"Thank God for that," I was able to say at last, my trembling beginning to subside.
I rolled over and snuggled under Langford's soft, warm arm, against the silky hairs of his chest, listening to the quiet thud of his heart. At my back, Angel leaped gracefully onto the bed and cuddled against me. Beginning to relax in the comfort of both my husband and my little dog, I finally fell asleep once more.
Whenever I was faced with a problem that I could not solve, I often resorted to making a list, sometimes pros and cons, sometimes a simple recording of events. The next day, still exhausted and worried, while May remained in the hospital with an unconscious Oona, and Langford retreated to his studio to debrief in his own way, I wrote my inventory.
I began with listing the occurrences and ended up with several journal style entries. From the moment of Oona's disappearance, followed immediately by Frieda, to the appearances of Walking Bear, the fire in the subdivision, the vanishing of Victor Reeves—I wrote it all down from my perspective. Then I went back and started to pull out various details for which I had questions.
The first one glared out at me as something I hadn't thought very much about. Why did Oona race around the tree twenty times before heading for the forest?
This bizarre behaviour had to be connected to the rest of it, I thought. Oona had to have made them deliberately, for a reason. These circles were a message to someone. All the rest had followed from that one obscure communication. What could it have meant? Had Oona resurrected the legend of Walking Bear because she wanted to teach Frieda and Victor a lesson? If so, why had she murdered them? I thought back to May's discourse on the Ojibwa legends that her Aunt Oona had taught her.
The white man had come and interfered with the natural way. They'd taught the natives greed for things outside of the land and the spirit. Greed had led to the wanton slaughter of the animals and the desecration of the forests. Nanna Bijou's lack of leadership had caused him to be punished for the sins of his followers. Manitou proclaimed that he should have known what was happening, that if his guidance had been effective, he would have known about their transgressions.
I smiled to myself, thinking that Manitou had been talking about management by walking around all those years ago. Instead of patrolling and directing, Nanna Bijou had been one of those leaders who spent all of his time contemplating inside his office.
Thus had Walking Bear been formed—half man, half beast, roaming the countryside searching for those who did not conserve or respect the environment. May had said, "Nanna Bijou, now known as Walking Bear, is said to appear to those who hunt too much or pollute the land. He metes out various punishments, depending on the severity of the transgression." Is that what Oona had been doing? Had she considered Frieda and Victor's sins to be so severe as to warrant their death?
However, there were many legends about the Bear Clan that I had no inkling about, I mused, a little frustrated. How did I know there wasn't another one that fit this scenario better? What was it May had said? There were at least twenty…
And of course, that's when it hit me. Twenty legends, twenty times around the tree. Did it mean anything, and if so, what?
I couldn't ask May. She was keeping vigil at Oona's side. Agnes Lake, the only other expert that I knew, was still missing, or more hopefully, on her vision quest. The town and the surrounding forest were by now no doubt filled with crime scene investigators and perhaps even reporters. I knew that the Native Council was going to be heavily involved with the case, to ensure respect for the sacred grounds, and yet to be supportive of discovering the truth. Therefore there was literally no one I could ask.
Then I remembered Peter Smallwood. During the various searches, he had claimed to be steeped in native lore, as he told it, from following his friends in childhood.
I dressed for whatever weather was flung at me that day, layers that could be peeled off in warmth or kept on in cold. After going out to the studio to speak with Langford, I headed off to the Smallwoods'. I walked swiftly over the bridge and around the corner to Lawrence. The street was pretty deserted. I surmised that everyone was either off to work or gone away to some warmer climate. A few of the children from Burchill Public passed by, probably on the way to Main Street and the various stores filled with goodies.
I turned right at Drummond Street and walked swiftly toward John. By the time I reached the corner, and the Smallwood place, I had peeled off my outer jacket, my hat and my gloves. The sun continued to melt any leftover snow, and the scent of spring was very strong.
Peter and Ellie's house was similar to many of the homes in Burchill, alternating red and yellow brick, with several smaller windows along the front and beside the front door. There the similarity ended. The house, placed as it was on the corner of Drummond and John, had an unusually large yard, both at the sides of the house and at the rear. The Smallwoods had planted a huge number of shrubs and trees, some of which had grown very tall and expansive over the years. Thus their little place looked dwarfed and crowded.
As I went up the steps, one of the branches of a maple tree brushed my shoulder, almost in a welcoming embrace. I reached over to touch the spot and came away with an annoying, sticky patch on my fingers. Sap. This certainly had been an odd winter and now, spring. The sap was beginning to run already. Some of the trees even sprouted tentative blooms. Yet March Break was not even over and some of the ground still crunched from last week's freakish storm.
In British Columbia, we had gotten used to rain, and more rain and cloud. But here in Ontario, there could be every kind of weather imaginable all at once. This winter had been particularly odd and different. This climate was, I thought, so much more interesting and invigorating.
Peter and Ellie's house was completely dark and no one answered my insistent bell ringing. They were both retired, and I knew that they had many interests and often went on day trips together, so I wasn't totally surprised that they were not home. I stood at the end of their walk, staring off into the tangle of their crowded yard. Despite the fact that the trees were mostly leafless, the branches were so intertwined that it looked like a jungle. I reached out and touched a thick, twisted stem that stretched out and flung itself over the branches of a maple as though choking it. Wondering what kind of plant or tree this was, I rubbed my thumb absently over one of the little nubs that resembled a stunted finger.
I was disappointed and dispirited by my lack of ability to gain the information I wanted, until I suddenly recalled the museum, which was located on Main Street just outside the reserve. I walked quickly, half jogging, reminding myself that I hadn't been keeping up with my exercise lately. I was huffing and puffing pretty heavily by the time I reached the museum and had to remove another layer of clothing. Luckily, the little brick building was alight and the door was ajar in welcome.
The curator was almost as interesting as the collection he'd amassed within. His native name was Soaring Bird, so most people just called him Bird. His face was alive with curiosity. His eyes were bright and wide and his aquiline nose and unguarded features made him a handsome man. Bird was what we might have called a nerd in the past. He was so wholly steeped in the museum and the history of Burchill that he appeared to be disassociated from the present. His speech was infused with curious expressions, stiff formal phrases mixed with slang, and he spoke at such staccato speed that you might have thought he had a foreign accent. Perhaps it was the daily use of the Ojibwa language of the past that gave him a more difficult time switching to English, which was actually his birth tongue.
Bird greeted me with a hearty handshake, delighted to see me, perhaps because I was the only person in the museum, but also because we'd had so many good connections through arranging visits for the school children.
When I told him what I wanted, he was intrigued, but true to form he didn't ask too many questions. He brought out a huge old book. Its leather binding had been softened with care over the years and its delicate pages were filled with calligraphic writing, as well as b
eautiful sketches scattered here and there, presumably to emphasize or explain.
Bird sat me down in a comfortable chair at his little desk, with good lighting and a cool drink beside me. "My dad wrote this," he said proudly. "He was determined to preserve the stories that his father and grandfather told about our people. Man, our language is such a tangle of dialects. We arrived in this area many moons ago and then took up all the words into our own. Pop was afraid the tales would be lost to the next generations. So he wrote it in Ojibwa and in English. He was a very well-educated man."
I ran my fingers lovingly over the soft leather and opened the book. It was well organized, with a table of contents, an introduction, and a dedication to the Ojibwa people of this region. The writing was exquisite, looking more like a piece of art than a translation. Although I could not understand the Ojibwa, I spent a lot of time looking at the formation of the letters, the beautiful accented words, the numerous double vowels. The words seemed to flow, as though every speech was a movement, musical and physical. Whenever I hear Ojibwa spoken, it is a ballet of sound.
The legends of the Bear Clan were all gathered together, and blessedly, they were dutifully numbered. Ignoring my desire to read through all of them, I turned to number twenty. The English was formal yet melodic.
Walking Bear was furious and discontented. The people were worried and filled with unrest. Their spiritual leader had gone long before to a higher plane and had not returned. Walking Bear knew well what could happen to leaders who did not pay attention.
The people continued to wail and cry as the land was abused and usurped. Their animal brothers and sisters were weeping and trembling with fear. Many fled the land and left the people behind without food, covering, or companionship. Those with evil intentions were gloating as they replaced the animals with dead fur and swallowed the land with their greed. Their hands were stained with gold.
The People began to become jealous as they saw their brothers and sisters clothed in finery and surrounded by the best the land could offer. They were in danger of being enticed toward the evil themselves.
Walking Bear knew that action must be his to assert. He sought out the leaders of the Evil Ones and began to whisper in their ears. He set traps for them and confined them while he ministered to their broken and misshapen spirits. They would be set free only when their inner forces were healed and their evil intentions were banished, he told them. Walking Bear began to appear to the people who had been influenced by the Evil Ones, to frighten them back to the ways commanded by Nanna Bijou.
Soon the people heard his message and began to follow the ancient rules. They treated the land and their brother and sister animals with respect. They used only for need, not for greed. The trees began to whisper their gratitude once more. The crops waved happily at the people, pleased to nurture again. The animals returned and settled near the people once more, confident they would not be abused, but protected. Their furs and meat would again be provisions only for life giving. The circle would once again be complete.
The Evil Ones were healed and their intentions turned away from greed. When Walking Bear found the Spiritual One, he berated the leader for abandoning the people.
"You are wrong, Walking Bear," the Spiritual Leader said. "When the people cried out, I answered their prayers. I brought Walking Bear out of his cave. I walked beside you as you healed the Evil Spirits. I accompanied you on your patrol of the land. Now I can return to my people, satisfied that my quest has been answered."
Walking Bear nodded his huge head in tribute to the wisdom of the Spiritual Leader and returned to his cave.
I lifted my head from the text and withdrew my list from my coat pocket. Everything fit, according to my own logic, except for the ending. Agnes Lake, presuming she was the spiritual leader of the legend, had disappeared on a vision quest. Oona had decided the action was hers to take in the form of Walking Bear.
The subdivision could be the blight on the land. Victor Reeves could be the equivalent of the legendary one who 'abused and usurped' the land. Somehow, Frieda Roote must have been doing something illegal too, which perhaps explained her sudden wealth. Perhaps her transgression had to do with hunting and trapping, since this was what Frieda was renowned for throughout the village. That would explain the part of the legend that spoke of animals trembling in fear and fleeing.
If she had been following the legend, Oona might have kidnapped Frieda and Victor in order to heal them. She'd appeared to the people, especially foolish children like Bobby Mills, in her Walking Bear headdress to frighten them back into following the ancient rules.
But the murders—this was the part that did not make sense. It did not fit with the legend, nor did it match Oona's sensibilities about the sacredness of life.
Telling Bird I'd be back in a moment, I walked outside into sunshine and warmth. I removed my sweater and took my cell phone out of my pocket. Standing facing the forest, the sun glinting off the still-bare branches, I tried to picture May at Oona's bedside as I dialled the number of her own cell phone. She answered at once.
"How is she, May?" I asked first.
May's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Hang on, Em. I have to walk out to the visitors lounge balcony. I shouldn't really have the cell on, but I was waiting for a call from Basil."
There was a couple of moment's silence, and then May's voice came back, stronger and louder.
"Hey," she said companionably, her tone tinged with affection. "I'm so glad to hear your voice. She's still unconscious. They gave her something to make her sleep on purpose. The doctor said she'd been writhing and moaning and that the only chance to recover would be in keeping absolutely at rest. I've just been sitting here talking to her and reading and singing, just in case she can hear me. She looks so pale and sick and old. Basil is trying to get Henry and the other sisters here. They should see her just in case."
I smiled at May's verbosity. It was certainly obvious that she had needed to talk. "I'm so sorry, May. Is there anything I can do?"
May let out a huge sigh. "I don't think so, but thanks. Edgar's posted a police officer outside the door and he's heading back to Burchill today. Of course they think Oona's responsible for the murders. Frieda all but said so just before she died."
"She can't be," I said forcefully. "Killing for revenge just isn't in Oona's psyche." I told May quickly about the twentieth legend.
She was silent for a few seconds, then, "That's unbelievable. I actually think you must be the most intelligent woman in the world."
As I laughed, I heard someone else's voice in the background. "Hang on, it's Edgar. He wants to talk to you."
"Emily Taylor, I presume. Okay, sleuth, tell me what you've been doing." Though Edgar's voice was attempting to sound hale and hearty, I could hear the fatigue and worry behind the words.
I repeated the story of the twentieth legend. Edgar's response was similar to May's—silence at first, then proclamations of my brilliance.
"I just don't know where that leads us," he said finally. "It certainly explains everything, right up until the murders in the cave. There's something we are definitely missing."
I could barely hear May in the background.
"May's speculating that someone else might be involved and I would tend to agree with her. Although probably no other law enforcement people will. They're convinced here, based on the accounts of our experience, that Oona is the logical suspect. We'll have a lot of investigating to do to prove otherwise. I'm heading out in a few minutes, Emily, to come back to Burchill. Don't do anything else without me. Go home—that's an order. If there is someone else involved, remember that they're still active. Let me handle it when I get back. I'll call Frances too, to alert her to the legend and its possibilities. Knowing Frances, she will probably want to talk to you. I'll tell her you're waiting for her at home. In the meantime, take down my cell phone number just in case you have any other brain waves."
"All right, Chief," I replied, scribbling the number into
my notebook. "I'll head home, I promise." And as it turned out, I really did intend to follow the rules. It was someone else who interfered with my good intentions.
Chapter 26
"Thanks for letting me read the legends, Bird," I said to him as I returned to the museum to pick up my coat.
"Hope it helped," he replied, turning from dusting an artefact. "A lotta people seem to be interested in this book lately, I tell ya."
I stopped at the door. "Really? Who?"
Bird looked as though he wished he hadn't spoken. He was almost comical in his apron, the duster clutched in his hands, his dark handsome face shining with embarrassment.
"Well, about two months ago, Oona spent a lot of time reading the book. Of course, it's not unlike her to visit here. She spends a lotta time in this here museum, sometimes helping me set things up or write explanations. Oona's well versed in the legends from her own mother and father and grandparents though. So it did seem unusual that she was so engrossed in my pop's writings, which is probably why I remember that particular visit so well."
"On the other hand, each family fashioned or embellished the legends in their own way, so I guess she was interested in how Papa envisioned them." He shook his head, as if he suddenly remembered. "I am praying for her, man," he added quietly. "She could not have done this thing."
I urged him to keep talking. "You said a lot of people were interested. Who else came to read the book?"
"The day after Oona and Frieda disappeared, Agnes Lake came in. I was real surprised at that because Agnes never visits, unless she is a guest speaker or something. I always figure she has heard and seen it all in person so doesn't need a museum to remind her. Plus I get the feeling she believes I am caging the spirits by keeping all this stuff under one roof."
He waved a hand over the stacked bookshelves and display cases. "I figure if I don't preserve these treasures, they will be lost along with everything else we've…" Seeing my impatience, he stopped talking and cleared his throat. "Anyway, after that, I got a visit from Basil Fisher, Peter Smallwood, and one of those creepy men who hangs around with Victor Reeves."
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