Rose said, “Some of our party went missing in the storm yesterday. My brother-in-law and my niece. They were headed to Young’s Bay Landing but never made it.”
“I’m sorry,” Cherri said. “Where were they coming from?”
“Above Tranquil Channel,” Mal told her.
“In a launch?”
“A dinghy with an old outboard.” Mal explained the time frame of departure and expected arrival at the landing.
Cherri frowned. “There should have been plenty of time for them to reach the mainland before that horrible storm blew through.”
“There was something on the way that my dad wanted my sister to see, something Ojibwe,” Stephen said.
“And what was that?”
“We don’t know,” he confessed with a shrug. “But we think it has something to do with children.”
Cherri gave it long thought while the wind pulled at her hair and the birch leaves quivered restlessly at her back. Finally she shook her head. “I honestly don’t know what it could be.”
“Is there anyone who might?” Anne said.
“Maybe Amos Powassin.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of our elders. Quite old, but he knows more about this lake and its Ojibwe history than anyone I can think of.”
“Where do we find him?” Bascombe asked.
“If you’ve got room for me in your boat, Seth, I’ll guide you there myself.”
Amos Powassin sat in an Adirondack chair on a dock empty of boats a dozen yards from his small house. He was fishing. A young girl, maybe seven or eight, was with him, sitting cross-legged near his feet, tending a bait bucket. She wore yellow shorts and a T-shirt with an image of the Frog Princess on the front. Her feet were bare.
Stephen leaped to the dock, and Mal threw him a line. When they were tied up, they all disembarked and walked toward the old man, who slowly reeled in his line. He didn’t look at them as they came.
“
“The way this dock’s shakin’, feels like you brought an army with you, Cherri,” the old man said.
“Visitors, grandfather. They need information.”
“Thought that was something you gave out,” he said. “Part of your job.” He lifted his line, swung it clear of the water, and laid it on the dock beside his chair. He bent and whispered something to the little girl, who smiled and nodded, then got to her feet and ran toward the house.
“The question these people have I can’t answer, grandfather.”
He finally turned to them. His hair was long and white and spilled down from a broad-brimmed canvas hat. His wrinkled face was in shadow, and from the way his eyes didn’t focus on anyone, Rose understood that he was blind. He reached out, found the walking stick that leaned against his chair, and used the stick to help himself rise. Rose saw that the top of the stick was carefully carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.
Stephen must have seen it, too, because he said, “
The old man leaned on the stick and addressed the direction of Stephen’s voice. “Keep talking, boy.”
“On your cane,” Stephen said. “We’re
“You Indian, then?”
“I have the blood of The People in me,” Stephen said. “Iron Lake Ojibwe.”
“You got a name, boy?”
“Makadewagosh.”
Rose knew that this was Stephen’s Ojibwe name. It meant “Silver Fox.”
The old man considered the name and nodded. “Sleek and cunning. I got a sense whoever named you knew what they were doing.”
“I was named by a wise man, grandfather. Henry Meloux.”
A broad grin stretched across the old man’s face, putting dozens of extra wrinkles into his cheeks. “Now that’s a name I know. Christ, been a long time since we smoked together. How is my old friend?”
“He’s well, grandfather,” Stephen said. “When we go home, I’ll tell him
“You do that, Makadewagosh. I’d be grateful. Now, what is it a blind old fart can do for you folks?”
Stephen, who’d clearly connected with the old man, explained for them. Powassin listened without emotion and, when Stephen had finished, was thoughtfully silent for a very long while. Rose knew that Ojibwe time was different, and knew that, even though their mission was pressing, great patience was required.
“That storm was a real bastard,” the old man finally said. “Didn’t even feel it comin’, which is pretty strange. I don’t see worth beans anymore, but I can usually tell about weather. Especially lousy weather. My bunions give me hell.” He lifted a hand spotted as an old banana and pointed north. “There’s a place many miles from here, an island that the Anishinaabeg once used to hide their children from our ancient enemy, the Dakota. It’s not easy to find. The water’s full of hidden rocks, and the shoreline’s pretty unfriendly. Probably why our ancestors chose it in the first place. They painted pictures on the rocks there, pictures of children. Our people used to paint on rocks quite a bit, I guess, and most of those paintings are well known around this lake. They’ve been visited and sometimes violated, but not these. Only a very few know about these paintings. Maybe, Makadewagosh, that’s what your father was going to show your sister. Are children an issue of some kind?”
No one spoke. Finally Rose said, “Yes, grandfather.”
“Then I’d look there. It’s a place to start anyway.”
“How do we find it?” Bascombe asked.
Powassin smiled. “You don’t. Unless you take me along. I think I’d enjoy a boat ride today.”
TWENTY-ONE
Cork swam hard for the island with the high bluff. The wind had been up all morning, and the debris that had choked the channel the night before had washed against the shorelines. He had a clear passage, but he swam against the wind and wasn’t making the crossing as quickly as he would have liked. He knew that he had to reach the island and climb the bluff before the man who hunted them found Jenny’s shelter. How much time he actually had he didn’t know. All he really knew was that every second was precious.
He’d discarded his pants and hidden them in a thicket. He’d removed his shirt and had rolled his sneakers in it, along with the knife, and had tied the bundle around his waist. The distance to the island was roughly three hundred yards. Cork was a runner, a man with several marathons to his credit, but swimming was a different ball game, especially battling waves and carrying the ballast around his midsection. He tired faster than he’d imagined. With still a hundred yards to go, he was breathing in gasps, and his arms and legs were burning with fatigue. As much as he hated having to do it, he stopped for a couple of minutes and floated on his back to keep from completely exhausting himself. He stared up at the sky, which was remarkably clear and breathtakingly blue. He watched a pelican glide effortlessly along the current of the wind, and he wished he, too, could fly. He wished he’d never brought his family to this place. He wished he’d never shown Jenny the rock paintings. He wished he’d never tried to interfere in her life. He wished, as he sometimes did in the dark of his own regrets, that he was a different man, a wiser man, a better man. Or at least, he thought now, a better swimmer.
He rolled onto his stomach and began again to stroke hard for the island, battling once more the relentless wind and endless waves.
Jenny’s heart was a wild horse galloping. After her father left, she realized how much his presence had meant to her, and for a short while, she stood absolutely paralyzed by the enormity of the threat they faced, frozen in the little sanctuary they’d found among the trees, wishing desperately that she and her father and the child could
