Read Online Season of Storm by Sellers Alexandra - Free Book Online
Authors: Sellers Alexandra
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know what that means?" he asked.
"It means land that the Indians claim belongs to them and should be returned to their use and control," Smith said, irritated by the implication.
Johnny Winterhawk nodded briefly. "This land claim was registered with the federal and provincial governments in 1968," he said. "In 1976 the timber rights for the land from Cat Bite River north to Hackle Ridge, including Cat Bite Valley, were sold to St. John Forest Products by the provincial forestry ministry, although lumbering operations never began. Ever since then, the Chopa have been trying to have all timber rights on the land-claim area—which includes our traditional hunting and fishing grounds—revoked."
"It's pretty big, the land-claim territory," Smith said dubiously, eyeing the map. How could the Chopa people hope to get control of such an amount of land?
He looked at her for a moment. "It is less than a quarter of the original territory of the Chopa," he said quietly. "But then the population of the Chopa nation is less than one-half of what it was three hundred years ago, so no doubt we can get along on less land."
He spoke so calmly that for a moment she didn't believe she had heard correctly. Then, looking into his eyes, she understood that she had.
"What?" she demanded incredulously.
"Does that surprise you, Miss St. John?"
The cynical mockery in his eyes disturbed her. "Surprise me?" she repeated. "I don't believe you! How could—"
"Of course you don't," he agreed. "It's easier to ignore facts that make you uncomfortable." There was contempt in his voice now, and she couldn't help reacting to it.
"All right," she said. "Then tell me why. What happened?"
He laughed outright. "What happened to reduce the population of the Chopa nation by one-half while the population of Canada increased by nearly six hundred percent?" he asked. "The white man happened, Miss St. John. The white man, with his hatred and his diseases and his greed for land. And his broken promises. Our infant mortality rate is four times the national average. Our life expectancy is ten years shorter than the white man's. Does that surprise you?"
Smith drew in a slow breath. Everybody knew that the native population had suffered dreadful losses in the early years of European settlement in Canada, but she would have said that in more enlightened times the population had at least returned to its original numbers.
"What's this got to do with my father?" she asked, after a moment.
"About a year ago your father announced that cutting operations would begin in the Cat Bite Valley and Hackle Ridge areas. The Chopa nation mounted a protest with the Environment ministry of the provincial government and with federal Department of Indian Affairs and others—all of them useless bodies, but the publicity was good. It attracted church groups and wildlife foundations, as such causes do, but it had no overt effect on your father. However, last year's strike of the forestry workers had a crucial timing as far as we were concerned. In August, St. John Forest Products announced that continuing manpower and technical problems had delayed the start of operations in Cat Bite Valley and that it would be impossible to go ahead until this year." He paused, leaning over the desk, his hands on either side of the map. "No one knows exactly why your father did this. If he hoped that the protest would die down over time, he was wrong. From a business point of view he'd have been smarter just to get in there and start chopping as soon as the strike was over, and it might have been just one more battle lost for the Indians. What he did surprised us."
It surprised Smith, too. Her father hadn't got where he was by backing away from a battle, or by refusing to step on the toes of innocent people. "Don't talk to me about goddamn Indian rights," was what he would have said. "Just get in there and start sawing." With a start Shulamith realized that her mental imitation of her father's
"It means land that the Indians claim belongs to them and should be returned to their use and control," Smith said, irritated by the implication.
Johnny Winterhawk nodded briefly. "This land claim was registered with the federal and provincial governments in 1968," he said. "In 1976 the timber rights for the land from Cat Bite River north to Hackle Ridge, including Cat Bite Valley, were sold to St. John Forest Products by the provincial forestry ministry, although lumbering operations never began. Ever since then, the Chopa have been trying to have all timber rights on the land-claim area—which includes our traditional hunting and fishing grounds—revoked."
"It's pretty big, the land-claim territory," Smith said dubiously, eyeing the map. How could the Chopa people hope to get control of such an amount of land?
He looked at her for a moment. "It is less than a quarter of the original territory of the Chopa," he said quietly. "But then the population of the Chopa nation is less than one-half of what it was three hundred years ago, so no doubt we can get along on less land."
He spoke so calmly that for a moment she didn't believe she had heard correctly. Then, looking into his eyes, she understood that she had.
"What?" she demanded incredulously.
"Does that surprise you, Miss St. John?"
The cynical mockery in his eyes disturbed her. "Surprise me?" she repeated. "I don't believe you! How could—"
"Of course you don't," he agreed. "It's easier to ignore facts that make you uncomfortable." There was contempt in his voice now, and she couldn't help reacting to it.
"All right," she said. "Then tell me why. What happened?"
He laughed outright. "What happened to reduce the population of the Chopa nation by one-half while the population of Canada increased by nearly six hundred percent?" he asked. "The white man happened, Miss St. John. The white man, with his hatred and his diseases and his greed for land. And his broken promises. Our infant mortality rate is four times the national average. Our life expectancy is ten years shorter than the white man's. Does that surprise you?"
Smith drew in a slow breath. Everybody knew that the native population had suffered dreadful losses in the early years of European settlement in Canada, but she would have said that in more enlightened times the population had at least returned to its original numbers.
"What's this got to do with my father?" she asked, after a moment.
"About a year ago your father announced that cutting operations would begin in the Cat Bite Valley and Hackle Ridge areas. The Chopa nation mounted a protest with the Environment ministry of the provincial government and with federal Department of Indian Affairs and others—all of them useless bodies, but the publicity was good. It attracted church groups and wildlife foundations, as such causes do, but it had no overt effect on your father. However, last year's strike of the forestry workers had a crucial timing as far as we were concerned. In August, St. John Forest Products announced that continuing manpower and technical problems had delayed the start of operations in Cat Bite Valley and that it would be impossible to go ahead until this year." He paused, leaning over the desk, his hands on either side of the map. "No one knows exactly why your father did this. If he hoped that the protest would die down over time, he was wrong. From a business point of view he'd have been smarter just to get in there and start chopping as soon as the strike was over, and it might have been just one more battle lost for the Indians. What he did surprised us."
It surprised Smith, too. Her father hadn't got where he was by backing away from a battle, or by refusing to step on the toes of innocent people. "Don't talk to me about goddamn Indian rights," was what he would have said. "Just get in there and start sawing." With a start Shulamith realized that her mental imitation of her father's
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