I had the idea when I saw a trailer for a Jordan Peele movie, and I thought about how much I liked that he wasn’t going to the same settings as every other horror film. He was still applying the principle of finding the horror in the mundane, but locating the mundane in somewhere real to Black people. That was my starting point, though I don’t know if I ended up there.

Where I ended up was in finding the monsters of my culture, and bringing them into a modern-ish setting.

The title, ‘Stelaqelm’ means ‘scary supernatural creature’ in Halkomelem. These are entities with a specific range, and specific rules for how to deal with them. You know Sasquatch (Sasqets), but there are many more.

NB: for scenes that mention ceremony, I deliberately didn’t get into detail - so as to avoid getting taken aside for a lecture next time I’m in the longhouse.

This is a rough draft but it’s out of my head and on paper so I don’t need to remember all of the scenes or people. I lazily used real names, but they have nothing to do with the real people - for example Clem was a white guy in real life.

With expectations suitably lowered…

Stelaqelm

1949, Siwash Creek Indian Reserve, British Columbia

Along the river, a man crouched in overalls. Clem’s hands held the wooden shuttle and threaded the green line along the fishing net. His set net was nearly done and ready for the springs. Clem was in his 50s, old for his people, clean shaven with thick white hair that glowed on his reddish brown skin. The sun was setting, but it was July, and Clem had been sweating since early morning.

He hummed an old song as he worked, ‘Híltu te móxwoya…’

Rita, his wife and fishing partner, came out with a tray. ‘Break time, Clem, I brought you boys some stew… wait, where’re the kids?’ she asked.

Clem frowned, shook his head. ‘They wandered off somewhere. I seen them go out front.’

Rita went to the front yard to find them, her puzzled expression growing angrier with each step. And there they were, Gabe and Adam, sitting in a truck listening to the radio. Gabe and Adam were both thin, almost emaciated. Gabe was taller, with a hint of muscle stretched across his bones. Adam was shorter, quieter, he carried himself like a rez dog that’s been kicked one too many times. They still bore the severe short haircut of residential school, and still dressed like they were going to church.

Gabe rolled his eyes as Rita approached, while Adam shrank into the seat.

‘What in the world do you think you’re doing! You’re supposed to be helping your uncle!’ Rita demanded.

‘Aunty, he doesn’t need us, and what’s the point anyway, he’s just fishing, it’s not a big deal,’ Gabe said.

Adam slipped out of the truck and began towards the house as Rita silently grabbed Gabe’s ear through the window and pulled him out of the truck. ‘Don’t you dare say it’s just fishing! Fishing is the most important thing we do around here. Now get back there and help your uncle.’

As he walked, Gabe grumbled under his breath, ‘Only an Indian would think fishing is the most important thing.’

Adam came around the house and timidly sat down next to Clem, who handed him a bowl of fish stew. Adam poked at it with a spoon, a fish eye bobbed to the surface and he retched.

Gabe saw Adam doubled over and said, ‘We don’t eat that Indian stuff, it’s not good for you. Don’t you have any corned beef or ham or something?’

Rita followed after him, and she’d had enough. ‘If you don’t like the food, and you’re too tired to work, just go to bed hungry, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow.’

Gabe grabbed Adam and took him inside, an angry look on his face.

Rita sat next to Clem, and took the rejected bowl of soup for herself. She plucked out the eyeball and rolled it around her tongue and smiled briefly, before returning to her frown.

‘Clem, what are we going to do about this? I can’t have them in this house if they don’t do anything but talk about how much they hate everything Indian,’ Rita asked.

‘It’s that bloody school, every child comes back from there like this. Donna’s son came back the same time as them, and he ran away. Went to the city. If this were the old times, we’d take them to the longhouse and beat it out of them,’ Clem said.

On the mention of the longhouse, Rita leaned in and whispered to Clem, ‘Old James is doing longhouse work in the mountains. I seen Carol taking him a basket of stuff, he’s probably going to take her son, Danny, soon. She said he’s as bad as these two.’

‘It’s a good idea, but if we take that many kids out at once, the Indian Agent’s going to send the cops after us,’ Clem said.

‘Tell them it’s a hunt. Say someone saw elk, and we need a big party to carry it back,’ Rita proposed.

‘Ok, I’ll go talk to the Agent, but you’ve got to talk to the kids.’

—

The Indian Agent’s office was upstairs from the feed store in town, and Clem went up with his hat in his hand, wearing his good shirt. Douglas Pollard was Tall, with blond hair, and a soldier’s build though he too young to have been in the war. Still his role made him “Mister” and not “Kid”, and Clem forced himself to appear humble and obedient before the “man”.

Mr. Pollard kept writing in his ledger while Clem stood waiting at the desk. Behind him hung a picture of the King, and beside it a map of the agency with every reserve marked in red pencil. .

‘Clement.’ Pollard finally put down the pen. ‘What is it?’

‘Somebody seen elk up past the lake, a big herd. I want to take my nephews up and get one, put some meat away for the winter.’

Pollard pulled a file from his drawer and ran his finger down it. ‘Gabriel and Adam, home from the residential school. You do understand, Clement, that having the boys home for the summer is a privilege. The department is under no obligation to allow it. Father Brennan tells me they come back every September chattering away in Indian, and he has to begin again from nothing. It is a privilege, and privileges can be withdrawn.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Curious thing. Carol was in last week to tell me her boy has gone hunting with old James.’ Pollard leaned back in his chair. ‘That old man hasn’t fired a rifle in twenty years, and suddenly your whole reserve has taken up hunting.’

‘Good year for elk,’ Clem said.

‘People come in here and tell me things, Clement. Drumming in the hills, fires where no one ought to be. The law on dancing has been explained to your people many times, and it is for your own good.’

‘I don’t dance, Mr. Pollard. Rita’s been after me for thirty years but I never much cared for it.’

Pollard didn’t smile. He wrote on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk.

‘Ten days. Bring me some of that elk, I should like to see it. And if I hear those boys were doing anything but hunting, they will spend the rest of the summer at the school, and every summer after.’

Clem folded the slip into his shirt pocket and thanked him. At the bottom of the stairs he put his hat back on and stood there a while, waiting for his hands to stop shaking.

—

Rita told the boys at breakfast. She’d fried up the tin of corned beef she was saving for Christmas, because she wasn’t stupid, and she waited till their mouths were full.

‘Your uncle’s taking you hunting. Elk, up past the lake.’

Gabe chewed on that for a while. ‘With a rifle?’

‘No, with a spoon. Of course with a rifle.’

‘Brother Thomas goes hunting every fall,’ Gabe said. ‘He says it’s a sport for gentlemans.’

‘Good thing you’re such gentlemans, then,’ Rita said.

‘I would prefer not to go, please, Aunty,’ Adam told his plate, like he was answering Sister in class. When Rita reached over to touch his hand he snatched it back like the table was hot, and she let him be.

‘Your dad used to love it up there,’ she said, and knew right away it was the wrong thing to say.

‘Our father is a drunkard,’ Gabe said, sounding out every letter like he’d practiced it. ‘Father Brennan says it’s in the blood.’

Rita took his plate away, corned beef and all, and scraped it into the dog’s bucket. ‘You leave Friday.’

On Friday morning Clem loaded the truck with the rifle and shells, a tarp, flour, rope, the axe and the good knife, and a sack of dried fish the boys didn’t know about. Rita came out last with a bundle wrapped in a flour sack and tied with string, and she pushed it under the seat where the boys wouldn’t see it. Clem didn’t ask.

Two houses down Bernice was out on her porch, same as always. She went to Mass twice on Sundays and to the Agent’s office every Thursday, and the rest of the time she watched the road.

‘Going hunting, Clem?’ she called.

‘Elk.’

‘With them two?’ She laughed. ‘They never held a gun in their life.’

‘They’ll learn.’

‘Mm.’ She watched the boys climb in. ‘Long ways to go for meat.’

‘That’s where the elk are,’ Clem said, and started the truck.

The logging road climbed switchback after switchback until the trees closed over the top of the truck. It was all roots and potholes, and the truck bounced and jumped so hard the boys kept hitting their heads on the roof, until Adam turned green and threw up out the window. Then he did it again. Where the road had washed out they got out and walked, Clem carrying the rifle and the heavy pack and the boys in their school shoes complaining the whole way.

‘Step where I step,’ Clem told them, as he picked over water logged debris.

‘We are perfectly capable of walking, Uncle,’ Gabe said. A minute later Adam slipped and grabbed the first thing he could to catch himself, which was a stalk of devil’s club. Clem picked the spines out of his palm with the tip of his knife and told him that plant was medicine. Adam said it didn’t feel like medicine.

They came out of the trees at the lake late in the afternoon. It was long and narrow and black, with the mountains going straight down into it on both sides, and it was so calm the whole sky sat upside down on the water. The river at home was always splashing or burbling, but this water didn’t make a sound.

Clem dragged a small dugout canoe out from under a pile of cedar boughs. It was black with age and had a face carved on the bow, worn nearly flat. He handed Gabe a paddle and told him to paddle quiet, not to splash, and not to talk loud.

‘For what purpose?’ Gabe asked. Then, when nobody answered him, ‘How come?’

‘Because I said.’

Gabe splashed anyway until Clem tapped him sharply on the shoulder with his paddle, and then he quit paddling altogether and sulked.

Halfway across, Adam looked over the side, down where the clear water went to black, and saw a long slow shape turn underneath them, bigger than the canoe. Then it was gone. A log, he told himself, or a big fish. He didn’t say anything, but Clem saw his face and started paddling a little faster.

—

The old man was waiting on the far shore as if he’d known exactly when they would come. He was small, smaller than Gabe, in a faded flannel shirt buttoned all the way to the throat in spite of the heat, and wool pants held up with braces. Most of his teeth were gone, and he smiled at them anyway with his mouth wide open.

Clem climbed out and the two men held each other by the arms for a long time without talking. Then Clem gave him Rita’s flour-sack bundle with both hands, and the old man took it with both hands and didn’t open it.

‘This them?’ he said with his raspy whistling voice.

‘This is them,’ Clem answered.

The old man looked the boys over for a long time, their haircuts and their torn pants and Adam’s shaking hands, like he was reading tracks in the mud. The boys looked him over too. To Gabe he looked like the old men who hung around behind the hotel in town, the ones Brother Thomas pointed out from the bus window as a lesson in what happened to Indians who didn’t apply themselves. A tramp.

‘Boys, this is Siyam,’ Clem said. ‘You call him Siyam.’

‘Aunty called him old James,’ Gabe pointed out.

‘You call him Siyam.’

‘What’s it even mean?’

‘Means you call him Siyam. He’s a respected man. When he talks to you, you answer him, O Siyam, and you hold your hands up like this.’ Clem raised both hands in front of him, elbows bent at his sides, the palms turned in toward his own face and the backs of his hands to the old man.

‘Respected by who?’ Gabe said.

‘By me. By everybody on this river.’

‘He looks like a tramp.’ Gabe said it to Adam, but loud enough. ‘Brother Thomas says we only bow to the Bishop and the King.’

‘Six years you jumped up every time a Brother walked in the room,’ Clem said. ‘You can put your hands up for him.’

Adam put his hands behind his back. Gabe looked back across the lake, like the Brothers might be standing on the far shore watching.

‘Go on,’ Clem said.

Nobody moved. Then Adam’s hands came up, shaking, because a grown man had told him to and that was what you did, and he said ‘O Siyam’ so quiet nobody could hear it. Gabe kept his arms folded.

‘I won’t,’ he said.

Clem started to say something, but the old man laughed, high like a kid. ‘Leave them, Clem. They hungry. Come, grandsons.’

His camp was back in the trees where you couldn’t see it from the lake, a cedar-plank lean-to and a fire pit and a smokehouse the size of an outhouse leaking smoke through its boards. Further back against the mountain was a long, low grey building with the trees grown in close around it. Siyam carried the bundle around the back of it and they heard a door shut, and when he came back he didn’t have it anymore.

He fed them potatoes and bannock and dried fish. Gabe ate everything but the fish, and Adam wouldn’t touch any of it until Siyam held a strip of fish out to him. Adam looked at it a long time. He could smell the smoke on it, and a word came out of his mouth before he could stop it.

‘Sth’oqwi.’

Gabe drove an elbow into his ribs, quick and hard, without even looking at him, like they were back in chapel and a Brother was coming down the row. Adam’s face went hot. He took the fish, though, and held it in his lap, and Siyam smiled into the fire.

‘Where’s Carol’s boy?’ Clem asked. ‘Danny.’

The smile went away.

‘He run off, four nights now. Wants to go home, don’t want to wait for the canoe, so he goes the short way, over the top.’ Siyam pointed his lips up at the ridge behind camp. ‘I follow his tracks to the rock slide. After that, no more tracks.’

‘You tell anybody?’

‘Who I’m gonna tell, police?’ He poked at the fire. ‘I go up every day and pray.’

‘In all likelihood he reached the highway,’ Gabe said, and then he lost the thread of it. ‘And, you know. Hitched a ride to Vancouver. That’s what I’d do.’

Both men looked at him.

‘That’s what you would do,’ Siyam agreed.

Before bed he gave them the rules, counting them off on his fingers. They got up when he got up, and went in the creek when he went in the creek, and didn’t eat till after. They didn’t go up the ridge, and they didn’t go in the long building till he said so. ‘And the lake,’ he said, holding up one finger. ‘You don’t throw nothing in the lake. Not a rock, not a stick, not a fish bone.’

‘Why?’ Gabe asked.

‘Somebody’s house.’

‘It’s a lake.’

‘Somebody’s house,’ Siyam said again, slower, like Gabe was hard of hearing. ‘You go in somebody’s house, you throw garbage on the floor?’

‘Whose house?’

Siyam just grinned at him with no teeth.

‘What’s in there?’ Gabe asked, nodding at the long building.

Siyam took a while to answer. ‘That’s the longhouse. In there, you boys are babies. Don’t know how to walk, don’t know how to talk, don’t know nothing. So you got to learn it all over, like a baby does. You got to learn how to be Indians.’

‘We are Indians,’ Gabe said. ‘Unfortunately.’

Siyam laughed so hard he started coughing. ‘You see?’ he said to Clem, wiping his eyes. ‘Babies.’

That night in the lean-to Gabe whispered, ‘It’s animal-ism, Adam.’ He frowned in the dark. ‘Anim-ism. It’s a primitive belief system. Father Brennan told us. Primitive peoples think everything’s got a spirit ‘cause they lack, you know. Science.’

Adam didn’t answer. He was listening to the lake, which had no waves on it at all, and still somehow he could hear it. He said Hail Marys under the blanket till he fell asleep.

—

Siyam got them up before the birds and walked them down in the dark to where the creek came off the mountain. It came straight down off the snow up top, and the air over the pool was cold as an open icebox. The old man stripped down to his long johns, waded into the deepest pool and sat down in it up to his neck, and came up blowing and laughing.

‘Come on,’ he called.

‘Absolutely not,’ Gabe said. It was what Sister Agnes said about everything.

Clem was already pulling his shirt off. He went in slower and went under, and came up gasping with his white hair plastered flat, and then the two old men sat there in the freezing creek in the dark laughing at each other like fools.

‘This is barbaric,’ Gabe said. He’d learned that word in Social Studies, under a picture of a potlatch.

Adam stood on the bank hugging himself. At the school, when he wet the bed he got a cold bath, and if you talked Indian sometimes you got one too, and there were always hands holding you under.

Siyam looked at him for a moment. ‘Not you. Not today. You sit, you watch.’

Gabe looked at his brother and then at the old men, and then up into the dark trees, like somebody up there might be taking names. Then, so nobody could say he was scared, he stripped to his shorts and went in. The cold squeezed all the air out of him. He came up yelling words the Brothers would have strapped him for and tried to scramble out, but Clem caught his arm and told him to wait, to breathe, just breathe. So he breathed, and after a while the cold stopped hurting. His skin burned all over and his head felt clearer than it ever had.

When he climbed out Siyam wrapped a blanket around him and rubbed his back hard with both hands. ‘Good. That’s the first thing.’

‘What’s the second thing?’ Gabe got out through his chattering teeth.

‘Breakfast.’

Breakfast was fish and berries and for the two old men, the last of Rita’s corned beef. Gabe said he thought they were meant to fast. He’d seen it in a book at the school, savages starving themselves to see visions.

‘Some people fast,’ Siyam said. ‘Not you two. You been hungry enough.’ He watched Adam eat with one arm curled around his plate, and then he looked out at the lake for a while.

For three days it went like that. Every morning Gabe went in the creek cursing and came out red and shaking, and Adam sat on the bank and watched. Clem went up the mountain each day with the rifle, because Pollard wanted to see meat. Siyam showed the boys how you ask a cedar before you take its bark, and what the birds and the mountains were called. They didn’t want to learn any of it, but some of it stuck.

At night by the fire he told them about Xexa:ls, the Transformers, walking the land and turning greedy people into animals and even stone monuments. Gabe sat with his arms crossed through all of it.

‘That’s just a superstition,’ he said. ‘It isn’t factual.’

‘Some is sqwelqwel,’ Siyam told him. ‘True news, happen to somebody. Some is sxwoxwiyam, from before, when Xexa:ls still fixing up the world. Both true. Different kind.’

‘That’s not how, um. That’s not how truth works.’

Siyam laughed. ‘You know everything. You must be very old.’

After the stories the old man would go around behind the long building, and they’d hear the door shut, and some nights they could hear him singing low in there. The boys never saw inside and nobody told them anything about it.

‘Witch doctor,’ Gabe whispered in the dark. ‘Father Brennan says it’s devil worship.’ Adam heard him cross himself, the rustle of his hand going forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder.

‘I want to go home,’ Adam said.

‘It’s only ten days.’

‘I mean the school.’

—

On the fourth day Siyam took them down the shore to dig wapato roots. It was hot, and the mosquitoes hung over the water in a grey haze. The boys slapped and swore at them, but the mosquitoes left Siyam alone.

He set them digging on a little beach and pointed his lips at a big rock above the water. ‘I go up there and talk to the lake. You stay here. You remember the rule.’

‘Nothing in the lake,’ Gabe said.

‘Nothing in the lake.’

He climbed the rock slowly and sat on top of it facing the water, and after a while they could hear him talking, easy, like he was visiting somebody.

The boys dug for about ten minutes before Gabe threw his stick down and said it was idiotic. He wandered off along the shore and Adam followed him like always, and around the point, half buried in the salmonberry, they found an army jeep like the ones in the newsreels. It was rusted orange with the tires rotted flat and a little alder growing up through the floor. Somebody must have tried to drive it up the old skid road years ago and rolled it. There was still a faded white star on the hood.

Gabe climbed in and grabbed the wheel and made engine noises, and Adam laughed for the first time all summer. It was the first thing they’d seen in four days that belonged to the real world, the one with radios and airplanes in it.

The back was full of junk, bottles and tin cans, a rusted jerry can, a bent shovel and a spare tire. Gabe picked up a bottle and looked at the lake, and Adam opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

The bottle went end over end and into the water with a sound like a cork pulled out of a jug, and the rings spread out across the black water, further than rings should go. Gabe looked back at the rock. Siyam hadn’t turned around.

‘See? Nothing,’ Gabe said. ‘It’s a lake.’

Then they were both at it, laughing, trying to see who could throw the furthest, cans and the jerry can and the shovel and a hubcap Adam skipped four times. Adam threw more than Gabe did. For a few minutes it was the most fun either of them had had since they came home. Last of all they got the spare tire between them and swung it, one, two, three, and let it fly, and it hit the lake flat with a smack that came back to them off the mountains.

Up on the rock, Siyam stood up.

—

For a moment nothing happened. The rings kept spreading across the lake, and Adam noticed there were no birds and couldn’t remember when they’d stopped. Way out where the tire went in, the water humped up like a big fish rolling over deep down. Then, right at their feet, a thin sound came up from under the water. It sounded like a baby crying.

Adam backed away from the edge, but Gabe leaned in to look.

‘Grandsons.’ Siyam was coming down off the rock, and his voice was very calm. ‘Come away from there. Slow. Don’t run. Come to me.’

The crying stopped, and the first one came up out of the lake at Gabe’s feet.

It was black and wet and slick as a seal, and about as big, and for one second Adam really did think it was a seal. Then it opened its mouth. The whole front of it split back as wide as a washtub, and inside were small white pointed teeth, row behind row, going back down its throat as far as he could see.

With small hands, it took Gabe by the ankle and he went down on his back, and it dragged him toward the water while he clawed at the beach and the stones came up loose in his hands. Adam grabbed his arm, and then one had Adam by the leg too, cold and heavy, a hundred needles going in, and he screamed and went over into the lake.

Under the water it was green and then black. There were dozens of them turning all around him with their mouths open, and down there the crying was so loud it was inside his head. Far below them a much bigger shape moved.

A hand grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him up choking. Siyam was in the lake to his chest with Adam by the collar and Gabe by the hair, dragging them backwards, and the black things were hanging off his arms and his back. One had him by the shoulder and he never even looked at it. He threw Adam up onto the stones and then Gabe after him. Adam would never have believed that little old man was so strong.

‘Go,’ Siyam told them. ‘Get Clem.’

Then he turned around to face the lake and started talking to it. Adam didn’t know the words, but the old man’s voice was low and even, like Aunty Rita’s when she talked to people at a funeral, and Adam understood that he was apologizing.

The water babies pulled him under. The water boiled black, and there was a wet tearing sound under the crying, and then red came up through the black and spread out across the lake just like the rings had. Siyam’s wool hat floated up and turned slowly on the water.

Then they started coming out onto the beach, humping over the stones on their bellies with their mouths open, reaching for the boys, and the boys ran.

—

They ran up through the trees without any idea where they were going, branches whipping their faces. Adam lost a shoe. The crying followed them up the slope for a long way and then it stopped.

They found Clem higher up the mountain, bent over a dead elk with his arms bloody to the elbows. He stood up so fast he dropped his knife. ‘Where’s Siyam?’

Gabe told him in pieces, the jeep and the tire and the black things and Siyam in the water, while Adam’s teeth clacked too hard for him to talk. Clem left the elk lying there. He grabbed the rifle and went down that mountain faster than the boys could keep up, and by the time they came out on the beach he was already standing at the edge of the water.

The lake was flat and black again, like nothing had happened. But the stones were smeared red, with long drag marks going back down into the water, and Siyam’s hat had washed up in the shallows. Clem picked it up and held it for a long time. When he finally turned around his eyes were wet, but his voice was steady.

‘You threw something in the lake.’

Gabe opened his mouth and closed it again.

‘He told you one thing. One thing.’ Clem’s voice caught, and he waited for it to come back. ‘There’s a stelaqem in this lake. Always been. You leave it be, it leaves you be, but now it’s awake, and when one wakes up the rest hear it.’ He looked up at the dark trees and the ridge above them. ‘There’s a Sasqets on this mountain, people seen him. And over the top there, they say Thoxwiya.’

Adam felt a flicker of warmth at the name, it tugged on the edge of his awareness, and then it was gone.

‘Those were seals,’ Gabe said. His voice was shaking. ‘Harbour seals. They come up the Fraser as far as Harrison Lake, it’s in the encyclopedia. These ones must’ve been sick, or starving or something.’

‘This lake’s two thousand feet up a mountain,’ Clem said.

‘Then they came up the creek.’

‘You seen them teeth.’

‘They were seals.’

Clem turned to Adam. ‘You were in the water. You saw them.’

Adam looked at the red on the stones and the hat in Clem’s hands. He had seen the mouths and the rows of teeth and the big shape way down below, and he knew that if he let himself think about it for one second he would start screaming and never stop. So he didn’t think about it.

‘They were seals, Uncle,’ he said, like he was saying his catechism. ‘There is no such thing as monsters.’

Clem shut his eyes and didn’t say anything for a long time.

—

They couldn’t take the canoe on the lake now, so Clem went down to Siyam’s camp alone for the packs and blankets, and that night they camped high on the slope, well back from the water.

‘We go around,’ he told them. ‘High trail along the shore, and down the far end to the truck. Two days, maybe three.’

‘That’s absurd,’ Gabe said, pointing up at the ridge. It was one of Father Brennan’s words, and he said it like Father did, like it tasted bad. ‘Danny went over the top. We could be at the truck by tomorrow night.’

‘That’s the way Danny went,’ Clem said. ‘Where’s Danny?’

‘He hitched a ride to the city.’

‘No,’ Clem said, and that was the end of it.

He found an old stump that had gone rotten on the outside and hard red pitch inside, and he split it into sticks as thick as his wrist and piled them up by the fire, a lot more than they’d burn in one night. The boys watched him do it and didn’t ask why. Then he sat down across the fire with Siyam’s hat on his knee and didn’t talk, until Gabe couldn’t stand it anymore.

‘He was a stupid old man.’

Clem looked up.

‘He was! He should have gone for help. He should have used the rifle. Instead he stood there in the water talking to it like, like it could understand him. That’s what you people do. You think talking to a lake is gonna do something. You think you sit in a creek and sing a song and everything’s gonna be fine. Well it’s not fine! He’s dead ‘cause he was a superstitious old Indian.’ His voice kept climbing, and the school words were falling off him now. ‘And you’re the same. You and your nets and your stupid songs, like it means something. It don’t mean nothing. That’s why they got everything and we got this.’ He threw his arm out at the dark and the trees.

Adam waited for Clem to hit him, because at the school that’s what came next. Instead Clem set Siyam’s hat down on a rock.

‘I went to that school,’ he said.

The boys didn’t know that. Nobody had ever told them.

‘Me and your dad both. I was eight, he was six. They cut my hair the first day, same as you. Brother Leo, he’s dead now, you say one word in our language and he has you kneel on the chapel floor till supper. My knees bled right through my pants. I come home just like you, hated everything. Thought my own mother was dirty. Couldn’t stand the smell of fish on my hands.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Your dad come home the same, only he never quit. Hated it here, hated us, hated himself worst of all. Drinks so he don’t have to feel it. You know where he is tonight? Me neither.’

The fire snapped and nobody said anything.

‘I would’ve gone the same way. James is who stopped it. He brought me up here like I brought you, and I fought him, called him worse than you called him. He just kept putting me in that creek every morning till I quit fighting.’ He picked the hat back up and turned it around in his hands. ‘The old people had a word, xwelitem. Know what it means?’

They didn’t.

‘Hungry people. When they first come up the river after gold they couldn’t feed themselves, they were starving right in the middle of all this.’ He waved at the trees and the lake. ‘Fish in the river so thick you could walk across, and they’re starving. So that’s what the old people called them. They’re still hungry, too. Took the land, took the fish, still hungry. Now it’s you they want.’ He tapped his chest. ‘What’s in here. That’s what that school’s for.’

‘There’s nothing in me,’ Gabe said, but quieter now.

‘There is. That thing I hum at the nets, that’s just a joke song, your granny used to laugh at me for it. But you boys got real ones. When you were born your granny made you each a song and sang it over you every night. She used to take you out on the river in the canoe and sing it, and you’d sing it back to her before you could hardly talk. They beat it out of you but it’s still in there. They can cut your hair and teach you to talk like a priest, but they can’t get in there. It’ll come when you need it.’

Gabe looked at the ground.

‘You think James was weak,’ Clem said. ‘He went in that water after you, and he knew what was in it. For two boys that called him a witch doctor. That’s the old ways, right there. You look after each other.’ He put the hat inside his coat. ‘I’m not asking you to believe nothing. Just go around the long way.’

After a while Gabe got up, and Adam thought he was going to walk off into the dark, but instead he went around the fire and sat down next to Clem. He didn’t say anything. By and by he leaned over until his shoulder touched his uncle’s arm, and Clem put his hand on the back of Gabe’s neck, on the stubble of his school haircut, and left it there.

Adam watched them with a hot hard feeling in his chest, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted to go over there too or hit them both. He turned his back to the fire, pulled the blanket over his head and started on the Hail Mary. The words were cool and smooth and the same every time, like creek stones. They were seals, he told himself, and there’s no such thing as monsters, Holy Mary, Mother of God, and he kept on saying it until the other two were asleep.

—

The moon was up when Adam got out from under his blanket. He hadn’t slept at all. Every time he shut his eyes he was back under the water with the mouths, and every time the lake lapped at the shore down below he heard them coming up the hill on their bellies. He couldn’t walk two more days along that shore with the water right there beside him.

The ridge was pale in the moonlight. Over the top was the truck by tomorrow night, and home the day after, and then back to school, where there were bells and floors to scrub and everybody knew what to do, and nothing came up out of the water at you.

He picked up his one shoe.

‘Where are you going?’ Gabe whispered.

‘Home.’

‘Uncle said not to.’

‘Uncle is a superstitious old Indian,’ Adam said. ‘You said so yourself.’

Gabe flinched.

‘I’m going over the top,’ Adam told him. ‘You can come or not.’ Then, because the Sisters had strapped it into him, he fixed it. ‘May. You may come or not.’

He walked out of the firelight so scared he couldn’t feel his feet, and he kept on walking anyway.

Gabe looked over at Clem asleep. He knew he should wake him. But Clem would drag Adam back, and Adam would hate them both for it, and Gabe had spent six years at that school keeping his little brother alive. So he took the rifle and the box of shells out of Clem’s pack and went after him.

He caught up at the bottom of the rock slide and they climbed it together in the moonlight without talking. At the top, where the trees started again, they found a boot standing on a flat rock in the moss. It was a school boot, black and heavy, the kind they gave every boy, the kind Danny had worn home in June. It was laced up neat, like somebody had set it there on purpose.

‘He dropped it,’ Adam said.

‘You don’t drop one boot,’ Gabe said.

They went on anyway, since the only other way was back.

Over the ridge the trees were older and bigger, hung with moss, and the moon only got through them in pieces. Off to their left something hit a tree, wood on wood, three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. Neither boy moved. A smell came through the trees like wet dog and rotten meat, and they could hear a big animal moving out there, keeping pace with them and not bothering to be quiet.

‘Bear,’ Adam whispered.

Gabe was quiet for a moment. ‘Sasqets.’

Adam stared at him. Gabe didn’t say Indian words.

The knocking came again, further off, and then the crashing went away downhill and was gone. After that the mosquitoes started, a few at first and then more, until they were a hum all around them, in their ears and eyes and down their collars, and the more the boys slapped the thicker they got.

Then from somewhere ahead in the trees, soft, came a call.

Whu. Whu. Whu.

Adam stopped. The sound went down into him and touched a place he’d forgotten about, like a smell from when he was little.

‘Owl,’ Gabe said, but it came out like a question.

—

Clem found them a little after that. They heard him first, crashing up through the trees behind them, and then they saw his light, a stick of pitch wood burning bright and smoky. He’d come up the mountain in the dark and found their trail on the rock slide and followed it through that black forest like he was tracking a deer.

He didn’t yell at them. He grabbed Gabe by the shirt and pulled him in, and then Adam, and held them both against him so hard it hurt. ‘We go back,’ he said. ‘Right now.’

Whu. Whu. Whu.

Clem went still. Adam could feel it go right through him, and he knew his uncle was afraid.

The call came again, just past the edge of the light. The mosquitoes were so thick the torch hissed, burning them out of the air.

‘Listen,’ Clem said, very calm. ‘Hear that creek? You get down to it and follow the water down. Water goes to the river and the river goes home. Don’t stop and don’t look back, and don’t go up, no matter what you hear.’

‘Come with us,’ Gabe begged.

‘I’m right behind you.’ He pulled a second stick of pitch from his coat and lit it off his own and put it in Gabe’s hand. ‘Keep that going. She don’t like fire. The old people burnt her one time, she remembers.’

‘You’re crazy,’ Adam said. ‘You are a crazy old man. It’s an owl, or a bear. You’ll get yourself killed over nothing.’

Clem looked at him, and there wasn’t any anger in it. ‘Take care of your brother,’ he told Gabe, and then he told Adam the same thing. Then he turned and walked off into the dark with his torch held up high.

The boys ran downhill toward the creek, Gabe dragging Adam by the wrist, the torch streaming out behind them, and back where they’d left him Clem started to sing. Adam had never heard that voice come out of his uncle. It was big and deep and steady and it rang off the trees, and it was no joke song.

Gabe stopped and turned around. Back through the trees they could see Clem’s torch swinging up and coming down, and a tall shape moving with it, taller than any man, black against the fire. The torch swung at it and it pulled back, and the torch swung again, and the whole time the singing never broke.

Then it stopped, and Clem’s torch went out all at once, like a hand had closed over it.

‘Uncle!’ Gabe screamed. He dropped his own torch and brought the rifle up and fired into the dark where the light had been, and worked the bolt and fired again and again, loading and firing until the box of shells was empty.

After that it was quiet except for the creek somewhere below them and the mosquitoes getting louder. Gabe’s torch lay in the moss where he’d dropped it. It sputtered down to a coal, and then that went out too, and they were alone.

—

They ran without knowing where, and somewhere along the way they lost the sound of the creek. The mosquitoes came with them, so thick Adam breathed them in and choked. He had hold of Gabe’s hand and didn’t remember grabbing it.

They broke out of the trees into a clearing where the moon came straight down. The grass was trampled flat, and back under the trees around the edge sat baskets, big cedar ones, old and black. Adam didn’t let himself look in them, though he saw a school boot.

The mosquitoes stopped at the edge of the moonlight and hung there in a grey fog. Then the fog began to pull together from all around the clearing, rolling in on itself, thicker and darker, with the buzzing climbing higher and higher, until it stood up as tall as a man, and then taller.

The fog of mosquitoes disappeared into it, as the creature emerged into the clearing. As their buzzing quieted, a long whu-whu-whu came from the blackness that was becoming its head. It stood and called to them, whu whu whu.

That sound, Adam now remembered where he had heard that sound. When he was a little boy, around the stove, cooking, his Aunty whispered the story to him.

Adam was 5 years old, sitting in the kitchen, baking with Aunty Rita.

‘Whu whu whu,’ Aunty Rita said, handing Adam a biscuit. ‘If you go to the forest, and you hear that sound, you have to turn and run away. Because that’s Thoxwiya.’

‘Who’s Thoxwiya?’ he asked.

‘She’s the wild woman, a stelaqem who lives in the mountains and she eats all the people who go too far into it. She calls you with her whu whu whu, and then she takes you and puts you in her basket and takes you home to eat you!’

Adam gasped.

‘In the old days she took so many people from the village, that everyone got together, and followed her to her home and captured her! They then tied her up and burned her.’

‘Did they kill her?’ Adam asked.

‘You can’t kill a stelaqem, they’re from the Creator. But they burned her all up until she was nothing but ash. And then, the little pieces of ash started buzzing, and they went after people, biting them and drinking their blood,’ she said, and pinched Adam all over.

Adam giggled and rubbed his arms.

‘That’s where mosquitoes come from. They’re little Thoxwiyas.’

Thoxwiya wasn’t little anymore. It was 8 feet tall, the broken shape of a woman, but burnt. Its skin was cracked and blackened, its hair hung in patches, burnt. She was naked, her long breasts swung obscenely as she moved. Fused to her body by fire were the straps of a basket.

Its eyes were a void that carried a force that pushed his head away like opposite sides of a magnet. It opened its mouth, and the moonlight illuminated the blood that clung to its lips, as it again pursed them to call whu whu whu.

As Adam watched, Gabe lunged at it, using the now empty rifle as a club.

As the club hit her body, the body disappeared into a fog of mosquitoes and Gabe screamed, as a million hot stings enveloped him. And even his scream was muffled by the stinging. Before he could get away, the woman reformed a few feet from him. She reached behind her into the burnt basket she was carrying and pulled out a handful of black pitch and threw it into Gabe’s face, blinding him. He fell backwards and lost the club.

The creature paused, and her red mouth opened revealing broken obsidian teeth - teeth that smiled, as she reached out and took Gabe in her arms. She spoke. Human words. In the old tongue, softly - with a burnt scratch. In a smooth motion, she grabbed a cedar basket from the edge of the clearing, and as if folding laundry - broke Gabe’s body in three pieces, his bones snapping, his scream ending, and she placed him in the basket. Before turning back to Adam.

Adam couldn’t move. She came toward him across the moonlit grass, slowly, the basket on her back creaking, and the smell of her got there first, smoke and old burning and blood.

The Hail Mary came up on its own, like always, and he whispered it out loud. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. She tilted her head like a dog hearing a noise far off, and kept on coming.

‘Whu,’ she said, soft now. ‘Whu. Whu.’ She was close enough to touch him.

Adam thought of Aunty Rita in the kitchen, handing him a biscuit and telling him to run if he ever heard that sound. He thought of Clem at the fire with his hands up in the light, saying they couldn’t get in there, that it would come when he needed it, and of Clem’s big voice ringing through the trees. Then he remembered, or maybe dreamed, lying small in the bottom of a canoe on the river with an old woman over him against the sky, singing. The sun was behind her and he couldn’t see her face or make out the words, but he could feel them in his chest like a drum.

Thoxwiya reached out and her burnt fingers touched his cheek, and Adam opened his mouth and his song came out.

He didn’t know he knew it. His mouth found the words on its own, though he couldn’t have told anybody what they meant. His voice was thin and cracked and shaking, and he sang anyway, right into her face.

Thoxwiya stopped. Her hand stayed on his cheek, still hot after all this time, and her eyes stayed on him, but they didn’t push him away anymore. She was listening. She said something soft in the old tongue with that burnt scratch in her voice, and he didn’t understand it, but it sounded like the words in his song, so he kept singing.

After a long time she took her hand back. She bent and picked up the basket with Gabe in it and walked back across the clearing without hurrying, and at the edge of the trees she looked back at him once. Then she came apart into a grey cloud of mosquitoes that drifted off into the forest and took the basket with it. Her call went on for a while, whu whu whu, further and further off, until he couldn’t hear it anymore.

Adam sang until his voice gave out, and then kept on with just his lips, sitting in the trampled grass with his arms around his knees, until the moon went down behind the mountain and the first bird started up.

—

At first light he went looking for the creek, and once the birds got going he could hear it down the slope. He walked past the baskets without looking in them. He knew what was in them now, and he knew he would tell Aunty Rita, and she would tell Carol, and some of the men would come up here with fire.

Partway down he found the place where Clem had stood. The moss was torn up all over a little flat spot in the trees, like two bulls had been at it. Clem’s knife lay in the ferns with the blade black right up to the handle, and Siyam’s hat was there, the one Clem had carried in his coat, and the pitch torch, burnt down to where his hand had been. All around in the ferns and on the low branches there were long strands of burnt hair and black cracked pieces like bark off a burnt log, a lot of them. Clem had gone at her with fire, just like in the story. There was nothing else of him.

Adam picked up the hat and the knife and the stub of the torch and followed the creek down, like Clem told him. At the first deep pool he stopped and took off his school shirt and pants and his one shoe, and he walked in and sat down in the cold water up to his neck. He didn’t yell. He breathed, and he stayed in until the cold stopped hurting.

—

Two days later a logging crew found him walking down the road with one shoe and an old man’s hat, and they drove him home.

The police went up and came back a week later with nothing. A bear, the constable said, maybe two. Three people gone off one mountain in one summer, four counting Carol’s boy, which made it a bad year for bears. After the police were done some of the men from the reserve went up at night with a lot of pitch wood, and nobody ever said what they found. Carol took down the only photo she had of Clem, and the old people on reserve took away his clothes in secret. Rita never cried where anyone could see, but at night through the wall Adam could hear her singing, and it wasn’t a joke song.

Pollard came out the day before school started. The department car was long and black and raised dust the whole length of the reserve road, and people came out on their porches to watch it go by, Bernice too. He didn’t come in. He stood in the yard with his hat on and talked to Rita through the screen door.

‘A dreadful business. My condolences.’ He looked past her at Adam, sitting on the steps in his school clothes with his hair grown out a little over the summer. They’d cut it again tomorrow. ‘The constable believes it was a bear. Is that so, son? A bear?’

Adam looked at him for a long moment. ‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘A bear.’

Rita put her hand on his shoulder and kept it there.

‘You understand, Rita, having the boy home was a privilege. I did make that clear to Clement.’ Pollard cleared his throat. ‘The department cannot have children taken up into the mountains. This is precisely what the school exists to prevent. I’ve recommended he remain there next summer, for his own protection. I’m sure you agree it’s for the best.’

Rita didn’t answer him. Everybody on that road knew it didn’t matter what she said. She went inside and came back with a packet wrapped in newspaper and put it in Adam’s hands, wind-dried salmon from Clem’s last fish.

Pollard wrinkled his nose. ‘Surely not in the car.’

Adam ate it anyway, in the back seat, slowly, every bit of it, while Pollard watched him in the mirror. He looked at the pink back of Pollard’s neck and thought, xwelitem. He didn’t look back at Rita when the car pulled out.

They drove along the river past the fishermen and their nets, it was sockeye time now, Clem’s favourite. The water was high and brown and talking like it always did. Adam watched it go by with his lips moving, too quiet for the man in the front seat to hear, and he sang his song all the way back to the school.

Over the last 2 years, I’ve worked with the BC Humanists, with First Nations leaders, archives, with cultural leaders, and by investigating oral histories, and speaking to academics - with 2 layer peer review (both Indigenous knowledge keepers, and non-Indigenous academic experts) and I’ve written a research paper explaining the deep roots of Land Acknowledgements, and showing how they transitioned from Coast Salish practice into non-Native use.

Key findings:

1. Land acknowledgements re-entered the mainstream of Coast Salish life in 1989 as part of the ‘Paddle to Seattle’, an Indigenous event to mark the centennial of Washington State

2. They crossed over from Indigenous use to non-Indigenous use in the 1990s, by way of the Musqueam-UBC relationship, with the first posted Land Acknowledgement appearing at UBC’s Museum of Anthropology likely before the turn of the century.

3. Land acknowledgements have their roots in a pre-contact law called the ch’ech’itsul code, which regulated public access to privately held resources.

4. Performing a land acknowledgement in the traditional form is a way of defining your rights to access a resource, while acknowledging its stewards. It doesn’t put you outside of the community, it recognizes your role inside of it.

5. Personalizing your acknowledgement is antithetical to practice, and is rooted in western epistemology. Adding ‘guilt’ or mentions of ‘theft’, or mentioning Indigenous communities which are not stewards of that land, are simply wrong and an affront to what this practice actually means.

The full paper can be found here: https://www.bchumanist.ca/land_acknowledgement_report_release

Copyright in Canada is a fusion of Anglo and European laws. The Anglo laws are designed with two social goals in mind: first to incentivize people who create things, and second to free up those developments after a time for the public to more easily access them. The European system is about the moral right of creators over their work. Put together we have the Canadian system.

First Nations copyright laws differ. Here in the Coast Salish world copyright doesn't expire, and because of that, the author of copyrighted stories and songs and art forms could be lost to history. But the rights over those things are still passed on today. Those rights may be held by numerous people. The content can also be modified from person to person, and yet the variations are still part of the same protected story.

These things conflict when Canadians come into contact with Indigenous content.

Imagine you're a Canadian academic, you go to a First Nation and you ask people to share their stories. You want to capture the stories and the language in order to preserve it. You then film them, and under Canadian law, you now have copyright over what you've done. If that Native person wants to access it, they need your permission. You can show it any time, and even sell it to other people. The story is out there in the world, out of that Native owner's control.

And the law backs you - the person who took it. This is a real example that has happened again and again.

When you see First Nations stories shared online, or in databases, they're often the product of this type of extraction. In some cases that story could be something everyone knows and is legitimate public domain - even by Indigenous standards. But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's owned and the owner didn't consent to selling their story, just to sharing their performance.

Think of it this way: Taylor Swift plays in Toronto, and a kid in the audience does her own interpretation of "Shake it Off" with a bunch of changes. Under Canadian copyright that might be fine as a derivative work. But it would not be fine under Indigenous copyright - the original creator maintains control over the work and anything that comes from it.

(Derivative works law is actually pretty complex, but you get the idea about the difference.)

If I can trace the story to a creator, or to a family that owns it, if it's told at longhouses, or about an important ancestor - I need to check with them to see if they consider it public domain or if they assert copyright over it. If they do, I can't use it - or if I do use it, it comes with a contract that harmonizes their copyright with Canadian copyright and protects their rights and ownership. You license the performance for whatever you're doing but you recognize their ultimate ownership.

I’ll be writing more about this in the near future, but suffice it to say, that if you want to ignore Indigenous copyright, you can do so legally, but you can’t do it socially.

The decision is controversial among non-Natives because, in alarmist interpretation, it means that privately held lands are now subject to land claims. In the alarmist and dumber interpretation put out by the Fraser Institute, it means that “legal rights now depend on lineage”. And well done Fraser Institute in coming out so firmly against property rights and inheritance. I digress… 

The Cowichan Decision – Mainland Native Opposition

It’s also controversial among Natives. Many Coast Salish people on the Mainland viewed the Cowichan case as weak, due largely to errors and omissions in the oral history evidence presented.

As someone who works with Coast Salish history, I’ve been stunned by some of the historical inaccuracies. For example, one Cowichan witness testified that only the Cowichan and Nanaimo fought at Maple Bay (the largest battle ever to take place in BC - where a vast alliance of Coast Salish peoples ambushed and finally defeated the Yuculta and their relentless raids). That’s like saying only France and Australia fought Nazi Germany. This isn’t an obscure event, we know the order of battle, the leaders, their home communities, all of it is well documented. When you start with something that far off, it undermines the rest of your claims. Especially when those claims are face to face with people who are presenting sound history, that doesn’t have errors or gaps. 

The Coast Salish People in 90 Seconds

One of the most interesting aspects of the case is how deeply it engages with Coast Salish customary law, especially regarding property.

The Coast Salish number around 100,000 people today across Canada and the US (the often-cited Wikipedia figure of ~60,000 is outdated—and tbh I think it came from me over a decade ago). Our territory generally mirrors the Cascadia corridor, stretching about 100 km beyond its edges.

We are united by our longhouses, called Lalem in my nation’s current dialect. Today they are ceremonial, but historically they were massive multi-family apartments. Villages were permanent sites, with families migrating seasonally between fixed winter and summer settlements - an arrangement many wealthy Central Canadians will understand well (the difference is that we summered away from mosquitoes - you guys are doing it backwards). 

Our society was structured like an inverted pyramid: more people at the top than at the bottom. The classes were:

• Siyá:m – respected/rich persons, closest to “gentlemen” in the Victorian sense; not a permanent class - you could lose your status, it depended on popular perception.

• Smelá:lh – the “worthy” people, an upper class who were defined by knowing your family history (important because that connected with titles (or ‘names’) and the properties that came with them (including intellectual properties).

• S’téxem – literally “worthless” people, similar to what’s now called “white trash”; defined as those without family histories - so no names, titles, or property. There are many examples of these people having to sell themselves out as wage labour to get by - something like share croppers (there are living examples of that now too). 

• Skw’iyeth – slaves - people who came as captives, were purchased, or were born into slavery. (There’s a remarkable story of one Washington community where every family agreed to free and adopt their slaves, then collectively agreed to never speak of who was a slave, so there would be no lingering stigma.)

Politically, society was anarchistic—not chaotic, but highly structured even though it had no rulers with coercive authority. Think anarcho-capitalism. Law was based on agreements, with harsh enforcement limited to crimes against property rights.

We were not a warlike people. In Star Trek terms, we’re the Ferengi. 

Coast Salish Property Law

From a Coast Salish perspective, Westerners look like hippies: you nationalized our land, stripped families of ownership, and declared our private property to be for the commons.

Traditionally, every resource site was family-owned - and or water - and was controlled by a Siyá:m, and tied to names/titles (which themselves are family property). Our culture is exogamous—marriage is outward. Wealthy in-laws meant access to valuable property through customary law.

Example: my family once held exclusive hunting rights to a type of mountain goat with prized fur. We also owned fishing rights to a part of the river. 

Under Coast Salish law, in-laws could request access: “I’m your uncle’s wife’s cousin Jake—can I pick your apples?” The answer was usually yes, sometimes no, sometimes ‘yes’ with a price. [This is also why there was no hidden parallel metis origin story in this region (despite certain pretendian claims). Because when we married out to non-Natives, the in-laws wanted to be part of that relationship in order to gain access to the additional resources of the new non-Native family. There are examples of wealthy families seeking out HBC traders to arrange marriages to get preferential rights.]

Villages themselves also held collective property but in a different way. Family properties were protected by the longhouse, by ceremony, and passed down and guarded for generations. Collective properties evolved and are pragmatic without the same cultural force behind them. 

You have to remember that these villages are very old. There’s one in the Fraser Valley that’s proven to be at least 5000 years old. I was at one a month or two ago, where the village is gone but its fishing stations are still in use. When Simon Fraser passed by there and “discovered” it in 1808 he wrote in his journal how the stones along the cliff sides had foot prints in them from so many centuries of use. i.e. people had been walking those same paths for so long that the stone wore away into the shape of their footprints. You can still see them today, made deeper by descendants of the people Fraser met, walking them for the same purpose. 

What was interesting about that fishing station when I visited it, is that every single plant around it was food or medicine. The person I was with showed me the berries, the leaves, the little red things that get you super high that we don’t tell outsiders about. The reason it’s like that is that these are old old old places - old like Canadians can’t understand, old on the timescale of Egypt and Jericho, where people have been living for so long that the environment has been changed to suit them. So a permanent village site is exploding with resources. And those resources are controlled by the collectivity of the village.

There’s a story from Katzie, for example, of them controlling berry fields - stationing guards near them to keep outsiders away, and then allowing access carefully to the village, then to in-laws, then to anyone. These stories are everywhere.

So:

• Primary property rights – family holdings with in-law access.

• Secondary property rights – communal village resources.

In the Cowichan case, they assert communal rights. Musqueam and others argue that the Cowichan presence on the Mainland was only through in-law rights. The Crown, misunderstanding Coast Salish law, accepted Cowichan’s communal claim. But under our law, the question is murkier.

I’ve spent time at the site they claim, and unlike every other village site I’ve visited, there’s no ecological footprint, no medicinal plants, few berries, or useful trees – though in fairness maybe it’s been buried under all the garbage that has been left there (FYI: there’s a TikTok channel from someone who combs through the beach looking for treasure: https://www.tiktok.com/@stripperdj/video/7285543278190021893) , or maybe it’s below the current water line.

Trespassers will be buried

One stark part of Coast Salish property law touched on in the case is the C'ac'izel Code (cha-cheet-zul). Under those rules, every smelá:lh man was obligated to kill and bury trespassers on the spot.

I’ve seen 19th and early 20th-century testimony about this law, including from my ancestor Joe Louie (Sacquilty [btw a name my brother now carries]):

“If he stayed over that time he’s notified. If he came back and stayed there without asking, that’s death is his punishment.”

The fact is, if you walk through Metro Vancouver today, you’re walking over graves of people who violated Coast Salish property laws. 

The Cowichan say that because they could be here without being killed by locals, it means they had real ownership of this land - and weren’t just accessing it via in-law rights. The way they say they used the land went far beyond what was acceptable for in-law access - so if that was how they were using it, why weren’t there any examples of enforcement?

Still Reading

I’m still reading and digesting this decision. But the key points are to understand how our society worked, how our property worked, and why it would be possible for outsiders to have 100% totally legitimate claims to this region that don’t also extend to them having collective title to it. 

Outside of the controversy and some of the off historical takes in the decision, I’m happy to see longhouse law recognized by the courts - that matters for me as I wait for my own federal court decision, trying to get longhouse law over band governance recognized.

The Summit is over and I’m on the train to Montreal, having bought a discounted ticket thanks to my Status Card - ‘membership has its privileges’.

I’m typing up my Summit notes to (1) brief my Nation’s [unrecognized] elected council [the feds only recognize the hereditary council, I know I’m being redundant but we actually have a court order that requires me to mention that until the final federal court verdict comes out], and (2) write an article - so I can't put everything in there, that’ll come later.

But a couple broad observations.

First, the Summit ended with what in effect was an Indigenous Question Period - like in Parliament. The PM and his ministers stood before the Native people their government administers and for the first time (AFAIK), they answered their questions. It may have been the closest we’ve come to responsible government for Native people. It was actually offensive in how unique it was. Offensive because this is something that should happen on a regular basis - seeing as the feds govern us so “thoroughly”, all without getting our consent.

Next, a protest broke out outside, and as a consequence, the organizers had to brand all of us in the overflow room with stamps on our hands. Both hands. I don’t know, it doesn’t sound like a lot - but having the Privy Council put a stamp on you to identify you as “One of the Good Ones” feels… off.

That said, I’ve got the stamp and you don’t. I may put it on my resume.

Returning to the Summit, the main thing that people kept coming back to was that the whole structure of the meeting was bad. The notice was too short, there were many problems - at one point the moderator asked Ministers to please limit their talking to 2 minutes to give more time to Chiefs to talk (NB: the minister immediately after he said that spoke for 6 minutes). The primary way that Natives were able to give feedback was with written surveys on their tables - 9 questions, all practical about how to implement BillC5.

Lastly, just one thing - the only standing ovation I saw in the overflow room - it was for Ovide Mercredi (former head of the AFN). While he’s open to working with the PM [an almost universal opinion], when it came to this bill specifically, he, like all but two or three of the speakers refused to embrace the PM’s assurances and said: “I don’t believe you”.

He said that he wanted the PM to justify the need for this extraordinary legislation, to prove that the tariffs would hurt the country as much as he’s suggesting that they would. Because until he sees that, he isn’t prepared to ask his people to take one for the team.

And that’s it really. As the PM signalled with his own language — using words like “our nation” and “your nations”, “our people” and “your people” — for many in the room, we’re not on the same team. And if we’re not, then you need to do way more ground work, make a far stronger case to justify these measures. Coming to Native people after the fact, to do damage control isn’t going to be enough.

For some reason, I received an invite to the Leaders-only First Nations Summit in Ottawa. My best guess is an error at the regional office that put my name forward, due to my role as Spokesperson for the Kwantlen First Nation’s (contested) elected council. The federal government officially recognizes only our hereditary chief and her appointed council - they don’t recognize our election. The matter’s before the courts, but I suspect that’s what got me in the room. And not the main room, mind-you, but the spillover room for all the First Nations technocrats who were also accidentally invited.

That asside, I’ve been here for every minute of it, and there have been surprisingly few minutes for First Nations leaders to talk. So far today, I’d put it at under 60 minutes of actual First Nations leaders talking. We’ve heard Ministers speak, we’ve heard the Prime Minister speak, we’ve heard Indigenous MPs speak, we’ve had a former Grand Chief, and a former chief. Not so much time for current Native leadership.

The majority of the input Native leadership is being allowed to give comes from surveys being left at the tables in the main summit space - the problem is that the key advisors who’d help them fill those out are with me here in the overflow room, and can’t even see the questions. And even that is more than what online participants are being given the option to share.

When Native leaders have spoken, they’ve been firm that this isn’t right, this isn’t engagement. They’ve stressed that consultation happens while the bill is still an idea - not when it’s already received Royal Assent.

No one who has spoken is opposed to development, and there have been vocal supporters. But this process has made them worried. A speaker yesterday said that if they were actually being treated like governments, the discussion would be about sharing tax space - not about bringing bands in as equity partners. That’s not treating us as governments, that’s treating us as companies (at best).

The session continues, and I’ll write much more later once I have a chance to reflect on my notes. Next up, the Ontario chiefs, then the Prime Minister.

Carney seems to understand that First Nations will be a spoiler for any development work if we are not involved early and intensely. He promises to create what he calls a “One Window” Project office to get projects approved.

But he must know that if a single First Nation in the project area opposes it, the courts will call the One Window approach insufficient.

To address that he needs to do two things:

1. Expand First Nations capacity to handle all these development inquiries

2. Provide an incentive for First Nations not to oppose development

First Nations are already far beyond capacity to handle the 500,000 or so consolation requests they see each year. Most of those are for minor projects that don’t matter much and are often ignored — but major projects require a response, communities demand it.

My First Nation’s territory covers both sides of the Fraser River — more than $300 billion dollars of Canadian trade crosses our territory. Our referrals and consultations office may have 2 people in it. There are 40 First Nations in the same position, along this one key route to the Pacific, and to Asian markets.

We do not presently have the ability to facilitate a rapid, “One Window” approach. We don't have the staff to gather community feedback, conduct research, or write reports — to do all that and respond stretches our internal resources to a breaking point. And the sad fact is that, it’s just easier to sue and oppose things.

First Nations are democracies, and populist ones at that. Fighting big government is as popular here as it is in Alberta. And what’s worse — fighting doesn’t require staff time or political capital. All it takes is an outside lawyer.

Carney seems to recognize this and has promised to double capacity funding.

That may not be enough. In some nations, it might need to go up 5-fold to get consultations through in a timely manner. That deals with the ‘how’, but it doesn’t deal with the ‘why’, as in: ‘why would a First Nation work to approve a development on their territory?’

Poilievre’s Conservatives have an answer for ‘why’. Theirs is creating tax space for First Nations that approve developments — allowing them to directly tax projects they’ve approved. Unfortunately that also comes with a poison pill, in the form of a demand that this money be spent on basic services like clean drinking water. Those services are currently a federal responsibility, so the demand that Nations use this new tax revenue to cover drinking water implies cuts to Federal funding for First Nations. It’s a stick that’s been painted orange to look like a carrot.

So what’s Carney’s version of the ‘why’? I think it’s this — a promise to increase land added to reserves.

I can’t tell if he intends this to be his ‘why’. The Liberals have been working on policy around Additions to Reserve (ATRs) for a while. Is this more of the same, or is this an expansion?

As someone who works in retail politics on reserve, I can tell you this: I have no reason to risk my own political capital to get a development project approved. I may have the resources for it with Carney’s promise of capacity funding, but why would I deploy those resources to help some extractive industry dig up our land, pollute our river, and give us nothing?

However if each development project ended with a promise, for example, to cede the land the ‘man camps’ were built on to us when the project was finished… that I can sell, that becomes a priority for me.

I want to hear more from Carney on this promise, and what it means, and how it’s connected to development.

As for everything else in his Indigenous policy, it seems to be staying the course with the last term. I would have liked to have seen a promise to criminalize residential school denialism, and to stick to the 5% Indigenous procurement commitment. The latter is going to be a challenge as military procurement forms a larger and larger portion of the federal budget. Military contracts are big, and beyond the capacity of many First Nations businesses. Those businesses will need federal support or a mechanism to move that 5% further downstream or make it up with even higher rates of procurement spending in other departments.

I’m looking forward to seeing the Conservative platform to compare. But this is so far, a sufficient start, a solid C+. It’s too vague to call it ‘good’ — surprising, from a man known for speaking in paragraphs.

First, let’s look at the MP the Tories chose to unveil their fisheries policy, Rick Perkins. He has been active in opposing the treaty fishery run by the Millbrook First Nation, and he has called for First Nations lobster fishers to be arrested.

His region was the site of racist violence against First Nations fishers over the last decade. This is similar to a campaign of intimidation against First Nations fishers on the Fraser in the 1990s — led in part by late Conservative MP John Cummins.

The Tory policy proposes to:

• “restore law and order and protect harvester rights.”

• “bring back control over our natural resources”

They will do this by ensuring that First Nations people will not be allocated any fishing quota unless it is purchased from non-Native fishers. They refer to treaty-based fishing rights as: “stolen quota from law-abiding Canadians”.

Historically, discrimination prevented First Nations fishers from accessing DFO licenses. On the West Coast, licenses were restricted to “bona fide white fishermen”. It got to a stage where First Nations people made up less than 1% of the fishery — a fishery that was the central aspect of many Indigenous cultures.

That system has gone, but in its place are steep barriers for new entrants into the market; for example a lobster fishing license can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars — far out of the reach of most Indigenous people who can’t do things like take a business loan against their home on reserve in the same way that a non-Native can do with their home off reserve.

Add to this the important fact that the fishery belongs to Indigenous people, was shared under treaty, and those fishing rights were recognized in the Marshall Decision.

Put together, the Conservatives are proposing to defy the courts, ignore treaty rights, and defend the privileged inheritors of a racially discriminatory fishery. Put in practice, it will label law-abiding Native people as criminals, and sic DFO enforcement officers on them.

And sadly, there are votes in promising to do that.

Finally, consider this line from their release:

“Conservatives will stop the chaos and put Canadian fishers first – for a change.”

Given the context, it’s hard to read that and not conclude: to them, “Canadian” doesn’t include Indigenous people.

I had a lot of conflicting thoughts during this. Not going to lie — this is not one of my favourite people. I’ve had to restrain myself from hitting him on more than one occasion.

But when my mother died, she was wearing an Apple Watch, and I saw the data, I saw what he did to try and save her. So when he started to bleed out, I was there, putting pressure to the wound, feeling his pulse through the bloody towel.

The truth is that I feel like I could have let go. And the thing is… he asked me to. Without my mom, he lost the will to live. Which I get, because if my wife were gone, I can’t imagine wanting to be here.

But I didn’t let go. But I don’t want to pretend that it was a certain decision. There was a debate in my head. I could have done it and got away with it.

It took 20 minutes for the ambulance to come. I’ve broken my hand twice, once in a fight, one in an accident, and it never healed properly — so the pain was incredible. We talked about this, and about how much longer I could do it.

He just said thanks, and if I had to let go, it was fine.

But I kept holding everything down, because of guilt, because he tried to keep my mom alive, and I felt she was there, and I couldn’t disappoint her, and let her partner go. Even if he wanted me to.

They came, he got to the hospital, they fixed it. He came back, broke my spare computer — because, f- this guy sometimes. My daughter came over to take care of him once he was better, and eventually he went home.

My wife cleaned up all the blood and everything after my mom died, so I agreed to clean up the blood this time (she was the one that offered our home to him… without asking me). There was a lot. Then bleach, some stuff from Costco. We replaced parts of our home too.

The last of that laundry just went through the wash tonight, and it’s back on my mind, I’m only now starting to get my head back into things. This was 2-3 weeks ago? It was a lot, it raised questions that I’d rather not have had put to me.

But like with my mom’s kidney donation, I’m glad that I continued with my strategy of taking pain over regret. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.

I’ve not been able to write since then, and this is the first coherent thing over 100 words I’ve been able to get down and I feel like I’m getting back to it. That whole ordeal was traumatic, in a very real clinical sense.

Being an 80s kid though… suck it up, repress it, get over it.

Last week I spoke to their Geography class to talk about how First Nations land works from a planning perspective. I’ve worked on my First Nation’s lands advisory committee, done consultation work, and done reporting on some issues related to this. I am by no means an expert, but I know enough to give you the big picture summary of it.

Slide 1: Native land is a bunch of different things:

Here in the Coast Salish region, we have 5 different legal regimes over our land. The first is Traditional Territory. It’s a term I don’t like because it makes it sound like it’s in the past and we don’t use it anymore. That’s wrong, and I’ll come to that in a bit. But Traditional Territory are those giant blobs of colour beyond the reserves that you see on maps like the one on https://native-land.ca and on similar sites. When you do an acknowledgement, 99 times out of 100, this is what you’re talking about.

Non-Natives often see this land as fully alienated from First Nations.

Next are Reserves. You probably know that there are more than 600 First Nations in Canada, but you might not know that there are more than 3000 reserves in Canada. First Nation and Reserve are not synonymous - some nations may have more than one reserve. At least one nation has none (which is more than it deserves, I’ll explain another time). Reserve land can be administered under Land Code, under the Indian Act, or parts of it are held by Certificates of Possession.

Land Code

This is the legal regime created by the First Nations Land Management Act, a federal law that exempts participating First Nations from 34 sections of the Indian Act relating to land. If your First Nation votes to join the FNLMA regime, you need to create a code for it, and a body to govern it, and bylaws to manage it. Once you do that, you’re fully in control of it, and are responsible for zoning, taxation and everything else to do with your land. One thing, is that if you do choose to go Land Code, you don’t need to include all of your land, you can agree to leave some land under the Indian Act - something my First Nation has done for one of our reserves which the feds leased out to industry and have ruined with pollution. If we take it over under Land Code, we have to pay for the clean up. If we leave it with the feds, it’s their problem.

Indian Act

For those Nations that don’t go Land Code, they remain subject to the 34 sections of the Indian Act that govern land. The reason this is a bad thing is that the feds have shown that they don’t care, don’t manage things reasonably, and are too slow to keep up with the needs of businesses that want to work with First Nations. Behind every piece of heavily polluted reserve land, every unfair lease that alienates our land to non-Natives for $1 a year, there’s the Indian Act.

The thing is, to run Land Code, you need to get a vote passed in your First Nation (where all politics is populist), and you have the resources to actually run it.

Certificates of Possession

You know how they say there is no private land ownership on reserve? Certificates of Possession are private land ownership - though one where you can only transfer it to a member of the same band. For planning, it’s seemingly ad hoc.

Lastly there are the non-reserve private lands. These are properties off reserve that are owned by the First Nation. Technically, they are owned the same as any other fee simple property that any other Canadian owns. Technically. In reality, at least in these parts, that’s not the case. Because the relationship your First Nation has with non-Native government means that you could get preferential treatment with this land, and rapid approvals for development. I have a friend who does development for a nation and they got a massive skyscraper through approval in something like a year.

There’s also the possibility of converting these off-reserve lands into reserve lands using the ATR process, but that’s an area where I don’t have much experience.

Slide 2: So that what Native land is, here’s how it works:

First Nations land use planning is actually very similar to off reserve planning. When I served on that lands committee, whenever we held a meeting it felt like being in a scene from Parks and Recreation.

And the end product is mostly the same, and can be seen in First Nations Land Use Plans such as this one from Tsleil-Waututh. That land use plan is a great example because like many First Nations it has one or two deviations from land planning in the rest of Canada. For Tsleil-Waututh, it’s this:

Slide 3: Land for the descendants

That is a unique form of land management - one I proposed for my First Nation (and that has been integrated into our planning). Looking at planning, you’ll see a lot of standardization, but also there’s usually something distinctive that reflects the culture of the nation and their relationship to land.

In this case, for us Salish people, this fits with our understanding of land ownership, and rights to it. This is land on reserve which we’re further reserving for future generations to decide what to do with. You might think that sound like a land trust - but it’s not.

Slide 4: Land trusts (I’ll skip explaining this part so your head doesn’t melt with boredom, and move on to traditional territory below this pic).

Slide 5: Traditional Territories

You hear ‘tradition’ and you think of stuff that happened in the past. Traditional territory does not mean that. Yes - much of it has been alienated in some ways from us. Taxation power, planning, and zoning have been taken. Some key properties have been seized. But no matter what has been done, we have not given up control. Here are a few ways we [Slide 6] continue to exercise authority over our territories:

We still access resources on our territories, in many cases, on an industrial scale. For example in Slide 7 you’ll see off reserve lands which are used for forestry by my First Nation and our neighbour, Katzie:

You also have Guardian Programs where our people go out onto the land throughout our territory and demonstrate our sovereignty by conducting surveys, overseeing construction, order remediation work where needed, and enforcing our land and resource management rules. Here’s an example of our Guardians’ work in Slide 8, from my First Nation’s weekly newsletter:

As our resources grow, some nations are also looking at ways of extending land use planning off reserve and into the entire ‘Traditional Territory’. Here’s an early example from the Fraser Valley in Slide 9 where the local First Nations have described their land use priorities and concerns outside of reserve:

And that brings me to the last slide. Above we’ve talked about how First Nations land works. Here’s how I’d like to change it, so that it works better for everyone. For my First Nation, I’ve proposed that we take planning a step further and zone the entire ‘Traditional Territory’.

In Slide 10, we looked at the benefits of doing this:

The Duty to Consult has actually been a burden to First Nations. There are too many inquiries to deal with, too many meetings, too many reports to write. If you wonder why working with First Nations is slow, it’s because of this complexity and these huge demands on our time.

Zoning has been used for a long time to make life harder for minorities, and to alienate land from First Nations. If we take control of zoning, we co-opt that power for ourselves to take our land back in a very meaningful sense, create predictability and fairness, and encourage more investment and development on our lands.

The solution I propose isn’t simple or easy - moving zoning into the Traditional Territory will require us to account for another 2 or 3 types of land holding, but we already have 5, so it’s less of a hurdle than you might think. But in the end, it’ll make things simple, fast, efficient, and will take all that money that goes to consultants and lawyers, and the staff who have to answer to them - and give half of it to First Nations, and half back to the people doing development.

This is a hypothesis I’ve developed through a separate paper I’m writing on land acknowledgements. It needs to be investigated and validated, but I think it will hold up. I came up with this hypothesis because I keep getting asked why you have to acknowledge so many nations at once. Basically, non-Natives don’t get why Natives don’t colour within the lines when it comes to borders.

The reason is that our nations and Western nations exist on opposite sides of the Westphalian order, an order created by the Treaty of Westphalia. That treaty ended the Thirty Years’ War by creating the idea of state sovereignty—it’s where the modern nation-state comes from.

A modern nation-state, like Canada, Eswatini, Cambodia, and Japan, is expected to have:

• Fixed borders

• Full control over everything inside those borders

• No institutional interference from outsiders

Before Westphalia, European political structures were more organic—similar to how many First Nations governance systems still function today. Europe was a mess of overlapping borders and loyalties, with more than 300 different political entities—fully independent states, semi-independent regions, vassal states, and occupied territories. Take the Prince-Bishopric of Liège, for example. It was run by a bishop who also ruled as a prince, but his authority was tied to the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope, the local nobility (who had their own autonomous territories), and foreign powers like Burgundy and France. Depending on the day and the situation, you could owe loyalty to any of them. A land acknowledgement there would take a while.

That’s a situation many Native people—or in fact, any business or government that works with us—would recognize. Like in 17th-century Europe, depending on the issue, the spot of land—you might have to talk to one nation, or ten.

In the Westphalian system, there is nothing contingent about a state—and to most people in the Western world, I suspect that’s just common sense. If you hear the word “nation” (outside of its ethnic meaning), that’s what you imagine.

But 21st-century First Nations don’t work like that. Here I’ll speak about the Coast Salish region, the one I know best. Here, our territories aren’t always exclusive of each other, our governance overlaps, and our identities may even shift depending on the situation. That isn’t because the concept of land ownership is alien to us, it is not. And it’s not because it’s just our way to share whatever we have, again, that is not the case. It’s because we have other layers operating on the same lands—such as allegiance to wealthy extended families and their properties in nominally separate First Nations (I’ll go into that in more detail in the aforementioned land acknowledgements paper, once it’s done).

Today, First Nations governments on behalf of their people publicly claim vast territories that include common lands, ancestral family lands, and everything their people used historically.

These claims are a consequence of nation-building, spurred on by the treaty process and the consultation/referrals process. Those require us to map out our traditional territories and let non-Natives know who to deal with (or which 15 Nations you need to deal with).

The incentive with establishing borders is to go big and to step on our neighbour’s toes. If your land includes valuable resources—or real estate in a big city—you stand to gain. This has caused bitter fights between nations—our own quiet Thirty Years’ War, except it’s about money and political power, and it’s fought in courts, in backrooms at city hall, or in consultants’ offices.

If you want to understand why First Nations territories overlap, look at European history before 1648. The same forces that once shaped Europe’s messy political landscape—competing authorities, economic incentives, and shifting alliances—are at play here too.

Bonus Question: If this hypothesis is right, think about treaty-making in this context—between a Westphalian society and a non-Westphalian one. It might explain why First Nations who signed treaties don’t believe they ceded their land, while non-Natives think they did. Because for Native people, the treaty wasn’t to give away land, it was to add another layer of complexity to international affairs.

Apparently the Beaverton is open for try-outs. I’ve written 2 submissions for it, here’s the one I’ve finished — let me know what you think:

Prime Minister Trudeau encourages patriotic Canadians to boycott American sex-positions.

“Canadians should make their “O” an “O Canada” – Trudeau

In a late night speech, exclusive to OnlyFans subscribers, the Prime Minister asked Canadians to extend their boycott of American products to the bedroom: “Instead of a tapping your maple with American positions such as the ‘reverse cowgirl’ and ‘Cleveland steamer’, I encourage Canadians to try out the ‘lumberjack’, ‘Yukon Yowler’, or the ‘pout-it-ine’.”

Concern over the domination of American sex positions has grown since threats by US President Donald Trump to make Canada the 51st state. “Canada’s been horrible to the United States. Just terrible,” Trump declared. “They’re unfair on trade, they don’t pay their share on defense, and now they’re even taking our positions—American positions—without giving us credit. If they’re gonna do it our way in the bedroom, they might as well do it our way everywhere else, too. It’s time to put Canada in a new position—under the United States, as the 51st state.”

The sex position deficit is real and worsening, according to Statistics Canada. A February 14th report found that over 69% of Canada’s moves in the bedroom originate in the United States. Stats Canada spokesman Byron Johnson explained: “In spite of Canada’s dominance in the porn industry – with prominent smut purveyors like Montreal-based PornHub or the Toronto-based National Post – when it comes to what happens between the sheets, Canadians continue to import a disproportionate share of their positions from America.”

Trade experts express optimism that Canada may find new markets for positions, thanks to the Canada-European Union Free Trade Agreement, which opens the bedroom to French and Italian techniques.

The push to Canadianize the bedroom may have found support across party lines, with several Tory MPs spotted wearing ‘I ❤️ Oil and Gas’ T-shirts – a nod to the Canadian position involving canola oil and intestinal distress. However, when approached for comment, Conservative leader Pierre Poilievre blushed and ran away.

As it happened, she was in Finland, doing press for the film at the invitation of the US Embassy when Trump took control. And that meant she was one of the people who was cut off from funds - in the middle of the Arctic Circle.

During the call we talk about that, and talk about how Trump’s cuts are hitting Indian Country. I wanted to talk about the annexation talk — but was surprised to find that it hadn’t made any impression down there, other than a few memes.

Lastly, we hit on a few things that the liberal resistance should consider appropriating from Natives.

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Forward

This story is an illustration of the threat I talked about in this Toronto Star OpEd I wrote last week. In the Star piece I talked about those on the right who are demanding that we throw out all the ‘red tape’ to turbo charge the economy to fight Trump. Part of the ‘red’ tape they’re thinking of is clearly consultation with First Nations. I explain more in the OpEd, and in this story, I want to show you what that would actually look like - if Canada took their advice, threw consultation on the back burner, and tried to ‘drill-baby’drill’ its way to a post-American world. Here’s the story:

1. The End

September 1st, 2026—Ottawa, Canada

“Right shoulder—ARMS!”

“What’s he saying, mom?” Jason asked.

“Shhh, just watch.”

She turns up the TV.

A red faced soldier screams into the camera: 

“The British Columbia Regiment… Retires…”"Regiment, FORWARD—MARCH!"

The stomping of boots rumbles through the speakers, and is echoed back through the windows as homes across the neighbourhood watch the same spectacle.

The shot on screen rises above the marching soldiers, and closes in on a flag pole to show that the red and white is still there.

The army band begins playing a slow, familiar tune. 

“Listen! They’re singing!” Jason rushes to open the window, and a dirge drifts in, broken and patchy, carried on voices from across the city:

Tears well up, and she steps away from her son and the TV, escaping before the oncoming bout of ugly crying.

How did it happen so fast? she wonders. 

She breathes hard, letting control come back to her. If her son remembers this day, it’s not going to be the image of her crying.

From the living room, a new song rises now. Through the windows, more and more voices pick it up:

The order of the ceremony was in the paper this morning. And this song means the flag - her flag - is coming down for the last time. She can’t bear to watch, but she believes in her heart that she shares the blame for this happening. She should see it happen. Steeling herself, she steps back into the room.

On the screen, the flag descends into the soldiers’ hands.

She mumbles along:

The song trails off and a thousand rifles fire into the sky, a final salute. The crowd of invited guests erupts in cheers as the flag is handed to Prince William. His expression is tight, his face pale, even for him.

What must be going through his head? Did he even know this place existed before they asked him to come here and give it away?

With the flag gone, a low screeching sound draws the crowd’s attention and the camera searches the sky for the first signs. And there it is, an enormous wing of jets screams across the sky from the south—black stealth bombers, F-35s, dozens upon dozens. The camera tracks them as they pass.

And then, the marching.

“It’s the Marines!” Jason exclaims.

Carol wishes he were older, so he understood. This is exciting for him. He doesn’t know what he’s losing.

They appear in neat lines more than she can count. In dress blues, swords gleaming. At the head, a pair of flag bearers step forward.

An unofficial moment of silence as the new owners take their places. At the dais He stands, his signature hair still in the wind. It’s Him, here in her country. With an angry face, he surveys all that is now His. He nods to the Prince and raises his arm in a salute. 

A military band begins to play: 

A new flag creeps up the pole. Too slowly, drawing out the moment, the sight piercing her like a knife twisting in her stomach. At last there it is:

No one is booing. Not anymore.

2. The beginning of the end: “Move fast and Break Things”

April 3rd, 2025—BBC News

“...We now turn to our North America correspondent, Katie McArthur, for the latest on Canada’s response.”

“After several rounds of tariffs and retaliation, tomorrow the Trump administration will increase tariffs on Canada to 50%, dealing what economists warn could be a fatal blow to the Canadian economy. Experts predict an economic contraction surpassing even the depths of the Great Depression.”

“Yet, despite the looming crisis, Canadian nationalism is surging. Polls show a sharp rise in public expressions of national pride.”

“So, Katie, what does this mean for Canada’s response?”

“The new Prime Minister has signalled a major shift—Canada is no longer retaliating. Instead, the focus is on survival. The government is fast-tracking resource and trade projects, stripping away regulations at an unprecedented pace.”

“And what does that mean in practice?”

“Environmental protections are being suspended, Indigenous consultation requirements scrapped, and regulatory hurdles dismantled. The message is clear—nothing will stand in the way of economic recovery.”

September 15th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada

“The polls are clear—Canadians won’t stand for another Native blockade. Not now. Not when unemployment’s at 12% and companies are dropping like flies. Tariffs changed everything. This isn’t business as usual,” Carol said.

The Minister stood almost still, his lips moving rapidly, as they always did when he was weighing pros and cons in his head. The polls should be enough for him to decide, she thought.

Tariffs started at 25%, then 50% as retaliation escalated. The country held firm—more patriotic than she’d ever seen. The national unity government pushed through emergency laws, fast-tracking everything to stop the bleeding.

Unfortunately, one of those fast-tracked projects crossed the wrong First Nation. Their chief called out his people to blockades, invited in professional protesters, and shut down the Trans-Canada Highway leading to Vancouver and its port.

Canadians were united in their anger at their disloyalty. When everyone was going the extra mile to save the country, who did this chief think he was, to try and pull this old trick? Didn’t he understand we have to work together?

It risked getting ugly if the blockade lasted any longer. Canada’s businesses couldn’t take another hit, and shutting down the Port of Vancouver was making the country look like a basket case to the new Asian clients it was so desperately courting. 

“We need to put an end to this blockade. Firmly, or we risk more. Canadians demand it.” Carol finished.

“I meet with the Prime Minister in half an hour. She needs to know if Canadians will accept a crackdown. The Emergency Powers Act exists for this exact reason—to keep business moving, to keep us from falling apart. I respect their rights, I do. But this isn’t the time.” He sighed. “There’s no other way. We have to draw the line here.”

Carol handed him the paper with the statement she had drafted.

“Carol, if the Prime Minister agrees, I want you back here tomorrow morning, early. We need to manage the reaction from the, uh, the First Nations.”

“Yes, Minister.”

September 16th, 2025—Highway 1, near Xwelmexw First Nation, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada

The morning rain worked its way through the earthen blockade. Two twenty-something Xwelmexw land defenders huddled under a tarp, propped up by bent trees on the roadside. They watched ten others pacing the muddy highway, keeping an eye on the perimeter.

The chief had come and gone earlier that morning to talk about the Prime Minister’s speech. He thought the RCMP would come today. They were out of sight, beyond the hill, and the rain kept even their drones away. Maybe the weather would buy them time, enough for other First Nations to rise up in support. That was the discussion at hand.

“Check it out,” Sophie said, holding up her glowing phone. “The Mohawks say they’re setting up a sympathy blockade on the train tracks in Ontario.”

“No way,” Jeff said. “Them, the port blockade, and now I’m hearing people might block ships with canoes up in Prince Rup—”

Whump, whump, whump, whump, whump.

Hollow thumps from all directions.

“Incoming! Gas masks on!” a defender on the highway shouted.

Sophie scrambled for her mask, fingers slipping in the rain. Then—a flash. White. The world went silent. Her ears rang, her body refused to move. A breath—burning, acrid. She gagged, the gas curling into her throat like barbed wire.

Hands yanked at her, dragging her through the mud.

Jeff? A cop?

The grip loosened. A sharp crack to her face—pain. Stars. No doubt now.

September 16th, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada

Rain pattered on the plastic band office roof. Inside, Chief Donny Pierre was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in two days—managing the media, supporting the land defenders, fielding calls from other chiefs after the Prime Minister made her threat. He was a young chief, but not that young, and his body was near its breaking point. He wished again that he had lost the last election, he was not a man made for fighting. 

The PM had declared his nation’s blockade a national security threat. It was coming down immediately. 

Half an hour earlier, the sharp pops of stun grenades could be heard coming from the direction of the highway. Before they themselves had to flee the cops and dogs, his spotters had seen someone escape. Now, that person was pushing through the band office door—wet and caked in dark mud, he was trailed by dozens of band members eager to get news of the police attack.

“Oh my god, what happened to you?” said Linda, the band’s nurse, as she sat Jeff down and began tending to a ragged gash along his cheek. He squished as he dropped into a chair, so wet from the rain, it was like ringing out a sponge.

“It was a branch, I fell down when I was getting away. I’ve got another one stuck in my leg.” He groaned, lifting his leg. 

“It’s in the back. It really hurts.”

Linda raised his leg to get a better look.

“This is what you need, Donny—I got video, I got everything.” Jeff said, handing his phone to the chief. “They… oof… they… fff-f-f-ucked everyone u-p-p-p,” Jeff stammered, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

“That’s good work, man. Let me get you a blanket, you’re shivering,” Donny said.

“Jeff, I need you to hold still so I can look at the branch, okay?” Linda pleaded.

Jeff trembled, his face pale. “M-m-my f-face is tingling. My fingers t-t-too.”

“It’s just adrenaline, buddy,” someone called from the crowd.

Holding Jeff’s wrist, Linda muttered under her breath, “Oh no. Oh no.” Then, louder: “I need some help! Clear the floor, put some blankets down. Jeff, stay with me, come on, you can do this!”

A collective gasp rippled through the room as Jeff was lowered to the ground, revealing the pool of blood beneath his chair.

“Help me turn him over,” Linda said. Two men stepped forward, rolling Jeff onto his stomach.

“That’s not a branch,” one of the men muttered. “That’s a fucking bullet.”

“Turn that off!” a woman shouted from the crowd.

Chief Donny looked up. A teen was filming on her phone, her aunty pawing at her to stop.

“No,” Chief Donny said. “Keep filming. People need to see this. Jeff would want that.”

Somewhere in the Xverse (Formerly known as the Twitterverse)

Video plays. An ashen Native man, close-cropped hair, a grey hoodie bearing the tribal logo beneath a smear of blood. Behind him, a crowd of Natives—angry, some visibly bloodied—fills the frame.

Chief Donny Pierre: “Siyam e Siyaya, Chief Donny Pierre te skwee. My name is Donny Pierre, chief of the Xwelmexw First Nation in British Columbia, Canada. Today, Canada declared war on my Nation, invaded our unceded lands, murdered one of my people, and took a dozen more as hostages.”

@Patriot1776Forever

What the fuck? I knew Canadians were communists, but what the fuck!

Video plays. A woman in a medical uniform is seen giving chest compressions on a young man. His eyes are open. As she moves you can see blood on his face, and a pool spreading on the floor beneath both of them.

@TrumpTrain88

Their Prime Minister is a Nazi, someone needs to step in!

Chief Donny Pierre: “Before he died, that man gave me a video—to show you the violence of these Canadians.”

@AmericaFirst_52

You heard him, they want America’s help! #MAGA

Chief Donny Pierre: “Our elected council met and passed this resolution for the world to see. ‘Be it resolved that the Xwelmexw First Nation calls for the assistance of the United States of America, and in exchange, will enter into Treaty Negotiations with them over our unceded territories in so-called Canada.’”

@UltraMAGA_Donny

Holy shit, this is a map of their territory—that’s as big as West Virginia!

Video plays. Smoke rises from a rainy highway cutting through a mountainous rural area. Green-clad paramilitary police with assault rifles surge through the barricade. A dozen small figures huddle on the ground—blinded by stun grenades and tear gas. Some struggle. Police?—Soldiers? beat them with sticks. One uses the butt of his rifle–right to the face of a young woman.

@BasedBaldEagle

@ElonMusk - Sir, have you seen this? Those communists in Canada are exterminating the Indians! Their chief asked for help!

Video plays. Camera swings toward the treeline, shaking. Dogs are barking, a man is running for his life. A crack. The camera hits the forest floor. The screen goes black.

@ElonMusk

Interesting. Let me take care of this.

September 18th, 2025—Trump National Golf Club, Florida, USA

“Mr. President, Eva Stryker, OAN: What is your response to the plea for help from Chief Pierre of the, uh, Zzz, the Wexel Mex First Nation? Will America stop the Canadians from killing them?”

“I have to tell you, folks, it’s very sad. Just terrible. Canada—people think of them as friendly, but I saw the video, and these were some very bad things, very bad. Horrible. And honestly, it doesn’t surprise me, because their Prime Minister, she’s a nasty woman, okay? A real disaster. Canada has not been good to the United States, folks. Not good at all.They’ve taken advantage of us for years, and now look at what’s happening.

“Now, this Indian Chief, Chief Donny—beautiful name, Chief Donny—he’s a very strong leader, very tough, and let me tell you, he’s got a lot of support. And here’s the thing: unceded land. That means Canada doesn’t own it, folks. It’s his land! And what Canada is doing there, it’s just—honestly, it’s criminal. I’ve asked my Secretary of Defense, my Secretary of State, and our terrific Attorney General to look at it, to see what we can do. And we will do something, believe me. We’re gonna help. We need to see what they want in this treaty, and let me tell you, that’s some beautiful territory up there, really great land. And I’ll tell you this—Canada won’t make them a good deal, but we will. We will make them a much better deal. Much better. That’s for sure.”

“Mr. President, does that mean you’ll send troops to help Chief Donny?”

“Well, look, that’s something we’re looking at, we’re looking at very strongly. It’s on the table. A lot of people are saying we should, a lot of people. And you’ll be hearing something very soon. Very soon.”

September 18th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada

Click. The screen went dark. The Minister stood still, the room thick with the president’s words. Carol didn’t move.

A long moment passed.

Carol exhaled. “Fuck.”

The Minister ran a hand over his face, then staggered to the globe in the corner. He flipped it open, uncapped a bottle, and poured two drinks.

The phone rang. They let it.

They each took a glass and drank, saying nothing.

3. Let’s make a deal

September 23rd, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada

“I had to do something! They attacked us! We had a man die!” Chief Donny shouted.

A small, deceivingly frail elderly man raised his hands in a peacemaking gesture. Grand Chief Sheldon Klein, head of the BC Chiefs Alliance—the body that represented every First Nation in the province—stood calm, his face unreadable.

“Let’s not talk woulda, shoulda, coulda. I had to go through three army checkpoints to get here. We’re in it now,” Klein said. He leveled his gaze at Donny. “Look, was this offer you made—was it serious?”

Donny exhaled sharply. “At that moment? Yes. But now? No.”

A look of frustration flickered across Klein’s face.

Donny began pacing the length of his private office, hands fidgeting as if he could wring the stress from his body. “We were furious, Sheldon. A man bled out just outside that door. A hundred people were crammed in here, shouting. Some had guns. The council wanted blood. I had to do something before things spiraled. I made the call.”

Klein’s face darkened: “Then unmake it, Donny. BBC is out there, Fox News, Al Jazeera, a bunch of reporters from China, this is the biggest story in the world. You’ve got to shut this down. If you don’t, we’re all fucked. Trump isn’t going to stop with you, if he gets his way here” he trailed off. “And if it’s not Trump, it’ll be Canada–they’ve got the army on that highway now.” Klein raised his voice “You have to tell them it wasn’t a serious offer. End this!”

Before Donny could respond, a sudden, sharp knock rattled the door. 

Then a voice—loud, furious—muffled by the wood.

“Like fuck he will!”

The door slammed open before anyone could react. Councillor Willow Johns stormed in, broad-shouldered, white-haired, and radiating fury. She towered over the diminutive Grand Chief.

“Jeff’s still dead, and those fuckers did it. We’re done with them.” Her voice was steel. “I talked to our elders and our young people. They agree—we need to teach Canada a lesson. If you want to change the offer to Trump, you bring it to Council.”

Donny turned to her, voice tight. “We could be ground zero in a war. Canada’s part of the Commonwealth of Nations, the King could order troops here, he’s King of Canada too, and—”

Willow rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist in a dismissive dice-throwing gesture.

“The Commonwealth and the King? This isn’t Game of Thrones, Donny, this is the real world. The King isn’t going to do shit. And no one even knows what the Commonwealth is. This is America. Even if England wanted to fight, they can’t fight the U.S. There isn’t going to be a war—just a lesson. We have to choose if we want to be the ones teaching the lesson, or the ones having it taught to us.”

Donny shook his head, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I thought we’d rattle them, scare them into backing down, force them to hold someone accountable. I didn’t think the Americans would actually notice, let alone take it seriously. Now I’ve got goddamn Trump talking about making ‘a deal’ with me. What the hell do I do now?”

Klein stepped forward, his voice flat, measured. “Turn this off. Take the offer back.”

Willow squared her shoulders. “I’ve already called the Elders to join the council tonight.” Her eyes locked onto Donny’s. “We’re going to write the treaty terms to send to Trump.”

September 24th, 2025—Office of the Assistant Secretary for Indian Affairs, U.S. Department of the Interior, Washington, D.C.

“They want 15% exclusive control of their traditional territory,” Deputy Assistant Secretary David Johnson said, flipping through the treaty draft. “Wildlife and environmental consultation rights in the rest. A funding guarantee equal to what they got from Canada. Full control over health care, justice, marriage laws… it’s all social services stuff.”

Assistant Secretary Alberto Gutierrez leaned back in his chair. “That’s it?”

Johnson snorted. “Canada treated them like garbage. Look at this—” he tapped the last page. 

“They’re asking us to guarantee them a drinking water system.”

Gutierrez blinked. “They don’t have drinking water?”

“Apparently not.”

Before Gutierrez could react, a sharp knock at the door cut through the room. His secretary barely had time to announce the Secretary of State, Darren Hogswurth, before the man strode in, trailed by two aides.

Both Gutierrez and Johnson rose to their feet.

Hogswurth didn’t sit. “Where are we with this offer?”

“Offers, sir. Plural,” Gutierrez said, handing him a folder.

Hogswurth’s brow furrowed. “How many?”

“Two so far,” Gutierrez said. “This one’s from the Westside First Nation in central British Columbia. They’re offering to cede 7,000 square miles—about the size of New Jersey. In return, they want control over 15% of it and a long list of legislative rights. Nothing substantial.”

Hogswurth snatched the document and flipped through it. He let out a dry chuckle. “So they want us to give them land they already own, and—” he smirked, stopping at the final demand. “Drinking water?”

Gutierrez and Johnson exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Hogswurth snapped the folder shut. “Let’s get it done. Hell, throw in some shiny beads—tradition and all.” He smirked, then turned and walked out without another word.

September 25th, 2025—The White House, Washington, USA

The press conference was already in full swing. Trump stood at the podium, gesturing as he spoke, while the new Syrian President, Abdulaziz watched from the side. 

“We’re making some incredible deals right now. People are saying we’ve never had this many before. My good friend, President Abdulaziz, just made us an amazing deal—one of the best. Beautiful port on the Mediterranean, fantastic location. The Russians don’t need it anymore, so now we get it. A 50-year lease, unbelievable terms. A great move for America.

And you know, we’re getting a lot of great deals lately. A lot. One of them—a really smart deal, a very strong deal—came from my good friend, Chief Donny. He sent me a treaty yesterday. A great deal, if I do say so myself. And I know a little about deals. Very generous. Good for the United States, good for his tribe.

And he’s not the only one! Another chief, from the Westside Tribe—also great people—sent me a  treaty too. And let me tell you, folks, we are looking at it very carefully.

Now listen, folks, these tribes—really great people, very smart—they’re making deals. Canada did some not nice things to them. But here’s the thing: some of them are claiming the same land. And I’m not buying the same land twice, okay? So if you want a good deal, you better get your treaty in fast. First come, first served.”

September 30th, 2025—Ottawa, Canada

Carol read the top-secret CSIS briefing document in front of her, forehead creased, headache worsening with each line.

Across the table, the Minister read his own copy, punctuating lines with coughs, gasps, and groans.

“This is half of BC! If this happens, we lose the Pacific—no ports, no Asia strategy, no recovery.” the Minister exclaimed.

“First Nations think it’s now or never. If they don’t cut a deal with Trump first, someone else will—and give away their land. They’re afraid they’ll be left with nothing but their tiny reserves,” Carol said.

“And now there’s one in Saskatchewan? At least we locked those bands into treaties before this mess. Trump isn’t entertaining those—”

“Yet,” Carol answered. 

She raised her head from the briefing document, and said: “We need to outbid Trump.”

“We can’t.” The Minister ran a hand over his face. “We give the Natives the land, they get a veto. This is no time for that kind of red tape. Our entire economy could collapse.”

Carol tapped at her keyboard, scrolling through an old policy file. “So if we can’t outspend Trump, maybe we can give them something he won’t…”

The Minister gave her a skeptical look.

“Power… Influence” she said distractedly

She scanned the document quickly, then turned her monitor toward him. “Here. The Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. It’s a report from back in the 90s. It proposed a separate house of Parliament for First Nations. It won’t change the rest of the country, just handle the Indian Act, the reserves”

The Minister leaned in, scanning the screen.

“This won’t cost much,” Carol continued. “And it keeps the economy intact.”

He exhaled. “I’ll take this to the Prime Minister. It’s risky, it’ll require a constitutional amendment, but it should be enough for them.”

October 1st, 2025—Xwelmexw First Nation Band Office, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia, Canada

The band council room was stuffy, packed shoulder to shoulder, including for the first time with international media.

Chief Donny called the meeting to order. “Our only order of business today is to consider the Prime Minister’s ‘New Deal’. Here’s what they’re offering if we withdraw from treaty talks with the United States.”

He glanced down at the paper in his hands. “One: They’re transferring two parcels of federal military and parkland to the band. Total, including our current reserves? 0.5% of our territory.”

A laugh rippled through the room. Someone muttered, “Sounds big when you say ‘two parcels.’”

“Two: An absolute veto over any natural resource or infrastructure projects that touch reserve land.”

Muttered cries of “Not enough,” “Bullshit,” and then louder, directed at the council—“What about the rest of our territory? They can do whatever they want with it?”

Willow scoffed. “Yeah. The rest of our land? They say it’s theirs. They can do whatever the hell they want. And yeah, it’s bullshit.”

Donny continued, “The promise of a constitutional amendment to create a separate house of Parliament for First Nations, with jurisdiction over any bills impacting the Indian Act.”

Muted cross talk in the room. They were interested. 

Willow spotted a raised hand. “Kevin, go ahead.”

“Yeah, thanks. So they’re promising a constitutional amendment—great. But that means it needs a vote, right? What happens if it doesn’t pass? What do we get then?”

“Sweet fuck all.” Willow didn’t hesitate.

Donny sighed. “Yes, it has to go for a vote, and every province has to approve it.”

A quiet voice spoke from the council table. Councillor Aaron Steve, the youngest on council, cleared his throat. 

“Uh, Chief, if I can add something—” He hesitated, adjusting his glasses. “Quebec’s having an election right now, and, uh, they asked about this amendment in the debate last night. The Parti Québécois leader—he straight-up said he wouldn’t support it.”

The room erupted. Some swore. Others shook their heads. A few journalists in the back whispered to each other. Aaron flinched at the noise.

Donny got unnaturally loud, using his longhouse voice. “Quiet down! Let him finish.”

The room settled, but Aaron still looked shaken. “Quebec has a veto over constitutional changes. If they say no, it’s no. The election isn’t over yet, but the PQ is way ahead of the CAQ. They’re going to be government. There isn’t going to be a constitutional amendment. It’s an empty gesture.”

Silence.

A quiet voice broke it. “So what’s left? What’s the offer now?” an elder asked.

Willow leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “A park they say we have to keep a public park, an army base that’s so polluted we would need to spend a billion dollars to make it useable, and a promise not to strip mine the band office.”

“That’s about the shape of it.” Donny sighed. “The letter that came with this says we have to vote immediately. If we take this deal, we cancel our treaty talks with Trump.”

The room was still. Then, a young woman stepped forward.

Her face was a mess of bruises, a patch covering where her eye used to be. The silence deepened.

“Why these things? I don’t remember anyone in this room ever asking for a House of Parliament. Did they actually ask you what we want, Chief?” Sophie’s voice was hoarse, but steady. “Did anyone come and talk to you?”

Donny shook his head. “They didn’t ask. They didn’t meet with us. They sent a letter—the same one every Nation got. Us, Westside, even Nations that never spoke to Trump.”

He exhaled. “I talked to Grand Chief Klein at the Chiefs’ Alliance. He’s talked to everyone. A few got parks, some got decommissioned bases or building lots they didn’t want. There’s nothing here.”

Willow didn’t even look up. “What else is new?”

She pushed back from the table. “Let’s vote it down and move on. This isn’t a New Deal—it’s the same thing they’ve been offering for 150 years. It’s an insult.”

4. Traitours

December 1st, 2025—Vancouver Indigenous Community Centre, Vancouver, BC, Canada

“I don’t get it. Trait? Ours? What’s that supposed to mean?” Brenda, asked.

“It’s traitors” Dave answered

“They misspelled it, t-r-a-i-t-o-u-r-s” Brenda said, carefully spelling it out.

“It’s intentional, they add the U to make it more Canadian.”

“Huh, I don’t get it” Brenda said

“You know, like with the word “colours”, c-o-l-o-u-r-s –that’s the Canadian spelling, Americans spell it without the U. So Traitours with a U, makes it more Canadian, get it?”

“I’m not a great speller”

“Well U or not, it’s a hate crime. I think we should think about closing, this is getting dangerous.”

December 15th, 2025—Xwelmexw Nation, Disputed Territory

A line of angular silver Cybertrucks rumbled up the gravel driveway, kicking up ash from the burned-out house. Only the prefab metal toolshed remained untouched, though ‘TRAITOURS’ had been spray-painted across its side in dripping red letters.

As the trucks rolled to a stop, Chief Donny stepped out from the charred remains of the house. Sophie followed, dressed in combat fatigues, a rifle slung across her chest. She walked with purpose, her one good eye scanning the newcomers.

The door of the lead truck opened, and a tall Native American man stepped out—thin, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore the “technically not a uniform” of an American military contractor: cargo pants, a jacket with no insignia, and a sidearm holstered at his hip.

He extended a hand. “Chief, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Doe. John Doe.” His handshake was firm, practiced. “A mutual friend sent me. He heard what’s happening here.”

John gestured to the burned-out home. “He asked me to bring you some things. To help you defend yourselves until the cavalry comes.”

He motioned Donny toward the back of the first truck. Inside were long crates. John cracked one open and pulled out a black rifle with a wooden stock.

Sophie’s eyes widened. “No way. Is that an AK?”

She stepped forward, reaching for it before waiting for an answer.

“Yes, ma’am.” John handed it to her. “This is an AK-19. The newest, toughest version of the AK, upgraded to shoot NATO-standard 5-5-6 ammo. And you’ll find plenty of it in those trucks behind us.”

Sophie ran her fingers along the rifle, then took the banana clip from John and slid it into place with a click.

“Can I?” she asked, glancing between Donny and John.

Both nodded.

Sophie turned to the graffiti-covered shed. She flicked the safety, set it to full auto, and squeezed the trigger.

The AK roared. The metal shed shuddered under the impact, splintering, sparks flying. A final shot sent it tilting forward before it crumpled into a heap.

“Thank you.” Donny exhaled. “These will save lives.”

His voice hardened. “Canada’s letting these rednecks attack us every night—driving through our blockades, shooting at houses, throwing Molotovs. They smashed every window in the band office. Someone’s going to get killed. The Mounties, the Canadian Forces won’t stop them.”

John nodded. “I know. We’ve been watching. Our friend is alarmed at how they’re treating you.”

“We need protection.” Donny’s voice cracked slightly. “We’re trapped. The roads? Blocked. The hospitals? We can’t get to them. No mail. No money. Our bank accounts are frozen. The moment we step off-reserve, they shoot at us. Last week, they beat an old man just trying to get to dialysis. And the RCMP? They stand there and watch.”

John’s expression didn’t change. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve also brought some people to get your Land Defenders trained up and ready. You’re not alone anymore. Our friend is putting pressure to get this finished.”

Donny hesitated, then forced himself to play along with the coded language. “Your… friends said once Congress passes the treaty, the Marines will be here. How soon after that?”

John smirked. “Not right away.”

He leaned against the truck. “Once the treaty passes, we give Canada 48 hours—withdraw, or face 500% tariffs and removal from the world banking system. If they fold, we’re in.”

Donny’s stomach tightened. “And if they say no? How long then?”

John tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to say.

“Depends.”

Sophie adjusted her grip on the AK, eyes dark. Her mind on the current problem. “Give me ten guys, a few rifles, and a TikTok live stream. We fire a few shots in the air, and I bet those blockades disappear overnight.”

John gave a slow nod. “That’s not a bad idea.”

January 11th, 2026—Ottawa, Canada

As the Prime Minister strode into the Cabinet room in her signature red dress, the ministers rose in unison. The moment she sat, the room fell silent.

She sorted her papers and began.

“Congress passed the treaty. It’s signed. Xwelmexw, Westside, the Chilcotin, Chilliwack, Cowichan, more—ten so far. And they’ve been strategic. Their lands cut through our roads, rail lines, and pipelines. If this stands, we can’t reach Vancouver or Prince Rupert without going through the United States first.”

Murmurs. Concern.

“Madame Prime Minister,” the Minister of International Trade pressed, her Quebecois accent thick with tension. “Our recovery depends on Asia. Without Asia, we can’t even replace a fraction of what we lost from U.S. tariffs—let alone survive the 500% they’re threatening now.”

The Finance Minister cut in. His polished accent carried authority.

“Moody’s is downgrading us to C-A-level tomorrow. Same level as Ukraine. They think we won’t survive long enough to pay our debts. If that happens, we lose access to international credit markets. Borrowing costs will skyrocket.”

The room erupted in gasps and cross-talk.

The Prime Minister raised her hand. Silence.

“We have to answer this bill. We can’t lose the Pacific. We can’t just—”

A voice interrupted from the far end of the table.

“We should have wiped them out when we had the chance.”

The Minister of Fisheries.

A beat. A few exchanged glances. Then, from the other side of the table—accented in French.

“It’s absurd we’ve given them so much. Every country has these savages. We’re the only ones who let them pretend they have power.”

The taboo was broken.

The room erupted. Complaints came from every quarter.

“The greatest mistake this country made was letting Trudeau’s White Paper die. It would have wiped out the reserves. Assimilated them.”

“What did they ever contribute? They were always in the way, always taking from us.”

“They never paid taxes, and now we’re going to let them destroy the country?”

“They should be thankful. Do they really think the Americans will treat them better?”

“Goddamn traitours”

It went on for some time.

Fortunately, there were no Natives in the Cabinet room to be offended.

After a long discussion on the failures of Indigenous people, the Prime Minister brought them back on task.

She exhaled. “It’s clear we all agree—if the Residential Schools did their job, if the White Paper had passed, if someone, at some point, had put these people in their place—we wouldn’t be here now. But we are here.”

She looked across the table.

“We have three choices. One: accept Trump’s treaties and let the Natives separate. Two: refuse, and take 500% tariffs and global economic exile. Three: war with America.”

Silence.

The Finance Minister cleared his throat. “Madame Prime Minister.”

She nodded.

“With Moody’s downgrade, the tariffs, and the U.S. controlling access to Asia—no matter what we choose, financially, at best, this country won’t last six months before default. Even that would require extracting every ounce of available gold.”

A voice from the back: “Won’t we need to go through the Natives to get to the gold?”

They were ignored.

The Prime Minister continued. “We vote.”

Faced with war, immediate collapse, or six months of borrowed time, Cabinet chose the only option left.

They notified the United States of their decision to recognize the new treaties between the Natives and America.

On June 1st, 2026, the Xwelmexw, and the rest - with their unceded lands - would be ceded to the United States.

That night, after addressing the country one last time, the Prime Minister resigned.

February 20th, 2026—Ottawa, Canada

Carol switched the phone to speaker mode, to free her hands to take notes.

“Chief Pierre, I’m pleased to be able to speak with you,” Carol said, forcing warmth into her voice.

“Carol, right? I was expecting the Minister,” Chief Donny replied.

“I handle all high-level negotiations on his behalf, Chief Pierre. Speaking with me is as good as speaking with the Minister directly.”

A long silence.

“Chief Pierre? Are you still there?” Carol pressed.

“Yes.”

“Well, Chief Pierre—or I suppose Chief Donny, as they call you on the news—I understand you’re calling about your Nation’s trust money.”

“Yes. You won’t release it to us.”

Carol sighed. “I understand your frustration, but our policies don’t allow for full trust fund transfers to First Nation governments. The concern is that without the proper resources in place—”

“You stole our land. Sold it off. Took the money and stuffed it in your own accounts. Now, when we ask for what’s ours, we’re the ones you don’t trust?” Donny cut in.

“It’s not about trust, Chief. It’s about capacity. If these funds aren’t managed properly, it could cause—”

“Money you stole from us.”

Carol felt her patience slipping. “It wasn’t stolen. It was sold, under federal legislation, and—”

“You stole our money. And now you won’t give it back. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Carol clenched her jaw. She was done being diplomatic. Not with this traitour. Her frustration took over.

“Donny, real talk—your name is mud in this city. You’re not getting that money unless your friend in Washington forces our hand. You must know that. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be looking at secession right now.”

“My fault?! You shot and killed one of my people!”

“One of your people who was manning an illegal blockade. That project would have saved us. Gotten new exports to Asia. I don’t know how you expect us to send you money every month if you don’t let us do the hard work of running an economy. We were fighting to stay afloat. Everyone has to sacrifice.” Carol exhaled sharply. “What did you expect? What do you want?!”

Donny’s voice turned ice-cold. “You really don’t know?”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I’m an elected leader. I answer to voters. And we are in the same financial crisis. But we’re going through it alone. This country includes my reserve, too. My people—my voters—depend on our fishery. That money sees them through the winter. The emergency project you forced through? It would have destroyed the river right during the fishing season. I told your government. I asked you to build elsewhere, to wait 2 months. You ignored me.”

Carol scoffed. “You broke up the country… over fish?”

“No” Donny answered coldly, “You broke it up over a phone call about fish.”

“How can you expect us to work with you? To you it’s “just fish”. To us, it’s just survival.”

Carol rolled her eyes and made the yapping gesture with her hand. Thank God video calls never took off. She’d heard too much of this from Natives over the years. It was always fish or beavers, some magic mountain or mystical tree.

Her voice sharpened. “Do you actually think you’re going to be treated better by the Americans? They’re going to bulldoze over you—”

Donny cut in. “We’ve already been bulldozed—by you. Ignored—by you. Lied to. And now you’re telling me the Americans will be what? Just as bad? That’s not the threat you think it is.”

Carol’s face burned. “Chief Donny, we’ve given you everything you need, we’ve taken care of you. We bent over backwards. And now you just sit there and—”

Donny interrupted: “You know, I have internet. I can see the Minister’s TikTok account. There he is dancing at a temple. Here he is at Lunar New Year. A food bank in his riding. Wow, he gets around—he has time to talk to everyone.”

A pause.

“But he never talked to me.”

“I’m an elected official. Representing a sovereign people. I wanted to work with Canada. But I don’t matter.”

Carol’s hands curled into fists. She didn’t wait for him to finish.

“Never, in the history of the world, has an Indigenous people been so coddled. So ungrateful. Always more demands, always taking. Not once a thank-you. Not even when we give you millions. This is a national emergency, everyone else was doing their part for the common good. Not once have you people—”

Click.

The line went dead.

Carol sat frozen.

The words still hung in the air.

She had let it slip—no, she had let it all out.

And it was too late.

 March 1st, 2026—BBC News

“We turn now to the ongoing Canadian Crisis, where a major political shift has just taken place in British Columbia.”

In a dramatic turn, two New Democratic Party members crossed the floor yesterday, handing the British Columbia Conservatives a confidence vote victory. They have now been invited to form government.

The Conservatives have pledged to hold a referendum on joining the United States. Here is the newly sworn-in British Columbia Premier, James Raymond:

“Canada has abandoned us. As of June 1st, British Columbia will be surrounded by the United States on four sides. This is not sustainable. The government in Ottawa has made its decision—and now, we must make ours.”

The referendum bill will be introduced this evening, with the vote scheduled for 60 days from now. Under Canada’s Clarity Act, a province may secede if voters are presented with a clear referendum question.

British Columbia has already lost 40% of its land, following the secession of thirty Indigenous governments who signed treaties with the United States. Their departure excluded only territory within non-Indigenous town limits.

This secession has effectively cut British Columbia off from Canada. Roads, rail lines, and pipelines now crisscross the new U.S. border multiple times, creating a logistical nightmare for trade and travel.

Joining us now is our North America correspondent, Katie McArthur. Katie, how is this referendum shaping up?

“Polls show a major shift toward union with the United States. The defiant nationalism seen in early polls last year has faded.

After nearly a year of recession—what some economists are now calling a depression—most Canadians have lost the will to fight. Support for secession has reached 65% in the Province, and of those, 90% favour union with the United States…”

End.