Praise for The Case of Windy Lake,
Book ONE in the Mighty Muskrats Mystery Series:
“These tweens are smart, curious, and resourceful.”
—Jean Mendoza,
American Indians in
Children’s Literature (AICL)
“The Muskrats feel like the kind of real kids that have been missing in children’s books for quite some time.”
—Quill & Quire
“Chickadee’s rez-tech savvy pairs well with her cousin Otter’s bushcraft skills, and, along with Atim’s brawn and brother Samuel’s leadership, the four make a fine team.…[A]n Indigenous version of the Hardy Boys full of rez humor.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Their makeshift fort in a rusted-out school bus has the appeal of the Boxcar Children’s titular boxcar, and in fact there’s overall an old-fashioned classic mystery feel along with a look at contemporary rez life in this first installment of a series.”
—The Bulletin of the
Center for Children’s Books
“[A] smart and thought-provoking mystery for middle grade readers.”
—Foreword Reviews
Praise for The Case of the Missing Auntie,
Book TWO in the Mighty Muskrats Mystery Series:
“How often have you read a middle grade mystery novel that had you in tears just a few pages after making you laugh?…Missing Auntie is a good read, with an emotional punch, and I can hardly wait for the Mighty Muskrats to take their next case.”
—Jean Mendoza,
American Indians in Children’s Literature (AICL)
“Fans of Hutchinson’s (Misipawistik Cree) first entry in his Mighty Muskrats Mystery Series, The Case of Windy Lake, will eagerly join the crew once again while all the twists and turns one expects from a good mystery will quickly hook new readers. A compelling ‘urban bush’ adventure that offers light and reconciliation to dark truths.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[D]elivered a surprising end to the story, one that left me envious of the close family ties Chickadee and the boys enjoy. In the process, I also learned some valuable lessons about Indigenous values and beliefs, many of them uttered by elders like Grandpa.”
—The Montreal Gazette
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The case of the burgled bundle / Michael Hutchinson.
Names: Hutchinson, Michael, 1971- author.
Series: Hutchinson, Michael, 1971- Mighty Muskrats mystery ; bk. 3.
Description: Series statement: A Mighty Muskrats mystery ; book 3
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200332422 | Canadiana (ebook)
20200332430 | ISBN 9781772601664 (softcover) | ISBN
9781772601770 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781772601671 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8615.U827 C364 2020 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
Copyright © 2021 by Michael Hutchinson
Cover © 2021 by Gillian Newland
Edited by Kathryn Cole
Printed and bound in Canada
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada
through the Canada Book Fund.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5V 2M5
www.secondstorypress.ca
This book is dedicated to the Elders, Knowledge Keepers, teachers of skills and culture, and those older relatives who have a story for every bend in the river, oddly shaped rock, or camping spot within their traditional territory.
It is also dedicated to the Life-bearers within my own family, who have done so much to keep us all on a good path. Your work and teachings have put together a wonderful blanket that keeps us all warm and as safe as Creation’s Law allows. Thank you.
Chapter 1
A Gathering of Crees
“Our ceremonies shouldn’t be hidden. The people need them!”
The Muskrats were surprised by the touch of frustration in their grandfather’s voice. Atim, Chickadee, Otter, and Samuel followed their Elder toward a large, painted teepee sitting almost in the middle of the crowded grounds of the National Assembly of Cree Peoples.
“What do you mean, Grandpa?” Chickadee held his soft, brown hand in her own. She looked up at his wrinkled face with a smile touching her pudgy, lightly freckled cheeks.
Grandpa was in his best buckskin. His long, gray hair drifted in the wind, a gnarled, wooden staff aided his walking, and the beaded bag that held his long pipe was nestled along the length of his forearm. They had just been told the handover ceremony with last year’s host community, Butterfly Narrows, was happening in the huge teepee decorated with painted butterflies.
With his arm, Grandpa made a sweeping motion that took in the large crowd. “The handover is part of the welcoming ceremonies! Aren’t all these folks welcome?”
“Look at all the people!” Atim, the tallest and most athletic of the Muskrats flicked the shaggy fringe of black hair out of his eyes. He was amazed. “I’ve never seen so many Neechies.”
The other Muskrats nodded slowly, preoccupied with how many Crees—Neechies, as Atim put it—were there.
The National Assembly of Cree Peoples had attracted families from the different Nehiyew societies—from the Atikamekw Cree in Quebec to the Plains Cree living in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta—to little, old Windy Lake.
For the past few days, clusters of teepees, tents, and RVs had sprouted in every spare field and park on the reserve and in the neighboring Métis and Canadian municipality, too. Some had grown into little villages. Spread over the next seven days, the event included lessons on bushcraft, celebrations of language and culture, and competitions in canoeing, foot racing, beading, leatherwork, and other traditional activities. There was even a softball tournament with teams from across the country.
The crowd grew thicker as the Muskrats and Grandpa moved closer to the teepee. The boys sprang into action.
“Excuse us.” Samuel reached up and tapped between two braids of black hair that lay over a black, leather vest.
The well-muscled man turned and looked down at Sam’s smiling face. “How’s it going, Haircut?”
Sam laughed and ran his fingers through his short-cropped, dark hair before waving his thumb over his shoulder. “V.I.G. coming through.”
“V.I.G?” the man drawled through a smirk.
Atim stepped forward and tried to sound official. “Very Important Grandpa.”
Slowly, the big guy looked past the kids at the old man. He nodded at Grandpa and stepped to the side. The four children and their V.I.G. moved forward. The Muskrats formed a phalanx around their grandfather and, as politely and quietly as possible, made their way through the crowd.
Otter studied the painted markings on the big teepee. “It doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone from Windy Lake, Grandpa.” Otter was the smallest of the Muskrats and was always dressed in a baseball cap and hand-me-downs that were too big. After his parents had died in a car accident, he had grown up with Grandpa and their late grandmother.
Grandpa’s walking stick tick-tick-ticked as it hit the ground. “These ceremonies were to be held in the arbor. I do not remember this being discussed at the organization meetings.” The pace of the ticks quickened.
Chickadee noticed a middle-aged man listening intently through the tent wall to the hidden ceremony inside. Every so often, he would lean over to describe, in Cree, what he heard to an ancient woman seated in a folding chair beside him. Her silver hair was spread over a blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders. The grandmother was hungry to be a part of what was going on inside. She wasn’t the only one. Other people, standing a step outside the thin walls, struggled to hear the murmur inside. They leaned, ears to canvas, hoping a whisper of wisdom would seep through. Those just a step farther away had no hope of experiencing the ceremony.
Like many teepees, the door had a wide belt along the ground that helped hold the whole structure together. Someone had built a wooden ramp, with handrails, to help those in wheelchairs over this canvas strap that ran across the bottom of the large oval entrance.
A young man with braids guarded the wooden ramp. He wore a leather vest and a ribbon shirt, a dress shirt decorated with ribbons in colors that had spiritual meaning to the wearer. He held up his hand as the Muskrats and their grandfather stepped out of the crowd.
“Sorry, sir…you are?” The twenty-something fellow lifted an eyebrow.
Grandpa stood silently as his bodyguards spoke.
“He’s the head of the Windy Lake Elders Committee,” Samuel asserted seriously.
“Yeah. If anyone should be inside, Grandpa should.” Atim crossed his arms.
“You can’t stop him!” Chickadee smiled up at the guard.
A few of the nearby Windy Lake people in the crowd started to pay attention.
With an amused grin growing, the young man looked at each of the Muskrats in turn. Eventually, he looked down at Otter. “You got anything to say?”
Otter stepped aside so his Elder could be seen fully. He motioned to the long, fringed bag that held the old man’s pipe. “My grandpa carries a pipe.”
Those words worked. The young man stepped aside.
With a proud smile, Grandpa nodded at his grandchildren and made his way across the ramp.
“Only one helper per Pipe Carrier.” Again, the young man held up his hand to stop the Muskrats.
They looked at one another, but there was no question who was going. They gave Otter a nod.
Growing up with his grandparents made Otter the most familiar with ceremony. He bounced up the ramp to help Grandpa step through the canvas opening and over the gap between the outside and inside ramps.
Atim, Chickadee, and Samuel watched the two enter the teepee. After they entered, the guard closed the door flap behind them before resuming his post.
Chickadee noticed Samuel watching the young man. “Don’t!” she whispered the warning to her skinny cousin. “He might think you’re burning him.”
Sam smiled and shrugged.
She looked to Atim for help, but he just lifted a shoulder and chuckled.
“Why isn’t the ceremony happening out in the open?” Sam turned to the young man, trying to sound more curious than challenging.
“Colonialism!” The guard spat the word. “We have to protect our ceremonies…for when the city people try to take away the rest of our culture!”
“You mean, even now?” Samuel squinted into the setting sun as he looked up at the ramp guard.
A glimmer of scorn flitted across the young man’s face before it settled on amused pity. “Of course, even now! They want to break our connection to the land. Our ceremonies keep that connection and keep us centered.”
“But First Nation ceremonies are not against the law now,” Atim said.
“Doesn’t matter! Laws can change.” The young man shook his head. “We have to keep the ceremonies hidden. They can’t be taken away by the city people or sold by the weak. At Butterfly Narrows the ceremony is strong and it’s strong because we protect it.”
“But look at all these people.” Chickadee spoke softly as she scanned the crowd. “Like you said, some First Nations had their ceremony taken away from them. But now, they’re hungry for their ancestors’ teachings.”
The guard studied the people around him, his eyes squinting. They fell on the old lady in the foldout chair and her translator, listening so intently to the ceremony inside.
“I guess….” He paused, uncertain.
“Butterfly Narrows could help everyone whose connection was damaged due to colonialism.” Chickadee’s smile beamed. Samuel and Atim quietly watched Chickadee’s line of thinking play out.
The guard’s imagination explored the idea but got snagged on the lessons of his childhood. He shook his head. “Some people need to be protectors. That’s Butterfly Narrows. Others will have to be teachers.” He nodded to confirm his firm stance, then turned back to Chickadee. “Maybe you should be a teacher. You made me think…for a minute there.”
Sam stuck out his hand. “That’s my cousin, Chickadee. My name’s Samuel, but most people call me Sam.”
Slowly, the young man took his hand in a firm grip. “Hi, Sam. I’m Casey.”
Samuel gestured toward his brother. “This is my brother, Atim. We’re from Windy Lake.”
Casey nodded at the wide expanse of water behind the arbor grounds. “It’s a nice place. Beautiful lake.”
“It was our grandpa and our cousin Otter who went in the teepee.” Chickadee lip-pointed toward the tent, keeping her hands firmly buried in the front pocket of her favorite hoodie.
“Always nice to meet Cree people from far away.” Atim nodded to their new acquaintance.
“Yes! I’m always surprised at how different we Cree can be!” Casey’s smile seemed to appear from nowhere.
“Grandpa says, you are the land you live on. And the Cree people are spread across some pretty different landscapes.” Chickadee chuckled.
“The Mohawk say there’s a Cree behind every tree,” Atim said with mock authority.
“Let’s not tell them what we’re doing behind there.” Sam smirked, and they all laughed.
A head popped out through the teepee’s canvas door, and Casey was summoned.
As he crossed the ramp, Casey called over his shoulder. “You kids must be Neechies. You’re funny!”
The steady beat of a drum began from inside the teepee. It was quickly joined by a chorus of male voices singing in Cree.
“I think I need an Indian taco.” Atim rubbed his tummy. “How much money we got?”
Chickadee and Sam groaned.
Sam lifted his eyebrows. “The ceremony will take a while.”
Chickadee tossed her long, black hair over her shoulder and waved for Atim to follow her. “Okay. I have some money. Come on, Goofy.”
The trio made their way through the crowd to the Windy Lake arbor’s parking lot where a couple of food trucks had set up. Picnic tables had been scattered nearby to make a temporary food court.
After purchasing an Indian taco, Chickadee and her cousins sat down to share the mess of bannock, taco meat, salsa, cheese, and lettuce. Filtered through the crowd and trees, the drumming and singing from inside the teepee were fainter here.
“Indian tacos,” Atim said joyfully, as salsa dripped from the corner of his mouth. “I love Indian tacos. They’re my favorite form of cultural appropriation.” He returned to shoveling the food into his mouth.
Chickadee and Sam giggled.
Suddenly, Chickadee stopped. “Oh, great. Look who’s coming.” She stared down at the table.
Chickadee’s body language told Sam everything. He didn’t bother to look. Every community has its share of bad apples, sometimes families of them, and Windy Lake was no different.
A large fifteen-year-old, dark circles painted around her eyes and dressed entirely in black, sneered as she walked up to them. “If it isn’t the Swamp Rodents!” she hissed through a mouthful of crooked teeth.
Her name was Pearl. She came from a tough family and had managed to argue her way to leadership of a group of siblings and cousins.
“Hey, Pearl.” Her derision never seemed to touch Atim.
Chickadee continued staring at the table, waiting for the bullies to leave.
“Good to see you all.” Sam turned around and smirked. “Y’all enjoying the National Assembly of Cree Peoples?”
Pearl’s second-in-command, Bug, loved to brag. He was too thin and too dirty. “Ohhh, yeah. Nothing easier to break into than a tent. And there’s lots of tents.” He gleefully slapped his filthy jeans and flashed a grin that was missing a chicklet or two. A couple of the others in the crew smiled and grunted in agreement.
“You guys are stealing from the guests?!” Atim couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice.
“Quit telling stories!” Pearl slapped Bug on the back of the head. “Don’t tell these goody-goodies stuff like that! They’ll believe you, then run and tell their cop uncle.”
Pearl laughed and waved off her minion’s comment. “Bug was just kidding around.”
Bug rubbed the back of his head and mumbled under his breath, “Ol’ Snaggletooth….”
Pearl heard him and gave him another slap. She had always been sensitive about her poorly aligned teeth. Her family had been fighting Indigenous Affairs for braces for as long as they all could remember. Pearl bragged that she had become used to the pain in her mouth caused by teeth that grew in sideways. Bug knew he could get under her skin by calling her Snaggletooth.
Pearl looked back at Sam. “We’ve just been people watching. Lots of people from all over.”
“Yeah, no doubt.” Sam’s voice was insincere.
Pearl turned to leave. “Let the Swamp Rats eat their swamp food.” Her crew followed.
Once they were out of earshot, Chickadee hissed. “She’s been mean for such a long time!”
“Are they really stealing from the visitors who came to the Assembly? Don’t they care what people say about Windy Lake?” Atim shook his head, disappointed.
“I suspect they don’t.” Sam tightened his lips. “And we may have just been given our latest case.”
The Muskrats watched as Pearl and her minions pushed their way through the crowd.
The drums inside the teepee were suddenly silent.
Chapter 2
Lessons at Lunch
“It was tense!” Otter shouted to a rising sun in a cloudless sky.
It wasn’t until the next morning that the Muskrats could reunite.
“Tense? Never heard of a tense ceremony.” Chickadee raised her eyebrows as she walked with her cousins to volunteer for the National Assembly of Cree Peoples.
“It was sooo weird. When we first got in, Grandpa tried to be funny and he made a joke. He told the head Elder from Butterfly Narrows about having to answer a question before crossing the bridge. Something about the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow.”
“A swallow of what?” Atim scratched his head.
“Of bird.” Sam gave his brother a push. “A swallow is a bird.”
“Well….” Otter squinted. “I think it made the Butterfly Narrows Elder mad. He…harrumphed.” Otter demonstrated with an exaggerated frowning face, and Chickadee giggled.
“Yeesh! That’s not good.” Atim grimaced. He kicked a walnut-sized stone farther down the road. It rolled to a stop ahead of the group.
Sam pinched his chin as he thought. Walking by, he kicked Atim’s rock. The misshapen orb erratically bounced its way through the gravel. “We still have a week to go until the end of the Assembly. Hopefully, Grandpa will find a way to calm the waves.”
“I don’t know. That Elder from Butterfly Narrows looks like a toad. I could see him holding a grudge.” Otter stuck out his tongue and stretched his mouth into a froglike frown. “He doesn’t seem like a happy guy.”
His cousins laughed.
“Grandpa will fix it.” Chickadee sounded certain.
She got a Mhmm from two of the boys. The other sent the rock spinning farther down the road.
“We better hurry up or we’ll be late. We don’t want to get Denice mad.” Atim jogged up to the rock and gave it a kick, then slowed to a walk. Their older cousin Denice was in her twenties and a rising voice in the community. Her reputation for straight talk and hard work was spreading, but her younger cousins knew, if crossed, she could be a tough taskmaster.
“She said we’d have to make seven hundred sandwiches.” Chickadee’s eyes got big above her round cheeks.
“That’s a lot of baloney!” Samuel said with exaggerated incredulity. They all burst out laughing.
“There’s Klik for the fancy people,” Otter quipped. Another round of chuckles followed.
“Where exactly is the V.I.P. section in the Windy Lake School gymnasium?” Chickadee sounded concerned. The boys snickered.
“Yeah. It’s not a very fancy place,” Atim guffawed. No one else laughed.
Crickets chirped. A light breeze blew some dust off the road.
“You killed it!” Sam threw his hands in the air.
“Yep.” Chickadee slapped Atim on the shoulder. “Killed it!”
Atim mimicked a big baby as he waved his arms and staggered down the road. “I’m funnnyyy!” he screamed in a high-pitched whine.
The rest of the pack howled and gave chase. They all began to skip, jog, and lope down the gravel road.
ó
The Windy Lake School looked like a forgotten, but well-used, toy. The yearly funding shortfalls from the Department of Indigenous Affairs plus decades of pounding from children’s footfalls had beaten the building into submission. The large gymnasium was a concrete hulk that held one corner of the badly bruised school in its brick teeth.
The Muskrats sauntered into the bastion of learning like royalty, unhindered. It was easy when the halls were empty. Since the school officials wanted to save money on the weekends, four out of every five lights were dark.
The gym was drab and empty. Concrete floors, ancient bleachers, and a ceiling that appeared to be covered in fluffy asbestos didn’t give it a healthy feel.
“Denice is probably in the kitchen.” Samuel pointed toward a door along the brick wall. Beside the doorway, a large service window for over-the-counter transactions was covered by roll-up aluminum slats. Running, pushing, and shoving, the Muskrats fought to see who would be first through the door. They burst into the kitchen.
“You just showing up now?” Their older cousin Denice smacked her hands together, and a cloud of flour exploded around her head. “There’s bannock already in the oven.”
“What can we do?” Otter’s eyes grew wide as he pointed out a huge stack of juice boxes to his cousins.
“We got hundreds of people showing up soon, and you could still play a game of floor hockey in that gym. Our family is in charge of lunch. We need tables, chairs, and…look, use those big rolls of paper as tablecloths.” Their older cousin pointed with globs of dough stuck to her fingers.
Atim gave Denice a half-hug. “Do we have anything I could eat now?” It had been almost forty minutes since Atim had eaten.
“Work first. The aunties will be here soon.” Denice used her tough voice, then quickly returned her attention to rolling out the bannock dough.
The oldest Muskrat’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Atim held up a finger, was about to speak, but then thought better of it. On his way out of the kitchen, he grabbed a juice box.