Under the guns, mothers fall to the sandy pebble shore. "At least let us say goodbye. Let us hold them," Muskwa pleads. "You have no right!"

The Captain stuffs his hand into the breast pocket of his red uniform and takes out a folded parchment document. His voice raises above the crowd, "Articles of the Gradual Civilization Act, the Indian Education Policy, and the wishes of her Majesty Queen Victoria in agreement with the Cree by Treaty Number Eight of 1899, dictate: 'All Aboriginal children between the ages of five and sixteen must be placed into the competent care of a chartered Industrial or Residential Indian Boarding School. Wherein, until the age of eighteen, these children will gradually learn and understand..." The Captain continues to read the declaration in a tenor of pride at the sound of his own voice, as he attempts the intricate sounds of officialdom. The officer assigned to the children steps beside the Captain and proudly shouts, "One hundred and fifty two have been counted!"

Muskwa tries to study the priest without anger. "What can you teach them?" he asks, finally.

In silence, the priest gestures for the young policeman to walk with him to the boats. Again he is carried back across the waters. His shout to the Captain is clear: "Load them up! We have 600 miles to cover!"

The Captain motions for the detachment to surround the remaining children and push them into the barge. The human pen becomes a buffer of raised rifles and petrified children. "Load them up! Ready the boats!" the Captain barks.

The high wailing of many voices quickens with gun smoke and fog to make ghosts. Mothers and grandmothers scratch at their breasts, tangle their hands in their hair and clothing. They are calling for their children. Grandfathers examine their empty palms and raise them to the sky. The barge ramps are pulled shut and policemen push the boats and barge backward into the water. The barge floats sideways as it leaves the water's edge for deeper River.

On the gravel beach the camp's landing, fists of sand and pebbles are taken from the foot prints of the vanishing children. When the flotilla is at a safe distance, the last squad of Mounted Police board their boats and push off into the current, their big oars wriggling-- a water beetle turned uselessly upside down.

The children on the barge have stopped crying. There is silence. Once, the delicate voice of a young child carries a mother's name through the remaining strands of morning mist. Muskwa buries his face into his hands and falls to one knee.

Now, the women wade to their hips in the cold River and one by one speak their children's names. A child's voice floats across the water. The Cree stand and close their eyes; they listen intently to the last sounds of their children, as the barge drifts its way to the River's bend.

Soon, an old woman stands and calls for her grandchild. The name dances across the water's surface and loses itself in the stones, dirt, and trees on the River's bank. A small voice returns from the distance. A woman in the frigid water shouts her daughter's name. The soft echo of her little girl's voice makes her tremble; the woman covers her mouth with both hands. Another woman calls her child's name. A faint reply takes more time to find its way. The wait grows longer with each call. A father waits. He looks to his wife as he realizes there will not be a reply. Someone cries another name. Everyone waits. Nothing.

River takes the fishing boats, guns, the priest and the children into a thin veil of mist and then beyond the bend.

Author's Note:

Early one morning in September, 1917, a detachment of Royal Canadian Mounted Police, along with several representatives of the Catholic Missionary School System, took 152 Cree children from the hunting and fishing camp of a band of Woodland Cree in northern Canada. These children, as most other Native children across Canada, were forced into the Missionary School system for up to eleven years and not allowed intimate contact with their families, for fear of "the savage influence upon their proper upbringing." Of those taken that September day, only six girls and three boys would ever return to their people.