We already have an agreement with a developer for the construction of a hunting and fishing resort as soon as there is lake access. The Algonquin must understand that this tourist enterprise will contribute to the economic development of the reserve, of which there is urgent need, and to the well-being of the whole region.

Indians who wish to work on the site will of course be given priority in terms of employment and, later, to work as tourist guides, camp maintenance workers and boat operators, etc. They will be provided with a future.

Hugh Richardson, Deputy Minister
Ministry of Indian and Northern Affairs

I can’t believe my eyes. I read it again to make sure I have understood.

The little stove growls like a cat in heat. It’s hot in the tent.

They want to take down the trees in the pine forest, dig up the ground and flatten everything to open a road to the lake.

I read the letter to Tom. His lined face is puzzled. His eyes are worried. The words rasp against my tight throat like the keel of a canoe scraping over a rocky river bottom.

There’s a long, anxious silence.

Outside it’s dawn. The crows are screaming and bickering at each other. Tom stands up and looms above me. His head blurs in the shadows of the ridge of the tent. I hear his angry voice above me.

“We’ll wait for them here, that’s all we can do. They are going to cut down our trees, defame the graves of our ancestors. We’re the ones who are going to rot away like cut branches, and when the sap has drained out of us, we’ll die. This is a sacrilege, Nipishish! When the creator of all things made the land, the lakes, the rivers, the air, the plants and trees, he made us — us! — to be the guardians of the earth. This time we will stand together. They will not do this to us again!”

Then his voice calms down, grows steady and determined. Now it’s his wisdom speaking

“But for now we’ll wait. It’s best to let the storm pass for the moment.”

Tom stashes my bag inside a birchbark basket, but I keep the letter from the deputy minister and put it in the pocket in my raincoat.

“Come with me,” he says.

I follow him into the forest. He hides the basket in a hole well concealed between the gnarled roots of a large pine.

“We are the only people who know about this spot,” he says. “You can come back here when the time is right.”

The sun is up. It’s going to be a fine day. Tom goes back to his tent, but it’s time for me to go home.

I go up the path. I’m tired, but content. I’ve finally got the files.

I take big strides in my boots, as if I have wings. The letter in my pocket feels like a stick of dynamite.