CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The previous September, when Red Wolf returned to school to start Grade Two, Crooked Ear had lingered again at the edge of the forest. After several days he seemed to understand that the boy was not coming back, so he turned his nose south and let instinct take him back to Clear Lake. Seraph was not pleased to see his nephew, driving him away from the pack as before and allowing him to live only on the fringe until Crooked Ear had once again displayed complete subservience.
The cold months passed and finally the frozen lake began to thaw, and the wolves basked again in the sun on the granite outcrop high on the ridge. Seraph’s second litter was born, and it was then that Crooked Ear’s legs became restless and he felt the urge to move on. When the trilliums faded on the forest floor and new leaves unfurled on the maples, he trotted away from Clear Lake, drawn once more to the place where instinct told him the boy would reappear. And there he waited. When the scent of the little Upright drifted to his twitching nostrils, Crooked Ear yipped and quivered with excitement.
Red Wolf, too, was overjoyed to see his friend again. When he nestled his face into the wolf’s fur, the turmoil inside of him became still. But the boy’s reunion with his parents did not have the same calming effect. In their presence he felt stirred up inside and he behaved in ways that he didn’t understand. It was as if he was a pot of stew boiling over the fire. Great globs splattered over the edge, burning whatever they landed on.
His parents still called him Mishqua Ma’een’gun. It was Mishqua Ma’een’gun this, and Mishqua Ma’een’gun that, until finally he blurted out, “Don’t call me that. I’m George. Are you stupid? Why can’t you remember? Say it, say George.”
HeWhoWhistles and StarWoman were speechless, their mouths agape, dismayed at the anger that spewed from their son’s mouth along with the foreign words.
He spelled out the name. “G-E-O-R-G-E.”
There was no response.
George continued his tirade, unable to stop. “Mister Hall is right,” he yelled, “You are all ignorant savages. There’s no point in trying to teach you anything because you’ll always be stupid.”
The boy felt as though he was canoeing through white water … alone … without a paddle.
He wanted to get out of the wild river, but he couldn’t. It was running too fast, and he was being carried helplessly along.
George looked into his mother’s face and knew he had gone too far. Shame flooded him. It was even worse than the shame he felt every day at school. He ran from the cabin into the bush, unable to look at them another moment, wanting only to escape from the feelings that roiled inside him.
Part of him wished that summer would last forever, but there was another part of him that wished it would be over right away. But as with everything else in his life, he had no control, and in due course hot days gave way to colder nights. And fingers of foreboding clutched his gut.
HeWhoWhistles walked his son back to school. It was a sad procession of man, child, and wolf. Each walked silently, heavily, as though he had a great weight on his shoulders.
Grade Three was no easier than Grade Two, or Grade One. Henry was still in George’s class, but there was a new boy, too. He was light-skinned and had sandy brown hair and eyes flecked with green. He was almost as pale as the teacher, but George knew the boy couldn’t be white because the teacher whacked his fair head even more than he whacked his own. The new boy was half-breed. George and the others were full-breed, and they taunted the half-breed because he was different and because they all knew that a half is less than a whole.
In late autumn the Grade Three boys were turning over Mother Hall’s flowerbeds at the front of the school. The neighbouring farmer guided his mare through the gate, and as soon as the farm cart rolled to a stop, George climbed into the back and started shovelling manure into waiting barrows.
The old man watched the boys working and his heart was troubled. He studied the one with sombre eyes who stood in the wagon, briskly shovelling manure, and he wondered how the boy had got the bruise on his cheek, and what secrets were hidden behind his expressionless face.
A grey jay flew overhead, swooping between the bars of an opening in the wall and hitting the glass with a thud.
Everyone turned to watch as it fluttered to the ground and lay still.
“Poor thing,” Mother Hall said, peering closely at the bird, “it probably broke its neck.”
The boys gathered around and stared.
George was suddenly attentive to every detail. The gate was open, and Mother Hall was distracted. He looked at the old man who sat in the driver’s seat of the cart, the reins loose in his hands. Much to George’s surprise the man looked right back at him, then stood and lifted the seat, nodding toward a hiding place beneath. George’s heart raced. Does he want to help me, or is it a trap?
The jay suddenly revived, flopping around in the dirt for a few seconds, then flying in dazed circles around Mother Hall’s head. She ducked, shielding her head with her hands and screeching. The jay screeched too and the boys burst into gales of laughter.
“Pssst,” the old man hissed.
George did not hesitate. He dived under the seat and curled into a ball. The lid dropped and the old man clucked. “Git along.”
The cart jolted forward. Above the sound of his pounding heart, George heard the mare’s hooves clomping on the gravel, the jangle of the harness, and the creak of the wheels.
For a while the old man whistled, then mumbled words the boy could not hear.
“What made you go and do that, you old fool? If Hall finds out, you can say goodbye to the work the school gives you, and the extra money that goes along with it. You’re a stupid old coot!” He laughed aloud. “But it sure feels good! Gets the old heart beating!”
He raised his voice. “How are you doing down there, child? I can’t take you much further. I’ve got to hook up the other cart and get back. If I keep them busy they won’t miss you ’til later. By that time you’ll have a good head start.”
The horse stopped in front of the barn and the old man climbed down, lifting the seat to help George out.
“Come with me, I’ll get you some supplies.”
In the farmhouse the old man wrapped a hunk of cheese in a square muslin cloth and stuffed it into a leather bag along with half a loaf of bread and a tin of matches.
“Do you know how to work these?” he asked.
George shook his head.
The old man opened the box and struck one of the small sticks against the rough strip on the edge of the box. George jumped back when the stick burst into flames.
“Keep ’em dry and they’ll work fine.” He closed the little tin and put it in the bag, passing the strap over the boy’s head and straightening it over his shoulder. “Do you know your way home?” he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Good. But remember, they’ll send someone after you, probably the Indian agent and his dog. Go through water to throw the hound off your scent, and when you get home lay low, or they’ll fetch you right back here in no time.”
The old man was beginning to regret his rash decision. The boy would never make it! He’d be caught and brought back, and no doubt punished. And if the boy implicated him in the escape ...
“If they catch you, don’t say I helped you. Say you ran through the open gate.”
The thought of being caught had not entered into George’s head when he dived under the seat of the old man’s wagon. But now, suddenly, he was terrified. They’ll catch me. I’ll get whipped, like Turtle was. The strength drained from his legs as if the bones had softened.
A jumble of thoughts crowded into his head. Even if I get home, Father will send me back to school! Unless we leave the reserve and go back to Clear Lake, or some place where the white man doesn’t live. Another idea came to him. I’ll live with Crooked Ear. But deep down he knew it wouldn’t have worked. For one thing, he didn’t know where the wolf was or how to find him. And then he berated
himself. You are so stupid!
The prospect of being whipped like Turtle weighed heavily on his heart, and his courage failed him. If I go back to school right now maybe I won’t be punished too badly, maybe not at all. They may not even know that I am gone.
He was about to tell the man that he had changed his mind and ask if he could go back to the school the same way as he had come, hidden under the seat, but the old man was handing him a rabbit-skin jacket. “Try this on.”
The jacket came down below the boy’s knees, like a coat. It was warm, but more than that, it was comforting, like sitting next to a friend. It made him feel better.
Cuffing the sleeves to make them shorter, the old man stood back to look at the effect. “The nights are getting cold and the snow will soon be here. You need to get home fast or you’ll freeze.” He led George outside. Hundreds of small black birds swarmed overhead. Moving individually and yet as a single unit, they veered to one side of the sky and then back to the other, the edges of the formation becoming ragged for no more than a second.
“The birds know that winter’s almost here, so go quickly,” the old man said, taking a hunting knife from his belt and holding it out. “And take this.”
He stiffly bent over and gently lifted the boy’s downturned face to meet his own. “God go with you, son.”
George felt a warm glow in his chest. It was a sensation that he hadn’t experienced for a long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Top Boy Frank was the only one to see George disappear under the seat of the cart. He didn’t tell. Other boys gradually became aware of George’s absence, and by bedtime everyone in the junior dormitory knew. They all ran the risk of punishment for aiding and abetting, but despite this they agreed to bundle clothes into the empty bed and cover them with the blanket. It fooled Mother Hall, who had become increasingly lax with bedtime prayers. She turned out the lights without suspecting a thing.
It wasn’t until the following morning when the boys knelt at their bedsides that the absence of 366 was apparent. All the boys in the Grade Three work crew and those in the junior dormitory were threatened, caned, and threatened some more, but none of them was able to tell when, where, or how George had made his escape, because none of them knew what had happened.
By midday the Indian agent arrived, the midsection of his horse barely visible under the supplies. He was whistling a tune, delighted at the prospect of tracking a child. He enjoyed the challenge of pursuit.
Mother Hall gave him George’s crumpled nightshirt. He offered it to the dog. “Take a good sniff. That’s who we’re after.”
The dog wagged his tail enthusiastically. The agent tried to pack the nightshirt into his already overstuffed saddlebags, but then tore off a strip and pushed it deep into the pocket of his coat.
He yanked the saddle’s cinch a few inches tighter and refastened it, the horse announcing his displeasure by raising a hind hoof and flattening his ears. Then the agent loosened his own belt buckle, letting it out to the final hole so that his trousers slung comfortably underneath his belly.
“He’s got an overnight head start,” Mother Hall warned.
The Indian agent put his foot in the stirrup and started to haul himself into the saddle. “You know I always bring ’em back. So which one am I after?”
“Three-six-six.”
“Horse Thief!” he exclaimed, dropping his weight heavily and causing the horse to grunt. A large grin spread across the agent’s face. “Mrs. Hall, I’m going to really enjoy catching this one. Nobody gets away from me, and especially not Horse Thief.”
Mother Hall waved. “Good luck.”
“Aw, luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied, passing though the gate and pushing the horse into a gentle canter. “It’s skill, my dear, pure skill.”
At first the hound was unable to pick up the scent, but the agent guessed the boy would head home, so he took the trail toward the reserve. He was not blind to the spectacular scenery around him. The fall colours were past their peak, but a few fragile leaves still clung to the branches, and occasional splashes of orange and scarlet fluttered back and forth like Monarch butterflies. He looked up at the clear blue sky and reflected on the beauty of this vast land he now called home. How clean everything was compared with the squalor of London. He rarely thought of his previous life, but now he cast his mind back to the one room his whole family had lived in, so close to the Thames that at low tide the stink of slimy mud pervaded even the smell of frying sausages.
He wondered what his brothers were doing, what he himself would be doing had he not had the guile to cheat another young man out of his boat passage to the new land. He congratulated himself on his accomplishment. Never again would he doff his hat at landed gentry. Having to learn the peculiar Algonquian language in order to communicate with the savages was a small price to pay.
With the sun on his shoulders, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the smell of horse sweat rising to his nostrils, an uncharacteristic peace settled on his soul. He breathed deeply and sighed. Life was good.
The hound, having found no scent of the quarry, turned to chasing squirrels. But as soon as he caught the boy’s scent, he forgot all about the squirrels and ran with his nose to the ground.
Horse and rider followed, swinging into an easy canter that ate up the miles. When they reached the place where the boy had left the trail to make a fire and sleep for the night, the agent dismounted and stretched while the dog sniffed at the depression in the vegetation. The agent didn’t see the second depression a little deeper into the tangled bush, but the dog had found it at once, enticed by the strong odour that was almost canine, yet wild. It made him tremble. He clamped his tail firmly between his legs.
“Come on, dog. The boy’s long gone.”
The hound was soon following the boy’s scent again, all fear forgotten. He moved fast, racing ahead of horse and rider, who were struggling to keep up. Suddenly he slithered to a halt and backed up. The same wild smell was all around him. It was overpowering. His hackles rose and he bolted back down the trail with a yelp.
The horse stopped dead, shied sideways, and wheeled to the left.
“What the —”
The Indian agent thudded painfully to the ground and the panicked horse galloped toward home. Cursing, the man picked up his hat and slammed it furiously against his leg. Unless he could catch his horse it was going to be a very long walk home.
It was then that he saw the wolf, bigger and redder than any wolf he had ever seen. The animal was half concealed in the bush not ten yards away, staring intently with amber eyes, one ear erect, the other bent in half. In the animal’s cautious but inquisitive gaze the man discerned violence and savagery.
He reached for his gun, but it wasn’t there — it was on the horse! He wanted to run, but his knees were buckling and he knew the great creature would be upon him in a single bound. He’d heard that wolves couldn’t climb trees, so he looked around for one with low branches, but fear of fangs tearing at his nether regions kept him on the ground. He was totally powerless and he knew it. He stood on shaking legs, contemplating his death and the pain that might be involved.
He urinated in his trousers.
As quickly as it had appeared, the wolf was gone.
The sun was low in the sky when the farm carts bumped down the rutted street and pulled into the town square. The Indian agent was waiting for them, rubbing the bruise on his rear end. It hadn’t taken him long to find his horse, nibbling grass at the side of the trail. Worried that the wolf might reappear, he had mounted up immediately and ridden as fast as his sore backside allowed to the nearest town, plotting revenge on the creature that dared to terrorize and humiliate him.
“I’m afraid to tell you —” he started, raising his voice and holding up his hands until the small crowd paid attention “— that one of them poor little Injun run-a-ways from the Bruce County School just got eaten by a wolf.”
The women’s hands flew to their mo
uths.
“I tried to save the boy. I did the best I could. But out of nowhere a whole pack of wolves showed up and ripped that poor boy limb from limb!”
He dug in his pocket for the ragged strip of nightgown that he had stained with earth and squashed tomato. He held it aloft. “In no time there was nothing left but this!”
The crowd was aghast. The Indian agent had them right where he wanted them.
“Now they’ve had a taste of Injun-boy blood, they’ll be back for more. They’ll come for our babies and our children.”
Suddenly everyone was talking at once, their voices angry and insistent.
“I shot two wolves last month,” a man shouted. “The bounty’s gonna come in real handy.”
“Trouble is,” the agent continued, “the varmints keep breeding faster than we can get rid of ’em. 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.
Red Wolf Page 10
