Here in the pine forest there is no alcohol, no violence. Old Tom tells us stories from way in the past, even stories about the time before the white men came. I listen carefully, and at night, when I’m in bed, I say them over to myself. One day I’ll tell them to Pinamen and our children.

One night, at the end of the storytelling, Tom says something that I will never forget: “The creator of all things made the wolves, and wolves know who they are. The creator of all things made the eagles, and the eagles know who they are. The creator of all things made men, but men still don’t always know who they are!”

This wise old man has given me a lot to think about.

The whole community is upset by what has happened to Tom. Everyone, young and old, feels hurt by what the logging company has done without our knowledge. Why take down all those trees at the same time, in the same place?

“It’s unbelievable,” the women say among themselves. “Anyone who would do that has no respect for Indians or for nature.”

The men say that one day nature will avenge herself, and that her anger will be terrible for humans.

The young people don’t have the patience or the tolerance of the old ones. We gather on the big dock of the Bay store to drink Coke and smoke. The talk gets violent.

But we don’t let any of this show in front of the whites. This is how we do things. What is going on inside us is none of the whites’ business.

For a few weeks now, the police have been on the reserve constantly, poking around, asking questions, pretending to conduct some kind of investigation into whether the Indians are trafficking in alcohol.

But we are as silent as the grave.

6

SOMEONE IS COMING out of the band office. The walk looks familiar, but who is it? I lean forward in my chair.

He looks left, right, lights a cigarette, takes two or three deep drags. He looks nervous. He plunges his hands in his pockets and starts walking quickly.

It’s William. I haven’t seen him for a long time. I wonder where he’s headed, walking as if he’s got a fire up his ass, as the whites would say. Indians don’t usually walk like this.

Now he turns toward Manie’s house — my house!

I figure he’ll branch off when he gets to the road, but he crosses the street with wide strides. I hear a step on the porch.

I wait for him to come in, but nothing happens. Then, knock, knock, knock! Three timid knocks.

I wait. He knocks again, harder this time, and the sound echoes through the house.

The doorknob is broken. I watch it turn uselessly.

William gives a good shove and the door opens.