“Tell me a story, Mishomis,” he asked, nuzzling his face into Grandfather’s chest. “The one about Nanabozho … in the beginning …”

      “In the beginning,” Grandfather started, “Creator made a world of —”

      Red Wolf joined in, “Water… wind … Rock … and fire.”

      “That’s right! And to the sun he gave the power to heat and light the earth.

      To the earth he gave the power of growth and healing.

      To the water he gave purity and renewal.

      To the wind he gave music, and the breath of life itself.

      After these things, Creator made animals and us, The People, Anishnaabek.

      But The People had much to learn about how to live on this earth, about how to —”

      “Hunt,” Red Wolf chimed in loudly.

      “And how to —” Grandfather looked expectantly at the boy.

      “Heal?” the child said hesitantly.

      “Yes! The Great Spirit needed to teach us about kindness, honesty, and generosity. So He sent a teacher whose name was —”

      “Nanabozho!”

      “Looking at Nanabozho, you wouldn’t know that he was any different from you,” the old man continued, “but he was. He was half spirit and half human. His mother was Woman, and his father was the West Wind! And what could Nanabozho do?”

      “He could do wondrous things,” Red Wolf answered proudly.

      The weathered creases on the old man’s face deepened and a toothless smile stretched across his open lips. “When Nanabozho walked the earth, Creator sent Ma’een’gun, the wolf, to walk with him, to talk with him and hunt with him.”

      “They were friends?” Red Wolf suggested.

      “Yes, but they were more than friends. Nanabozho and Ma’een’gun became like brothers. But one day when they were hunting together they got so excited that they disobeyed the instructions and they killed more than they needed. They killed just for the fun of it.”

      “That was bad, wasn’t it, Grandfather?”

      “Yes, it was,” the old man affirmed, the strong, deep tone of his voice disguising the frailty of aging flesh and bones.

      “And from that day forward, Creator made Nanabozho and Ma’een’gun, and all their descendants, both wolf and man, walk on separate paths.”

      “They were not allowed to be friends anymore?”

      The old man paused, working his tongue around his few remaining teeth while thinking of a way to answer the child. “It became a different friendship,” he finally said. “Ma’een’gun is still our brother. More than that — Ma’een’gun is our spirit guide. But wolves walk one path and we walk another. Sometimes the paths are close together. Sometimes not. Sometimes they go in the same direction. Sometimes not.”

      The old man lovingly touched his grandson’s head, his aged eyes bright with love. “But when we need guidance the spirit wolves are always close by.

      “Always.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Red Wolf was jolted into consciousness by a loud clanging. With a thumping heart, he clapped his hands over his ears and ran for his mother. He fell from the bed and landed flat on his face on the wooden floorboards, the wolf head pendant falling from his hand and skittering along the floor, disappearing under the next bed. Everyone was looking at him and laughing at him. He knew this even though he lay face down on the floor, but all he was worried about was if anyone had seen the wolf head. He pleaded with it to remain hidden until he could safely retrieve it.

      “Silence!” Father Thomas ordered.

      The laughter stopped.

      Red Wolf scrambled to his feet, the foreign surroundings crashing into him like a charging bull moose. Instantly he was wide awake and terrified. Outside the barred window it was still dark, but in the yellow lamplight he could see the other boys in their nightshirts, kneeling beside their beds, pressing their palms and fingers together.

      Red Wolf knelt beside his bed and copied them, but he peeked through narrowed eyes, not wanting to miss any command that might earn him punishment.

      Father Thomas, wearing a white nightrobe, was talking in the language that made no sense. He rocked back and forth on his slippered heels, exposing glimpses of blue-grey ankles. He didn’t have his ruler with him. Red Wolf followed the priest’s upward gaze, wondering who he was talking to up there, but he could see no one. The wooden beams and rafters were more substantial than the slim poles of his birch-bark wiigwam, but there was no opening for the smoke from the fire. In fact, there was no fire! Red Wolf had never lived without fire, and the damp cold of the dormitory soon caused him to shiver.

      “Aaah-men,” the boys said.

      Mister Hall, his bald head shining in the lamplight, entered the dormitory making a drumming rhythm by smacking his walking cane into the palm of his hand. Red Wolf thought that soon there would be singing or dancing. He was shocked when the boys who had wet beds leaned over to touch their toes, upending their bare bottoms. Mother Hall used words to admonish each child, then Mister Hall used his cane, and finally Father Thomas added a blessing. It went like this:

      “You filthy boy!” Thwack. “God save your heathen soul. Amen.”

      “You disgusting bed-wetter!” Thwack. “God save you from your pagan ways. Amen.”

      “You good-for-nothing Indian!” Thwack. “God bless you, even though you’re an Indian.”

      In this manner Red Wolf began to understand the English language.

      Still in their nightshirts, the boys put on their school boots. Red Wolf fumbled at the trailing laces then hid them down inside the boots against his bare ankles.

      “Ablutions!” Mother Hall shouted, choosing a boy to carry the communal night-soil bucket.

      Immediately, the children fell into line behind the boy with the pail. Red Wolf brought up the rear, where he imitated the rhythm of their swinging arms and marching feet. The line proceeded out the dormitory, along the corridor, down two flights of stairs, and along a passageway to the side of the building. As soon as the first boy in line pushed open the door, Red Wolf wriggled his nose at the stench then stood aghast at the sight that met his eyes; some twenty boys sat on a long bench that straddled a deep, smelly trench. Their nightshirts were hiked around their waists, and ankle boots, on the ends of bare legs, waved in the air. A boy jumped off the bench and the next in line took his place, then another and another. When it was Red Wolf’s turn he didn’t move fast enough.

      “Hurry up. Get on the throne,” the latrine orderly said. “You have two minutes. After that you have to wait until tomorrow.” Red Wolf didn’t understand the words, though he knew what he was supposed to do. But since the orderly’s demeanour was not threatening, since his skin was brown not white, since he held no ruler or leather strips, Red Wolf didn’t rush.

      “You lost ten seconds already,” the youth said, stretching his hand toward Red Wolf and showing him the pocket watch in his palm.

      Had Red Wolf’s senses not already been in overload, the moving hands of the timepiece would have fascinated him. Instead, he approached the vacant space on the bench and holding his breath peered through the round hole in the wood. It looked very big, and he wondered if he could balance on it without