Kikwaakew by Joseph Boyden Page B

wings, and pulling them out of their feathers. He’s hungry, but to waste the meat, even that little, makes him feel guilty. He plucks each bird carefully, keeping the bodies intact. He guts them and removes their heads, then skewers each one on a stick, placing their thin bodies above the fire to cook. His kettle’s boiling now, so he makes tea, adding a spoonful of sugar, then lard, and finally some flour.
    After dinner, he rolls up his pant leg to above the knee and unstraps his prosthetic, saying that word in English, after all these years still enjoying the way it spits from his mouth. Earlier, when he first reached the camp, he removed his snowshoes and planted them upright in the snow just outside his door. Niska had taught him as a child to do this so that the dreams that come in the night would be filtered, the good getting through, the bad ensnared in the gut webbing to be burned up in the morning light. Some habits become like prayers if you stick to them long enough.
    Rubbing his sore nub, he tries to sleep. But he keeps hearing footsteps near his camp, loud enough, big enough, that he can make them out over his crackling fire. At first, he thinks it might be wolves, their hunger bringing them to the scents of him and his camp. There’s no wind tonight, and the sounds travel. It isn’t wolves. He considers the possibility that some other human, another Cree or maybe a Hudson’s Bay Company trapper, has crossed into his territory. But they all know where his lines are, and he has seen no hints of men nearby. As the night grows deeper and the sounds still echo out every little while, he begins to wonder if it isn’t some of his friends from the war, long dead, come to find him. His tension loosens then, and he begins to doze off, only waking to stir and feed the fire.
    Before dawn, he jolts awake. It isn’t a sound that rouses him, though. It’s an image, fuzzy in the darkness as light threatens to crawl pink over the edge of the world. Whatever this is that haunted him last night, it’s out there, and it isn’t a friend. It waits in the trees just beyond where he can see. It is thick shouldered and muscled. Its legs and neck are powerful. He can make out that much in the haze of his half-dreaming. He knows it watches his camp, waits for him to crawl out so it might weigh him, make a decision as to what it faces. Today will be the coldest yet. He can tell by how his breath hangs in the air in front of him, despite the proximity of the coals in his fire.

    CUTTING THROUGH THE BUSH is tough on him this morning. No packed trails to follow, and in the shadows the snow’s deep. He’s not felt fear in a while, him. Something’s watching his movement. There’s no point looking around for it, though. It doesn’t want to be seen. Niska’s done this to him before, when she works her shake tent especially strong. She calls in the spirits of her dodems , her special animals, and they come to her. She’s asked them to do something, he figures. Maybe find out why the game is unhappy, if she or Xavier or his two boys have done something to insult them. Whatever’s watching doesn’t feel flesh and blood. Doesn’t feel physical. But that’s what’s scariest, isn’t it?
    You’re fine .
    Back out on his second creek, with the sun bright and the walking easier, he feels a little better. He cuts up the bank and into the bush and checks his snares into the early afternoon. Nothing. Only a few fox and rabbit tracks. He almost doesn’t check his last few cubby sets as the afternoon gets late. He’s cold and needs to warm up. But the thought of the fisher, the slim chance that he might have gotten it, forces him up the bank and into the woods.
    On a trail he’s had good luck with earlier in the winter, he spots the tracks. They make him stop, kneel down, and take off his mitts so he can trace a print. Without wanting to, he looks over his shoulder. It’s come back. After all these years. He stands and follows the