anyone need to be happy? Wealth, Wendell had impressed on her, was not a value the Anishinaabe held. Sharing was the way of The People.
When, in the little cabin, she’d discovered how happy she could be with almost nothing, she’d made a profound decision. She intended to divest herself of the holdings that had given her wealth but never a moment of happiness. The decision filled her with more joy than she ever thought possible. Over the course of several weeks, she solidified a plan. She would begin by establishing a foundation for the preservation of Indian culture. Not just the culture of the Anishinaabe, but all Native American people. She would call it Miziweyaa, which Wendell had told her meant all of a thing-whole-for that was how she felt. After that, she would reorganize Ozark Records, make it a venue for Native American music. The voice of The People would be heard at last. And not just music, but the words of storytellers as well. She’d learned so much from Wendell’s stories. But why stop there? Why not include the music and stories of indigenous peoples everywhere? Despite all the noise technology could manufacture and send to the farthest reaches of the earth, Shiloh believed there had been a great silence in the world for too long.
Her last decision was to change her will. She intended to leave everything, whatever still existed of her wealth when she took to the Path of Souls, to the Iron Lake Anishinaabe.
She’d journaled extensively, talked the whole thing out on tape, and finally, unable to contain her zeal, had written to Libbie Dobson, pouring forth the whole plan.
To possess nothing but the full abundance of her heart, even now the very idea brought her to tears. Real tears of happiness.
She wiped her eyes and saw among the trees, glowing with the reflection of her fire, the eyes of a gray wolf. They’d frightened her the first time they’d appeared in this way, but she felt differently now. She’d faced her death and her fear of it and had come to the other side of an understanding. All things were connected. Trees, water, air, earth, gray wolf, Shiloh. Life and death. Happiness and sorrow. All elements of the Great Spirit, Kitchimanidoo. If the man called Charon found her and if he killed her, she would still be a part of a great whole. As was Wendell. As was her mother.
All her life she’d felt utterly alone. But she would never feel that way again.
She began to sing softly, “The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er
…”
The wolf drew itself back into the night and was gone.
“Is that you, Jo?” Rose paused in the dark doorway of the kitchen, a ghost in her white chenille robe.
“Yes. Don’t turn on the light.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“No,” Jo answered. “My brain’s working overtime.”
“Worried about Cork?”
“About all of them.”
“How about some tea? Herbal.”
“Thanks.”
Jo stood at the kitchen window that overlooked the driveway and the lilac hedge beyond. The moon had risen, what little there was of it, only a scrap of light amid all the debris of heaven.
“It’s cold out there tonight,” she said.
“There are lots of good people looking for them.” Rose filled the teakettle with tap water and set it over a flame on a burner of the stove.
The Burnetts’ dog, a big German shepherd called Bogart, began to bark two houses down. The sound was dim through the glass of the closed window. It was often the only sound at night, a dull constant yapping that caused the neighbors to complain but made the Burnetts, an elderly couple, feel protected.
Whatever it takes, Jo thought.
She crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’ve been thinking about Dad.”
“What about him?”
“Trying to remember things.”
“Like what?”
“I remember he was always up early. I’d wake sometimes. The house would be dark except for the bathroom. He’d be in there shaving, humming to himself, tapping his razor against the sink. I’d fall back asleep. When I woke later and went into the bathroom after he was gone, I’d still smell the Old Spice aftershave he put on. I’ve always loved that smell.”
“You never told me before.” Rose stood next to Jo so their arms touched. “Cork uses Old Spice.”
“I know,” Jo said.
The teakettle began to whistle. Jo took it from the stove and poured steaming water in the cups Rose had set out. From the cinnamon smell that drifted up on the vapors, Jo could tell Rose had chosen Good Earth.
“I don’t remember him much,” Rose said. “Every once in a while, I dream about a man. He doesn’t look like the pictures of Dad, so maybe it’s not him. But he makes me feel safe.” Rose stirred her tea. The spoon rang against the side of the cup. “The men I remember are mostly shadowy guys in the middle of the night. You know, you’d hear their voices, maybe see a big dark figure pass by your door, and they’d be gone in the morning.”
“They were spooky,” Jo said.
Rose lifted the tea bag out and took a sip from her cup. “For Mom, they passed as companionship, I guess. But I think she never loved another man.”
“Rose.”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I’m not alone in this. Thanks.”
“That’s what family is for.”
Dwight Douglas Sloane died quietly in the night. The last thing he said was, “Across the river,” spoken to no one.
Cork was feeding birch Limbs to the fire. Stormy and Louis sat together against the tall rocks warmed by the flames. Louis slept, his head laid against his father’s arm.
Sloane gave a small groan and spoke his final piece. His chest rose high in one last struggle for breath, then fell and rose no more. His eyes were half open. The reflection of the fire danced in them and made them seem alive. But Cork knew, and so did Stormy.
“What did he mean?” Stormy asked.
Before Cork could answer, from the far side of the Deertail came the mournful howling of wolves. The crying woke Louis. He straightened up and looked at Sloane.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Louis,” Stormy said.
The boy listened to the wolves, their sound like a sad song in the dark beyond the river. “He was wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Stormy asked.
“Remember, he said the wolves weren’t his brothers. But listen to them. Uncle Wendell told me that the wolves only cry for their own.”
“Ma’iingan,” Stormy said. “I’d be proud to call him my brother.”
45
When the ghost of sunrise first began to haunt the sky, Cork ate a light meal. He and Stormy talked quietly at the fire while Louis slept. Stormy agreed it would be best to stay where they were until Cork sent someone back for them. If no one came by the following morning, Stormy and Louis would walk out, following the same route Cork proposed to take along the Noodamigwe Trail to the old logging road. Cork left Stormy both weapons.
“I don’t need extra weight on this run,” he said. “I don’t think you and Louis will need all that firepower either. Raye probably doesn’t suspect that we’re on to him. I’ll bet he has a story already concocted about being washed downriver and getting lost in the woods. But I’d feel better if you kept the guns.”
