only good dreams. Bad dreams had plagued him at school, and now that he was alone in the wilderness he feared his dreams would be even worse. He hunched close to the firelight and twisted the stick into a circle. Without sinew, he used grass and plant stems to create the mesh that would trap the bad dreams. He looked critically at the finished object. It was flimsy, an oval, not a circle, and the hole that allowed the good dreams to pass through was off-centre. Hoping it would be better than nothing, he hung it from a branch not far from the dying embers and curled up underneath. But he couldn’t sleep. The noises of the night became sinister in his solitude: the rustling of a roosting bird; a twig spiralling to the ground; a bat flitting through the branches.
Then, close by, he heard an animal snuffling in the undergrowth. His body went rigid with fear and he held his breath. Sure that it was the agent’s dog, he willed himself to remain motionless. The snuffling got closer still. His heart hammered furiously in his throat. Finally, when he could hold his breath no longer, he gasped. A family of frightened raccoons scampered away. The tears he had been holding in for so long started to fall, pricking the corners of his eyes like hot needles.
“I’m trying to be brave,” he said to the darkness. “I’m trying to be strong, but I’m all alone and I’m scared.” He fingered the wolf’s head pendant that hung around his neck. “Keep me safe,” he prayed.
Suddenly he got an idea. He needed something sacred to make smoke. He didn’t have tobacco or sage or sweetgrass, but he could smell cedar close by. Following his nose, he groped through the darkness and plucked some fresh fronds. Heading back to the glimmer of firelight, he carefully placed them on the dying embers and waited. At first he feared he had snuffed out the fire, but then smoke started to rise. He stretched his cupped hands into the rising plume and reverently washed the smoke over his head and shoulders as he had seen his people do so many times before. He couldn’t remember the Anishnaabemowin words his parents and grandparents had used, so he made up his own prayer, hoping that Creator understood English. “Great Spirit, watch over me and keep me safe.”
Knowing that sacred smoke carried prayers to Creator, he crouched low to the ground and gently blew under the embers. The smoke rose in little billows and he flapped at it with his hands, sending it swirling upward. He spoke to the rising smoke. “Don’t let that bad man catch me. Slow him down, turn him around. Confuse him.”
He paused, knowing he was supposed to give thanks, but he couldn’t find much in his situation to be thankful for. But then he remembered the old man who had helped him escape, the gifts of food that had sustained him, the matches that had lit his fire, and the rabbit-skin jacket that kept him warm. Then he gave thanks for the rabbits that had sacrificed their lives and given their furs, and for Crooked Ear, who wasn’t with him right now but who he hoped was close by and would soon return.
Then he thought of Jesus, the school god, with long brown hair that flowed over his shoulders in the way of The People. George didn’t have much confidence in Jesus. After all, the white men had killed him. If he was so powerful, why did he let them do that? However, the boy had found something likeable in the face of Jesus, who looked down at him from the walls of the chapel, the refectory, the classrooms, and the dormitory. George saw that Jesus had kindness in his eyes, even though those who said they loved him had hardness and cruelty in theirs.
So on this night, alone in the wilderness, George decided to pray to Jesus, too.
He cupped his hands again and respectfully offered the smoke into the air. Then he panicked.
Does smoke carry prayers to Jesus? At chapel they burn candles … they are not so smoky.
He waited for the smoke to die down to what he thought was just the perfect amount then started the school ritual, kneeling at the fireside, steepling his fingers and bowing his head.
“Jesus —” Deviating from the rote prayers, he spoke from his heart, spurred on by fear and desperation. “Help me. I know I am a just a filthy Indian, a good-for-nothing savage, but you are the Saviour, so save me from the bad man. And don’t let the animals eat me.”
He opened his eyes. The aurora borealis was swirling in the night sky, illuminating the lake in white light. He lay on his back and stared through the dream catcher to the sky. “And let the dream catcher work good so I don’t get bad dreams.”
The heavens shimmered and moved and he could not take his eyes from their hypnotic effect. His breath hovered briefly in front of his face then spiralled upward until it was swept away with the Northern Lights. Then, in the swirling eddies, wolves appeared. They loped across the sky, swooping down like birds, before rising up again. Once again the boy prayed, but this time to the wolves. “Keep me safe,” he whispered.
The wolves came down to earth, encircling him, sitting on their haunches, forming a ring of protection. Their leader spoke, but not in words. His message entered the boy’s consciousness as if by telepathy.
Close your eyes, Red Wolf. Sleep well. Know that we are guarding you. You are safe within our circle, little brother.
The boy slept peacefully.
In his dream, he looked into his father’s eyes and he felt love cover him like a warm bearskin. Then HeWhoWhistles was gone, replaced by an image that George had seen every day at school: Jesus hanging on the cross. The God-man wore nothing but a breechcloth and a crown of sharp, twisted twigs tangled in his long brown hair. His eyes looked directly into George’s. It was as if the dying God-man was seeing the real Red Wolf. Not 366. Not George. The God-man was seeing the soul of Mishqua Ma’een’gun.
He