Northwest Angle

TWENTY

First thing in the morning, Bascombe spoke with the mainland and learned that, in addition to the missing O’Connors, half a dozen other people were still unaccounted for, all visiting fishermen staying at lodges in the area. A search effort by local volunteers was being organized. Neither Lake of the Woods County authorities nor the Coast Guard station in Warroad could send help; with the devastation that the derecho had wreaked on the communities along the lake’s southern shoreline, they already had their own hands full.

“Like always,” Bascombe said, scratching at his beard, “we’re on our own up here. But don’t worry. We know what we’re doing.”

The O’Connors were happy to believe him.

Bascombe’s boat was large enough to accommodate only three passengers comfortably, and he called a friend to lend a hand, a guy named Tony Ebnet, who was a guide at Angle Inn Lodge, a resort half a mile distant. Ebnet motored up to Bascombe’s, where he picked up Anne and Aaron and took off to search the Tug Channel and north through French Portage. Bascombe took the others in his launch. They stopped at an unmanned customs station on Cyclone Island, where he phoned in and explained the situation to both the Canadian and U.S. officials, who were, he reported, understanding. Then they continued to Windigo Island.

Over the noisy splash of the boat through the swells that rose with the wind, Bascombe explained about Windigo Island and the Reserve 37 Ojibwe.

“There are two bands of First Nations Indians in this area,” he said. “The Reserve Thirty-three Ojibwe live north of Angle Inlet. The Reserve Thirty-seven are broken into two groups. The largest bunch are way over on the northeastern side of the lake, on Regina Bay, but the administration for the band is handled by the folks here on Windigo and Little Windigo. Good people, although sometimes the men, especially the young ones, are prone to get a little drunk or a little high and get out of line. No real trouble though. Like I say, good people. We’re going to talk to a woman named Cherri Allen. I called to let her know we’re coming. She’s from the States, somewhere in Michigan. Married into the Powassin family on the island, and handles a lot of visitor issues. Canadian fishing permits, arranging for Indian guides, that kind of thing. She’ll be a good place to start.”

They motored to a long dock and tied up. A trail led from the dock into some trees through which a white clapboard house was visible. The island was well west of the track the storm had followed, and the tree cover was undamaged. As they disembarked, a woman appeared on the trail, walking out of the shadows of a stand of paper birch, smiling warmly.

“Boozhoo!” Bascombe cried, offering the familiar Ojibwe greeting.

“Boozhoo, Seth,” the woman called back.

She looked to Rose to be in her early fifties. Attractive, with blond hair blown a little askew by the wind. She wore loose jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled well above the elbows. Her eyes were blue and every bit as friendly as her smile.

“Anin,” Stephen said, in formal Ojibwe greeting, and the woman was clearly pleased.

“Anin,” she replied. “Are you Indian?” “Mixed blood,” Anne said. “Our great-grandmother was true-blood Iron Lake Ojibwe.”

“Near Aurora, Minnesota,” the woman said, beaming. “I know that area well. There’s a wonderful elder who lives there, a Mide.”

“Henry Meloux,” Stephen said with amazement.

“Yes, you know him?”

Stephen laughed. “He’s practically part of our family. My great-grandmother nearly married him.”

“Then welcome you are,” the woman said. “Would you like to come up to the house? I have fresh coffee brewing.”

“We’re on a kind of pressing mission, Cherri,” Bascombe said. “We’re hoping the questions we have’ll be easy to answer.”

Cherri opened her arms, and in the morning sunlight, her shadow was like a dark bird preparing to fly. “Ask away.”

Rose said, “Some of our party went missing in the storm yesterday. My brother-in-law and my niece. They were headed to Young’s Bay Landing but never made it.”

“I’m sorry,” Cherri said. “Where were they coming from?”

“Above Tranquil Channel,” Mal told her.

“In a launch?”

“A dinghy with an old outboard.” Mal explained the time frame of departure and expected arrival at the landing.

Cherri frowned. “There should have been plenty of time for them to reach the mainland before that horrible storm blew through.”

“There was something on the way that my dad wanted my sister to see, something Ojibwe,” Stephen said.

“And what was that?”

“We don’t know,” he confessed with a shrug. “But we think it has something to do with children.”

Cherri gave it long thought while the wind pulled at her hair and the birch leaves quivered restlessly at her back. Finally she shook her head. “I honestly don’t know what it could be.”

“Is there anyone who might?” Anne said.

“Maybe Amos Powassin.”

“Who’s that?”

“One of our elders. Quite old, but he knows more about this lake and its Ojibwe history than anyone I can think of.”

“Where do we find him?” Bascombe asked.

“If you’ve got room for me in your boat, Seth, I’ll guide you there myself.”

Amos Powassin sat in an Adirondack chair on a dock empty of boats a dozen yards from his small house. He was fishing. A young girl, maybe seven or eight, was with him, sitting cross-legged near his feet, tending a bait bucket. She wore yellow shorts and a T-shirt with an image of the Frog Princess on the front. Her feet were bare.

Stephen leaped to the dock, and Mal threw him a line. When they were tied up, they all disembarked and walked toward the old man, who slowly reeled in his line. He didn’t look at them as they came.

“Boozhoo, grandfather,” Cherri Allen said.

“The way this dock’s shakin’, feels like you brought an army with you, Cherri,” the old man said.

“Visitors, grandfather. They need information.”

“Thought that was something you gave out,” he said. “Part of your job.” He lifted his line, swung it clear of the water, and laid it on the dock beside his chair. He bent and whispered something to the little girl, who smiled and nodded, then got to her feet and ran toward the house.

“The question these people have I can’t answer, grandfather.”

He finally turned to them. His hair was long and white and spilled down from a broad-brimmed canvas hat. His wrinkled face was in shadow, and from the way his eyes didn’t focus on anyone, Rose understood that he was blind. He reached out, found the walking stick that leaned against his chair, and used the stick to help himself rise. Rose saw that the top of the stick was carefully carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.

Stephen must have seen it, too, because he said, “Ma’iingan, grandfather.”

The old man leaned on the stick and addressed the direction of Stephen’s voice. “Keep talking, boy.”

“On your cane,” Stephen said. “We’re Ma’iingan, grandfather. Our clan.”

“You Indian, then?”

“I have the blood of The People in me,” Stephen said. “Iron Lake Ojibwe.”

“You got a name, boy?”

“Makadewagosh.”

Rose knew that this was Stephen’s Ojibwe name. It meant “Silver Fox.”

The old man considered the name and nodded. “Sleek and cunning. I got a sense whoever named you knew what they were doing.”

“I was named by a wise man, grandfather. Henry Meloux.”

A broad grin stretched across the old man’s face, putting dozens of extra wrinkles into his cheeks. “Now that’s a name I know. Christ, been a long time since we smoked together. How is my old friend?”

“He’s well, grandfather,” Stephen said. “When we go home, I’ll tell him boozhoo for you.”

“You do that, Makadewagosh. I’d be grateful. Now, what is it a blind old fart can do for you folks?”

Stephen, who’d clearly connected with the old man, explained for them. Powassin listened without emotion and, when Stephen had finished, was thoughtfully silent for a very long while. Rose knew that Ojibwe time was different, and knew that, even though their mission was pressing, great patience was required.

“That storm was a real bastard,” the old man finally said. “Didn’t even feel it comin’, which is pretty strange. I don’t see worth beans anymore, but I can usually tell about weather. Especially lousy weather. My bunions give me hell.” He lifted a hand spotted as an old banana and pointed north. “There’s a place many miles from here, an island that the Anishinaabeg once used to hide their children from our ancient enemy, the Dakota. It’s not easy to find. The water’s full of hidden rocks, and the shoreline’s pretty unfriendly. Probably why our ancestors chose it in the first place. They painted pictures on the rocks there, pictures of children. Our people used to paint on rocks quite a bit, I guess, and most of those paintings are well known around this lake. They’ve been visited and sometimes violated, but not these. Only a very few know about these paintings. Maybe, Makadewagosh, that’s what your father was going to show your sister. Are children an issue of some kind?”

No one spoke. Finally Rose said, “Yes, grandfather.”

“Then I’d look there. It’s a place to start anyway.”

“How do we find it?” Bascombe asked.

Powassin smiled. “You don’t. Unless you take me along. I think I’d enjoy a boat ride today.”