I head straight for the camp. Charlotte has heard us approach. She comes down to the little wooden dock followed by her two children, Nancy and Fred. They are a little younger than me. I slow down and cut the motor.

The silence is sudden and big. The canoe glides in. With a couple of strokes of the paddle Sam brushes us up against the dock. Fred and Nancy grab the canoe and pull us in.

I get out. Charlotte hurries forward and takes me in her arms. I feel her motherly warmth. Fred and Nancy are more shy. They shake my hand.

“Hey, what about the old folks? Are you just going to leave me sitting here like a sack of flour?”

And we hurry to help Manie out of the canoe.

• • •

Charlotte is Pinamen’s aunt. They are Attikamek from Manawane, in Haute-Mauricie. They speak their mother tongue together, but I can understand if I listen closely. I love the rhythm of their speech. It’s like singing. They have the same accent when they speak Algonquin, too, and it makes me smile.

Sam and Charlotte’s log cabin is one big room. Inside the door, facing the lake, is the kitchen with a big wood stove, shelves above the wash basin for dishes and pots, and a long table covered with a red-and-white checked oilcloth, surrounded by benches. On the forest side of the cabin, behind the stove, is the sleeping area with a row of beds. The ones along the wall are bunkbeds.

The big stove is roaring and tea is boiling. It’s nice and warm in the cabin.

We sit around the table. Charlotte pours tea into the tin cups. Pinamen lights the oil lamp. The light makes a yellow halo on the tablecloth. I can just see our eyes and our hands resting on the table. We are like ghosts.

The two ospreys give one last long cry. Thousands of frogs, barely awake from their winter sleep, burst into their mating songs. It’s truly spring.

Now we all wait for the oldest person to speak. Manie sips her tea and puts down her cup.

“Nipishish,” she says, “an agent from the Ministry of Indian Affairs gave Pinamen your letter. He’s the one who told her that you were from Lac Cabonga. She immediately arranged to come to see her aunt Charlotte. Last week, around this very table, she read us your letter several times. We were very moved and worried. We could hear your cry for help.”

My heart swells when I listen to Manie. If I open my mouth I will start to cry, like a big cloud that suddenly bursts.

“We decided to go and find you right away, before it was too late, to tell you that your place is here with us.”

She reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. They are warm and firm, but trembling lightly.