Dedication
May this story open hearts and minds
to the history of Canada
and the long suffering of our First Nations people.
May it be used to restore relationships
and increase peace, understanding, and compassion among our nation’s youth.
REQUIEM
There was a time long ago,
when wolf and man lived wild and free,
When the white-skins lived far away,
across the Salt Water.
The woods were big then and the forests thick.
Elk and moose were plentiful,
the rivers clear and full of fish.
Counselled by the wisdom of the old ones
and guided by the spirit
We lived in harmony with Mother Earth,
Wolf and man together, yet apart.
There was a time before the loggers cut the great pines and floated them down the rivers,
Before the traders used our furs and skins to clothe the white ones across the Big Water,
Before they made us believe that our ways were evil and our wisdom was foolishness,
Before they controlled us, contained us,
tamed us, restrained us,
Before the diseases, the guns,
the metal traps, the poison bait.
There was a time before we were savages,
Wolf and man together, both.
There was a time long ago …
PROLOGUE
The boy was tied to the courtyard post by his wrists. The rest of the students had to gather around and watch, as if the whipping was a powwow at the summer camp of The People. The whip was made of rawhide strips, each with a knot at the end. They ate into the flesh of his back and coiled around his ribcage. It was worse than any pain he had ever felt, but he bit down on his lip until he tasted blood and didn’t cry out. The other boys were silent until the very end, and then a strange thing happened: one started to stomp his boot on the ground in a slow, mournful rhythm, like a drumbeat. Another boy picked up the rhythm, and another, and another, until every boy in the school stomped as one, until the ground pulsed, until the master had shouted himself hoarse.
CHAPTER ONE
The Algonquian Wilderness
Ontario, Canada
1885
The men slowly reached for their rifles, eyes searching through the lengthening shadows. They appeared calm, almost serene, but the moment they set eyes on the wolves, fear had tainted their sweat. Tall-Legs had discerned the change. He signalled Tika and the pups to drop to the ground. The Uprights he had encountered in his six years of life were not a threat to him, or he to them. They didn’t have the teeth, claws, and speed of his kind, or the formidable antlers and hind legs of the moose or elk. But these Uprights were different. Their pungent odour burned his nostrils. The hackles rose along his spine and his heart beat faster. However, hunger gnawed at his stomach and the meat that lay on the trestle table was tempting. He crouched low, his sensitive nose taking in every detail.
“The big one’s mine,” the lumberjack drawled, his hand inching toward the rifle that was propped at his side. “Nice and slow. Don’t scare ’em off.”
Tall-Legs turned to flee.
The bullet caught him in the ribcage, the impact arcing him into the air. He yelped and thudded to the ground, legs twitching. With explosions reverberating around him, one pup whirled and bolted. He had covered a hundred yards before he realized he was alone. He crouched to wait for his family, peering back toward the camp. Everything was still, but his nose and ears told him that something terrible had happened. His paws wanted to flee, but he needed his mother. Taking advantage of the tree cover, he slunk toward her.
Tika lay on her side, her head turned toward him, her yellow eyes demanding that he not approach. He flattened himself on the forest floor, his coat melding with the underbrush, one of his ears pointing skyward in a triangle, the other folded in half. He rested his head on his paws and whimpered softly.
One of the Uprights moved warily toward Tall-Legs and kicked the big wolf in the ribs. The pup cringed, but Tall-Legs made no movement and no sound.
“There’s a good pelt on this one. I’ll set to skinnin’ him after supper.”
The smallest pup of the litter lolled with his head resting on his sister’s hindquarters. The third pup lay alone. An Upright approached them and kicked each one. The pup with the crooked ear flinched, but his siblings didn’t leap up and run away. They remained still and silent.
“The pelts on these young ’uns won’t be worth much. They’re too small, not worth the effort to skin.”
“We still need the tails for the bounty.”
“Yeah, just cut the brushes off.”
Crooked Ear heard the crunch of blade on bone then his sister’s tail flew through the air, landing with barely a thud on the ground by the tents, the smell of her blood mingling with the choking scent of gunfire.
Another Upright warily approached Tika. “This one’s still alive!” he shrieked, leaping away like a frightened hare.
Tika was gazing into Crooked Ear’s eyes when the final bullet tore through her body, lifting her slightly from the ground. Crooked Ear turned and fled.
“There’s another one!”
The lumberjacks unleashed a hail of bullets.
Crooked Ear raced into the darkness of the forest.
All night he ran, instinct leading him to the protected places where the moon barely reached the forest floor. He no longer ran with the playfulness of youth. His puppy days were over. By daybreak his pads were sore and his muscles ached. With heaving flanks, he quenched his thirst at a stream. A tree had blown over, wrenching a large bundle of roots from the earth, leaving a sandy hollow in the ground. He collapsed into it, tucking his nose to his flank and encircling his body with his tail. But even as he slept, his legs still ran, and he whimpered and yelped.
When he awoke, the day was done and darkness was once more settling over the forest. Bounding onto the trunk of the fallen tree, he threw back his head and howled, straining to hear any far-off reply from his pack, but only the hoot of an owl answered his call.
He was alone.
Softly jumping back to the forest floor, he paced in circles, head to the ground, nose urgently snuffling through the dried needles. He scrabbled at a rotting log until it disintegrated and beetles scurried in all directions. He pounced on one, then another, his indecisiveness allowing each to get away. Probing the remainder of the log, he unearthed a nest of plump white larvae. He curled back his lips and daintily picked up a fat grub in his front teeth. Deciding they were edible, he devoured all of them.
The hollow under the fallen tree still retained his odour and warmth, and he stayed there for some time. He heard the squeak of a mouse, but it flew through