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has proven to be a mathematical whiz. She has learned to multiply to the factor of ten; the time tables are all written down in her notebook, though rather raggedly, Izzy admits.
    “What a mess these are,” Taylor barks. “There isn’t one example of legible writing in the whole lot. It proves my point exactly. These schools are a waste of tax dollars. If I were you, Miss Wentworth, I’d be furious at having squandered my time.”
    “Oh don’t be so hard on the kids,” Doc Happy Mac interjects. “You can’t expect the Indian to become civilized overnight. A few more years and these children will be as white as you and I.”
    Izzy is grateful when, at that moment, Sinclair Lewis announces he has finished his deliberations. His lanky frame looms over the classroom.
    “Boys and girls, you’re going to think I’m a terrible judge. Having considered long and hard, I simply cannot pick a best picture. Really, they’re all so good. So I declare that you are all winners. Prizes will be handed out this afternoon.”
    With that, the party of large men, mopping their brows, say goodbye. As he goes out the door, Rev. Wentworth whispers to his daughter, “It wasn’t an overwhelming success, was it?”

Chapter Nine

    The children squeal with delight when Izzy holds up the story book. On the cover three tiny omomikwesiwak paddle a canoe. The kids love these ugly creatures who sit slouched over, their thick black hair falling forward.
    “Why won’t they let us see their faces?” Izzy asks the class.
    “They’re ashamed ‘cause they don’t have any noses,” they shout out in unison.
    “Now, listen, my athikisisak , my little tadpoles. You are to write down everything you know about the omomikwesiwak . The first one finished gets to read his or hers out loud.”
    Izzy made the story book herself, from sheets of brown wrapping paper glued at the sides, the pictures painted with the water colours she brought back from the east. The plot line, though, is Annie’s. For years Izzy has sucked up the housekeeper’s stories, like a hummingbird siphoning nectar.
    Annie Custer was always the first person Izzy ran to when she arrived back in Pelican Narrows for summer vacation. She’d throw her arms around her, screeching, “Annie, Annie, I’m back. Can you believe it?”
    Annie, who is reserved even for a Cree woman, was always taken aback by such an extravagant show of affection. But then, who wouldn’t be captivated by this exuberant girl? And there was a certain satisfaction that the child was obviously happier to see the Indian housekeeper than her parents.
    For Izzy, the summers she was allowed to spend at Pelican Narrows were glorious. At first the Wentworths were reluctant to let her roam about, but they soon realized there was no way they could contain her. She ran with the Cree children, barefoot always, sometimes naked as a piglet, gambolling on the beach, racing, fishing with little nets, and playing cowboys and Indians – she was always made to be a Mountie. She took part in all the games – snow snake, deer sticks, marbles, spinning stones, the coasting-erect race. She won as often as she lost, never mind that her opponents were mostly boys.
    There were dolls – Izzy’s from Eaton’s Department Store in Toronto, the other girls’ made from socks stuffed with rags. Seagull feathers were fashioned into hats. Doll play began with the babies swinging in their hammocks, their little mothers singing them soft Cree lullabies, but often ended with a bloody massacre by the Sioux which left the sock heads ragged.
    Izzy learned to insult in Cree, kispakitcon – fat lips – and makistikwan – big head – being her two favourites, and to fight with her fists because there was always some kid who made fun of her pale complexion. “Fish-belly Izzy, fish-eye Izzy.”
    A few weeks in the sun and Izzy would turn almost as brown as her playmates, but her mother, watching from the rectory window, her mouth pinched in