Richard’s the tribal police sergeant, the big one sent when a drinking party turns violent or there’s a standoff between an abusive husband and his wife’s brothers. They send him when the situation calls for muscle. We call him the Equalizer. That he was here for Remi, his own blood, it didn’t make sense. Remi’s the first frog child. He can’t comprehend what a dam is for, never mind how to blow it up. Four of us on the reserve had frog children. You have to have one to be a member of our club. Anigeeshe awasheeshuk. The Cree word for them. My son Remi was the first. Born nineteen years ago. Big bulging eyes. Thick, muscled limbs. A long sloping back. His voice a croak. The old ones on the reserve, they named him first. Aneegishush. Little Frog. And when more came, over the years, to different women near the Abitibi Canyon, anigeeshe awasheeshuk. Frog children. You see the Abitibi Canyon from the Little Bear Express, appearing like a windigo’s grave out of the trees, dipping slowly at first, then shooting straight down, the rock cliffs dropping for a lifetime until the brown water of the river licks them and swallows them up.
