Tom holds the people’s drum. He holds it high like the sun and beats it softly. The deep lines on his face are the dark furrows of our land, and from his lips comes a lament that is carried on the vibrations of the moosehide. In our own language Tom speaks to Kitchimanitou, the creator of all things. He speaks to the spirits of our brave ancestors, to the trees, the plants, the animals, the allies that many of us have forgotten. He brings them back into our memory.

A woman is standing back a bit to my right. It must be Mathilde, Pinamen’s mother. She is exactly as I imagined her — short, her Attikamek beret down to her ears. Her bony hand leans on the knob of a gray branch that serves as her walking stick. She has the same intelligent, bright eyes as Pinamen.

Our glances meet. Then suddenly her eyes light up, and she gives me a wide smile that warms me like the sun breaking through in the spring.

Manie stands between me and Tom. Her eyes are shining in a way that I haven’t seen in a long time.

Manie has given us back our pride. For once I feel like a worthy descendant of my Anishnabe ancestors. I am a man with a great lineage. The earth, the water, the air are my very flesh, my breath, my blood.

Only the drum sounds now in the morning air. The police receive the order to withdraw quietly.

“Cutting down a living tree is like killing an Indian,” I say to the sergeant as he turns away from me.

I know the loggers, the trucks, the bulldozer and the police will be back. But today we have won, and things will never be the same again.

Someone brushes up lightly against my shoulder. I turn and see Pinamen beside me, and she slides her hand into mine.

A tous nos enfants, qui ont tant besoin d’espoir, et particulièrement aux enfants du Labrador.

1

“HEY, NIPISHISH!”

It’s William. He’s waving at me from the steps of the band office.

I stop and turn, but I don’t go over. He hesitates, then trots over to me, his big stomach bouncing.

“Nipishish, wait.” He’s sweating, his face is red. We walk together slowly. “You know I’ve just been made band manager.”

“Yes, congratulations.”

We walk on in silence while he catches his breath.

“I heard that old Tom was sick,” he says.

“Yes. He’s dying. I’m going to see him now. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll make him happy to see you even for a short —”

“No, I don’t have time. I’ll go later. Ever since the break-in at the office, things have been crazy. Agents from the ministry on one side, the police on the other. I don’t know which way to turn anymore. My office is buzzing like a wasp’s nest.”