19. Who We Honor
Who We Honor
Honor
There are satellite media trucks parked beside the community center now.
Canadian networks arrived first. Then the Americans. By yesterday, crews had flown in from Britain, France, Germany and Australia. More are still coming.
Grandmother stands beside me outside the community center as another reporter delivers a live broadcast beneath the gray winter sky.
A week ago, people had to be persuaded that women were missing.
Now the world knows the truth.
Lockhart Mining is on every news channel. Douglas Lockhart’s photograph appears beside headlines about human remains discovered near a decommissioned mine, eight women rescued from a remote compound and an RCMP corruption investigation spanning almost two decades.
Inspector Gavin Perry has been detained. Investigators from outside the region are examining his finances and every missing-person case he touched. Search warrants have been executed at Lockhart offices and properties across Manitoba.
And the forensic teams are still working at North Star.
Preliminary surveys suggest there could be more than thirty sets of remains beneath the snow and frozen ground.
The forensic teams won’t know the true number until the site can be properly excavated.
With the ground frozen solid, some of that work may have to wait for the spring thaw, and full recovery could take months.
Nobody knows whether North Star is the only site.
Those truths matter.
But they aren’t what I want the world to remember.
Inside the community center, hundreds of photographs cover the walls. They’ve spread beyond the folding tables where Grandmother first showed Steve and Jan our missing women, across temporary display boards brought in when we ran out of space.
More than three hundred names are being reviewed so far, and more families contact us every day.
Women Grandmother remembers as girls.
Women whose children grew older than their mothers ever had the chance to become.
Women who worked, studied, raised families, protested, laughed, fought, loved and belonged to people who never stopped waiting for them.
The media wanted a number. I gave them names. Every name we have.
Every woman whose disappearance I documented before Lockhart took me. Every woman another family brought to us afterward. Every woman whose connection to Lockhart operations deserves to be investigated properly.
We don’t know whether all of them are dead. I make that clear every time somebody puts a microphone in front of me.
Some may have been trafficked elsewhere. Some may have escaped. Some may still be alive.
Missing does not mean dead.
And unidentified remains do not belong to whichever headline gets there first.
Grandmother takes my hand as we enter the community center.
Television screens along one wall carry coverage from around the world. Different networks. Different languages.
The same photographs.
The same names.
Ours.
A reporter from Toronto approaches carefully. “Honor, can we ask what you want people watching today to understand?”
I look at the wall behind me.
I think of Ivy and Mariah. Of the women who walked out of North Star alive. Of Maya surviving long enough to tell someone what happened there. Of the families who kept photographs when police files were closed.
Then I look into the camera.
“Don’t remember them because somebody hurt them.”
The room quiets around me.
“Remember what they did before that. Remember who they loved. What they wanted. Who they were.”
N?hkom’s fingers tighten around mine.
“The Lockharts expected these women to disappear quietly. They expected their families to stop asking questions and the rest of the world never to learn their names.”
I look back at the photographs.
“They were wrong.”
Outside, more cameras are arriving.
Forensic teams may spend months identifying the women at North Star. Investigators may spend years tracing the others who passed through Lockhart operations. There will be more records, more searches and probably more places nobody wants us to find.
This isn’t finished.
But the women who were meant to disappear are being named on screens around the world.
Their stories are no longer buried with them.
This isn’t only tragedy.
It’s testimony.
And now the whole world is listening.
First Nations Community, Northern Manitoba, Canada. 1230 hours.
By noon, the media has stopped asking whether I plan to step back.
They’ve started asking what I plan to do next.
The answer is simple.
More.
My abduction was supposed to end the investigation. Lockhart took my phone, my camera and my notes because they thought removing me would remove the questions.
Instead, they gave those questions a face.
I stand outside the community center with Grandmother on one side of me and Kai on the other while reporters crowd behind the barrier near the road.
HAVEN has people working the perimeter and coordinating interviews so families aren’t swarmed every time they arrive with another photograph.
Victor made one thing clear when he called this morning. If I want to keep fighting, HAVEN will help me do it.
I want to keep fighting.
A reporter from Ottawa raises her hand. “Honor, after what happened to you, are you considering stepping away from activism?”
“No.”
The answer comes easily.
“What happened to me is exactly why I won’t.”
More microphones lift.
“They took me because I was asking why Indigenous women keep disappearing around Lockhart operations. They held me because I found evidence they didn’t want examined. If I walk away from this work now, they still get part of what they wanted.”
Kai stands close enough that his sleeve brushes mine.
He doesn’t speak for me. He doesn’t need to.
“For decades, families reported daughters, sisters, mothers and aunties missing. Too many files were closed. Too many searches ended early. Too many women were described as runaways before anyone had done enough work to know otherwise.”
Behind the cameras, Grandmother watches me.
I learned this from her long before I understood what activism was. You keep speaking when silence is more convenient for everyone else.
“My own disappearance became another file,” I say. “The difference is I came back.”
A murmur moves through the reporters.
“So, I can tell you exactly what happened when the system decided I was easier to lose than to find.”
That is mine now.
The locked room. The guards. The women beside me. The beating. The fear I refused to let choose for me.
Lockhart meant every one of those things to silence me.
I can use them instead.
Another reporter asks whether I’ll testify.
“Yes.”
“In criminal proceedings?”
“In every proceeding that needs me.”
Kai glances at me. I know that look. Proud again.
It almost makes me smile.
I turn back to the cameras.
“And I’m not doing this alone anymore. Families across the region are sending us records. Investigators are reopening cases. Lawyers, advocates and Indigenous organizations are helping preserve evidence and connecting families who were ignored the first time.”
N?hkom reaches for my hand. Kai stays at my other side. That matters too.
I spent months believing I had to push hard enough for everyone by myself.
I don’t.
The work is still mine. The fight is still mine. But I have people beside me now who won’t walk away when the names become inconvenient.
The next question comes from somewhere near the back.
“Are you afraid of what happens when the cameras leave?”
I look directly toward the voice.
“Yes.”
Several reporters shift.
I let them.
“Which is why I’ll still be here when they do.”
First Nations Community, Northern Manitoba, Canada. 1830 hours.
By evening, most of the cameras are gone.
The satellite trucks have pulled away, reporters have filed their stories and the community has reclaimed its own space.
A fire burns outside beneath a clear winter sky, families gathered around it with hot drinks, food and stories that belong to them rather than the people who came here to broadcast their grief.
Grandmother stands beside me watching the flames. Behind us, the community center still holds hundreds of photographs.
Tomorrow, investigators will keep working through the names. Forensic teams will return to North Star. Families will make calls, search old boxes for records and tell stories they should’ve been asked about decades ago.
Tonight, those women have been spoken about across the world. Not as statistics. As people.
I take N?hkom’s hands.
“We’re not stopping.”
“I know.”
“There are too many still missing. North Star won’t be the only place we have to look.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Then you keep looking.”
“We keep looking.”
A smile touches her face.
I think about the little girl who learned Cree calls from this woman. The teenager who learned that asking difficult questions usually meant somebody needed to ask them. The activist who started collecting names because official files kept closing.
Lockhart tried to turn me into one of those names.
Instead, I came home with more questions.
And now I have an entire country asking them with me.
Grandmother reaches up and touches my cheek.
“Go.”
I glance toward the edge of the firelight. Kai is waiting there. So are the dogs.
Maskwa sits beside him while the others wander through the snow, nosing around trees and investigating anything that might conceivably be edible. Beyond them, the land stretches beneath moonlight, spruce rising dark against snow that seems to go on forever.
This country nearly killed me.
Tonight, it’s simply beautiful.
I kiss Grandmother’s cheek and walk toward Kai.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
His mouth curves. “Thought you were the natural leader.”
“I am.”
“Then lead.”
Kai whistles, and the dogs come in from the edge of the firelight. We harness them together, Maskwa taking his place at the front while the others settle into line behind him.
I step onto the sled runners.
Kai looks at me. “You sure?”
“You told me to lead.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
He steps onto the runners behind me and reaches around to settle his hands over mine on the handlebar.
“Keep your weight loose. Let the sled move under you.”
“I’ve watched you enough.”
“That confidence is either impressive or dangerous.”
“Probably both.”
I give Maskwa the command.
“Hike!”
He launches forward.
The team surges after him, the sled runners whispering over packed snow as we leave the fire behind and take the old trail toward Kai’s place.
Kai stays close behind me, guiding only when I need it.
For once, I’m the one leading him home.
There are no engines behind us.
No guards ahead.
Nobody counting generator failures or watching doors.
I don’t have to measure how long I’ve been missing or calculate how many hours I might have left.
Tomorrow there will be work. Interviews, investigators, reopened files and hundreds of families still waiting for answers.
Kai will search.
I’ll investigate.
Together, we’ll keep following the names wherever they take us.
But tonight belongs to us.
First Nations Community, Northern Manitoba, Canada. 1930 hours.
The sled ride to Kai’s house is invigorating and exciting at the same time.
For my first time, I didn’t do too badly. In my humble opinion, anyway.
We work together to unharness the dogs and get them fed and watered in their kennels.
Later, in the quiet darkness of the cabin, there’s finally just the two of us alone.
Outside, the northern wilderness is still, and the dogs rest quietly in their kennels. Inside, the fire in the main room casts a warm amber glow into the bedroom, painting the timber walls in soft light.
Kai takes my hand and leads me toward the king-sized bed heaped with heavy wool blankets.
We undress slowly, without haste, shedding our clothes until we stand bare in the warm room.
There’s no clock ticking tonight, no immediate danger hunting us across the snow, just the rare luxury of a night with no ending we have to survive.
We sink into the softness of the mattress together. Kai moves over me, kissing me softly as he goes, his dark eyes tender as his hands trail over my skin. His touch treats me as something both precious and unbreakable.
He slides into my heat with a slow, languid push, drawing a soft gasp of pleasure from me. We move together unhurriedly, taking our time, savoring every touch, every breath and every sigh that fills the quiet room.
I love the feel of him inside me, as though we were made to fit together. My hands run over his smooth back and down to his tight buns, squeezing as I go.
Kai’s rhythm is steady and deep, driving the enjoyment higher until a wave of intense heat breaks over me. My body contracts tightly around him, my hands gripping his shoulders as my first climax threads its way through me.
Before the sensation completely settles, I roll us over, taking the lead.
I straddle his lap, my dark hair falling around us like a curtain as I control the pace. Kai’s hands anchor firmly on my hips, guiding me as I move against him in slow, deliberate sweeps.
I rest my palms flat against his chest as I grind and swirl against him, enjoying the thrill of my senses overtaking me.
Looking down into his face, feeling the steady strength in his grip and the deep spiritual pull between us, a quiet certainty settles in my soul.
My spirit guide led me here, but my heart tells me he is the one.
The friction coils tight once more, swift and overwhelming, carrying me into a second, even deeper orgasm. Hearing my sharp cry, Kai surges upward, his own body locking tight as his release breaks over him, spilling his warmth inside me.
We collapse onto the pillows, pulling the heavy blankets up over our shoulders. Kai turns his head, resting his forehead against mine, his breath warm on my skin.
“I know it’s soon, but I love you, Honor,” he whispers, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone.
I smile and lace my fingers through his.
“Not too soon. I love you too, Kai.”
Something shifts in his eyes. Five years of searching. Five years of carrying the people he couldn’t find alongside every person he could.
I understand that now.
“And tomorrow, we keep going. We find the rest of those women together.”
He smiles and presses his lips to mine.
Not an ending.
A promise.