White Feather 3-Book Bundle. Jennifer Dance

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СКАЧАТЬ ones, go to this place they call ‘reserve,’ where the children will never be hungry. The Great Spirit teaches us to care for everyone, the old ones who will soon leave our wiigwams and go to meet the Ancestors; the young ones who have recently come into our wiigwams, filling us again with love and hope; and the generations in between. Today it is hard to know what is best for us all. So I ask you to choose what is best for the children. They will carry the life of The People forward. For their sake, I beg you, please do not go where the snows will be deeper and the winters colder, where the game may not come, and the fish may not swim, where your baby’s lusty cries will grow weak and fade to silence. Go to a place where you will have shelter, where, at the end of a long winter, you will still have food to fill your children’s bellies.”

      “But what about The Life?” a man asked. “Anishnaabek Bemazawin. The Life of hunting, trapping, and fishing, of gathering the bounty of Mother Earth. The Life to roam throughout the land of our grandfathers?”

      “What good is The Life,” replied the old woman, “if our children have starved to death?”

      For a while there was silence. Even those who opposed the old woman’s views gave her the respect she deserved.

      But the passion to live off the land was powerful, especially in the young men. Later that evening they gathered in smaller groups, eager to voice their opinions. HeWhoWhistles’ was one of reason.

      “The pale-faced one is asking us to make our mark on his treaty,” he said. “He waves his markings at us and tells us what it means, but we cannot interpret the scratchy lines! Some of you have said that the white-skins are not to be trusted. Should we trust their signs?”

      There was a movement of heads. “No.”

      HeWhoWhistles continued. “We have learned to read the signs of the animals, signs that help us and protect us from harm. Now our young ones must learn to read these new signs. Then, in days to come, we will not be deceived.”

      He sighed heavily. “I do not wish to go to the reserve that they speak of. But I will go. I will go because they will make school for my son.”

      “We do not need their school. We teach our children everything they must know, just as our fathers taught us.”

      “We live in different times,” HeWhoWhistles replied. “We cannot teach our children the ways of the white-skins. They must go to school and become part of the new world. Our sons and our daughters are the future.”

      In the end there was no agreement. Some decided to stay and fight the loggers, even though they knew their bows and arrows were poor defense against the exploding sticks of the white-skins. Others decided to leave the area in search of new hunting grounds. But HeWhoWhistles, in the hope of a better future, made his mark on the government paper, and with his wife, his parents, and his son, followed the guide to the reserve.

      As the family gathered all its possessions and walked away, Crooked Ear whined softly from his hiding place among the trees. The guide’s short fire-stick had not exploded like the long ones in the wolf’s memory, but it had that same acrid, burning smell. The intense odour filled his gut with terror and rooted his oversized paws to the spot. He trembled. He wanted to lope after the little Upright, but he couldn’t.

      As the human procession faded from his eyes, and eventually even from his nose, another type of horror began to gnaw at his stomach: loneliness. With the loneliness came panic. He wanted to run from the invisible enemy, just as he had on that fateful night two moons ago when he had fled from the ground that claimed the blood of his family. Back then weeks of running had left him exhausted, starving, and close to death. Miraculously, he had found the little Upright and had become alive again, but now the little Upright, too, had gone.

      His nose searched out the delicate scent of the boy from among the innumerable terrifying smells. When he found what he was hunting for, he snuffled his warm breath into the earth, disturbing the aroma and enriching it. He inhaled deeply. It was comforting. Then, slinking in and out of the shadows, his coat blending perfectly with the undergrowth, he followed the little Upright, who in turn followed the human with the fire-stick. The young wolf had no choice. Neither did the young boy.

      After many days, HeWhoWhistles and his family reached a clearing, where wiigwams were pitched among log cabins and shacks. At first sight, the area seemed deserted, but soon men and women trickled out of the dwellings and stood watching. There was no joy on their faces, no laughter on their lips. And there were no children. HeWhoWhistles’ heart sank.

      “Where are the children?” he asked.

      “They’re at school,” the guide replied in Algonquian.

      HeWhoWhistles brightened. “Where is school?” he asked, his eyes searching the buildings.

      “Over in Bruce County,” the man said with a sweeping motion.

      “How far?”

      “A five-day walk.”

      “You said it would be here! On this land. Our land.”

      “You got it wrong! Why would the government build a school here for just a few Indians, and another one somewhere else for a few more? Makes no sense, does it?” The guide didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s one large school in Bruce County. It’s a boarding school. Your boy will live there.”

      HeWhoWhistles screamed with rage. It was a sound he had never made before.

      “Calm down, Indian,” the man ordered, drawing his gun. “Step back. Let’s talk about this, real calm.”

      HeWhoWhistles knew the power of the white man’s fire-stick. If angered, it would explode and take his life. How would he be able to protect his family then? He did what he thought was best; he backed up and hid his emotion in a stony face.

      “He is my son,” he stated, his voice flat and controlled.

      “You’re wrong! The boy’s a ward of the government now. He goes to school. That’s the law.” Algonquian words did not exist for some of the things the man wanted to say, so he interjected English words. “Break the law and we’ll lock you up and throw away the key. Understand?”

      HeWhoWhistles did not understand. “I put my mark on your paper because you say there would be school here. No school, then we leave this place. We go home.”

      “Too late now,” the man said. “You signed! That makes you part of the Indian Act. This is your home now. As for your son, he belongs to the government!”

      “No! He will stay with his mother and me. We will teach him the Anishnaabe way.”

      “Don’t you understand? You have no parental rights! The Indian Act, sections 113 to 122, took your rights away. The boy goes to school. You should have read what you were signing!”

      HeWhoWhistles’ rage was barely concealed. He had been deceived. He had made his mark on the white-skins’ paper, trusting their spoken words, even though he had been warned that the pale-faced ones were not to be trusted. He had been a fool! And now he was losing his son. He wanted to push his blade deep into the man’s gut and twist it upwards, but confronted with the revolver aimed at his chest, he struggled to hold his violent emotion in a motionless body.

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