The elders tell the old stories about huge monsters and giant birds that carry thunderbolts between their sharp claws. They tell of powerful shamans who can throw entire wolf packs against enemy warriors. But none of those tales comes close to what we see this morning.

Finally the procession comes to a dead end and stops. Before it stand only the virgin forest and our little paths that lead from one tent to another.

The engines go silent. A strong smell of gasoline fills the air.

The drivers slam the doors and jump down from the cabs. They look tiny next to the big trucks. Then they climb into a little bus that has followed the trucks. The bus turns around and they leave without a word.

We are both terrified and fascinated by this swarm of shiny monsters. They look unreal, but every instinct tells us they can be extremely dangerous. In their iron guts sleeps a power that we do not control. They can destroy everything in their path, even move mountains. Nothing can resist them — not fierce winds or mighty rains or rising rivers or forest fires.

The shamans never predicted that such a force could invade our land.

It’s the dogs that make the first move. They circle the trucks and then they urinate on the tires. Now we move forward to examine them more closely. The timid look on from the edge of the woods.

The women gather around Manie. They talk among themselves. Their voices are getting louder.

“Nipishish! Come here!”

I hurry over, and the women part to let me pass. They stop talking.

Manie is standing in front of the first truck, her hands on her big hips.

“Nipishish, what does that say?”

She points at the metal license plate on the front of the truck and looks at me. I went to residential school, so I must know how to read.

All the women are standing around in a tight circle, waiting.

I lick my lips and clear my throat.

“This says Quebec, 1959.”

“That’s it?”

“No. Here, in big, these are numbers.”

“So?”

“It’s a number, like a band number. You know how every Indian has a number? You, Sam, Josephine, William…”

Manie nods. Every Indian gets a number from the government and knows it by heart.

“The whites own lots of things,” I continue. “So they give everything a number so they won’t lose them.”

“Ah!”

I point at the license plate. “That’s the number of the truck. It belongs to the whites.”

Manie understands. She points to something written on the front of the cab.

“Sex…Sexy Lady,” I read out. “It’s a nickname. Like Big Nose, Big Ears…”

But Manie hasn’t finished. She takes my arm and pulls me to the truck door, where there are more words.

I read them out.

“O’Connell Construction Company. General Contractor. Renovation… Roads… House Construc-tion.”