Kikwaakew by Joseph Boyden Page A

lately. Wind’s going to change, though. And his luck with it. Good luck has been hard to come by the past years. He figures he’s meant to spend his life alone.
    Hear me. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
    His two boys are due to come and help him with his work any day now, help him build new sets and check the frozen beaver ponds, the more distant marten traps, the rabbit and fox and moose snares, help him pull out and reset his gillnets under the ice, help him with all of the difficulties a one-legged trapper faces. After twenty-five years, Xavier’s gotten good, him, walking on snowshoes. He’s had one leg far longer than two. But anyone who knows him knows the drag of the left leg, the awkward slant of the snowshoe print dug in the snow. He’d be easy to track. He laughs to himself at the thought of the animals getting wise to him and following his trail for once. Maybe the fisher is peering out from the tamarack and spruce at him right now.
    A few miles down the creek, he spots a couple of sharp-tailed grouse sitting high in a spruce, their feathers puffed out against the cold so they are round balls. He considers their worth to him on this day, with his pack lighter than he likes and the weather so harsh. Slipping off his mitts and then the pack from his shoulders, he unties his .22 carbine, opens the action, and slips in a round. If he angles himself right, he won’t waste. The birds sit dumbly in the tree, not daring to move for fear they’ll give themselves away. He walks to the centre of the creek so the two birds are lined up.
    He raises his rifle, his hands already cold, and sights in on the front grouse. The wind blows slightly from the northeast, and the birds are far enough away that the small round will drop by the time it makes its way to the first bird’s head. He raises his sights just above it, breathes in deep, releases fully, breathes in again, then allows half his breath out. The rifle settles steady in his hands, and he pressures the trigger as lightly as he can. The rifle cracks, splitting the cold day open for just a moment. The two birds fall from the spruce, one to the ground with a thump into the snow, the other halfway down before it gets caught up in a branch. Ahh! Gi-jisk ! He leans the rifle onto his pack and makes his way up the bank to the tree.
    Taking hold of the trunk, he shakes it with all he has, the spruce swaying some with the effort. The stuck bird eventually falls, snow from the branches sprinkling his face, a little of it melting on his warm skin and slipping down his back. He picks up the birds and walks them to his gear. He will eat something other than boiled beaver tail tonight. Miigwetch .

    THE EVENING COMES QUICK, in these short days, and Xavier’s glad for leaving firewood by the door of his temporary camp the last time he was here. He’ll remember to collect some tomorrow at dawn to replace what he uses tonight. From the outside, this little askihkan looks just like a beaver lodge and not much bigger, but this one rises up on dry land in a snowy mound in the midst of a ring of thick spruce, protection from the wind. The Cree have learned a lot from the beaver, their hard work and how to make winter homes from woven sticks and mud and bark. This one, once he digs out the snow to pry the door open, is much bigger inside than it appears. He can almost stand fully in it, and the fire ring in the middle is big enough to keep him plenty warm tonight, the dried spruce boughs of his old bed now perfect for kindling.
    He starts a fire and hangs his kettle filled with snow above it before going back outside to cut fresh boughs for his bed. His home is filled with smoke when he returns. He clears the chimney hole so that it begins to draft nice. He adds more snow to the kettle and unpacks his bag, pulling out the lard and flour, the tea, the sugar, and his enamel cup and plate.
    Untying the birds from his pack, he considers laying them flat on their backs, stepping on their