best eaten raw, fresh out of the still-wriggling fish.
To further amaze the Indian, the noisy men strode away from
their fish-cleaning place and left their shiny knives stuck in the
wooden table. He couldnât believe that such treasures would
be left unguarded. His own knife never left his side and he was
always conscious of it. His very survival depended on it.
The night crept in over the grey sea in ever-deepening
shadows on the still bay, until the land across the quite cove was
black, with only a faint glow from the dying day left on the water.
Soon, that last vestige of the light that had been, was gone and
the cove was filled with night. Small, sighing waves touched and
whispered around the rocks.
The stars appeared as if by magic, until the sky was filled
with their wonder, and still Buka waited. The noise inside the log
dwelling finally quieted. Countless moths and mosquitoes flew
toward a small light inside, which had dimmed until it gave no
useful light at all. Heavy snores followed out through the chinks
of the poorly built shack where the invaders slept.
Leaving his cramped hiding place, he ran silently along the
beach near the waterâs edge. He stayed crouched over in a quiet
jog until he arrived at the foul-smelling wharf. Stopping and
listening, he watched the effervescent remains of the cod entrails
swaying back and forth with the silent tide. Small splashes broke
the water surface as hidden night fishes closed in on the offal. His
muscles had relaxed with the short sprint along the beach, andnow he sprang up onto the surface of the log wharf in as graceful
and fluid a motion as that of a lynx.
Bent over, he remained motionless, waiting for signs of
discovery. There were none, only the small lops against the rickety
pier beneath his feet and a few muffled snores in the distance.
Two steps more and still bent over, he was beside the small table.
Pieces of cod guts hung over the edge and dark blotches of blood
stained its surface. It smelled terrible.
He reached up over the tableâs edge and with both hands
pulled the two shiny knives from the sodden, musty wood. He
couldnât believe it had been so easy. The feel of the knives in his
hand fascinated him. He instinctively knew their worth. Holding
them by their smooth, wooden handles, he crept in over the shaky,
lungered wharf until he was once again on the land and closer to
the sleeping strangers.
The smell of the stacked fish in the small shelter drew him.
He paused and forced himself to listen once again. The night was
still. The sleeping white men inside the big log mamateek were
oblivious to their stealthy night visitor.
Reaching the tier of stacked bobusowet , he almost retched at
the strong smell. But his curiosity prevailed and, reaching down,
Buka grabbed one of the fish by the tail and pulled it free from
its salty bed.
Back along the shingled beach, he ran, both knives in his
right hand and the white-coated cod dripping in his left. When
he had cleared the beach and had gone for several minutes more
into the shrouded forest, he stopped to inspect his good fortune.
The knives he tossed from hand to hand, their balance and
the feel of them a pure joy to his hunterâs soul. He tested them
against the tree bark, peeling the rough spruce bark effortlessly.
He could only imagine the ease with which he could clean an
animal with such a tool, although the curved knife puzzled him.Maybe it was only used to cut the big bone from the bobusowet ,
a practice he had never seen before.
Very pleased with his find, he didnât consider stealing them
wrong. The knives had been left unguarded. He had simply taken
them. He would fully expect the same done to him, if he were
foolish enough to leave such valuables unattended.
Buka now turned his attention to the pungent codfish. Peering
at it in the darkness, he tore a strip from its thick breast and pushed
a piece of it into his mouth. For a second he was puzzled, then
revolted, as an
To further amaze the Indian, the noisy men strode away from
their fish-cleaning place and left their shiny knives stuck in the
wooden table. He couldnât believe that such treasures would
be left unguarded. His own knife never left his side and he was
always conscious of it. His very survival depended on it.
The night crept in over the grey sea in ever-deepening
shadows on the still bay, until the land across the quite cove was
black, with only a faint glow from the dying day left on the water.
Soon, that last vestige of the light that had been, was gone and
the cove was filled with night. Small, sighing waves touched and
whispered around the rocks.
The stars appeared as if by magic, until the sky was filled
with their wonder, and still Buka waited. The noise inside the log
dwelling finally quieted. Countless moths and mosquitoes flew
toward a small light inside, which had dimmed until it gave no
useful light at all. Heavy snores followed out through the chinks
of the poorly built shack where the invaders slept.
Leaving his cramped hiding place, he ran silently along the
beach near the waterâs edge. He stayed crouched over in a quiet
jog until he arrived at the foul-smelling wharf. Stopping and
listening, he watched the effervescent remains of the cod entrails
swaying back and forth with the silent tide. Small splashes broke
the water surface as hidden night fishes closed in on the offal. His
muscles had relaxed with the short sprint along the beach, andnow he sprang up onto the surface of the log wharf in as graceful
and fluid a motion as that of a lynx.
Bent over, he remained motionless, waiting for signs of
discovery. There were none, only the small lops against the rickety
pier beneath his feet and a few muffled snores in the distance.
Two steps more and still bent over, he was beside the small table.
Pieces of cod guts hung over the edge and dark blotches of blood
stained its surface. It smelled terrible.
He reached up over the tableâs edge and with both hands
pulled the two shiny knives from the sodden, musty wood. He
couldnât believe it had been so easy. The feel of the knives in his
hand fascinated him. He instinctively knew their worth. Holding
them by their smooth, wooden handles, he crept in over the shaky,
lungered wharf until he was once again on the land and closer to
the sleeping strangers.
The smell of the stacked fish in the small shelter drew him.
He paused and forced himself to listen once again. The night was
still. The sleeping white men inside the big log mamateek were
oblivious to their stealthy night visitor.
Reaching the tier of stacked bobusowet , he almost retched at
the strong smell. But his curiosity prevailed and, reaching down,
Buka grabbed one of the fish by the tail and pulled it free from
its salty bed.
Back along the shingled beach, he ran, both knives in his
right hand and the white-coated cod dripping in his left. When
he had cleared the beach and had gone for several minutes more
into the shrouded forest, he stopped to inspect his good fortune.
The knives he tossed from hand to hand, their balance and
the feel of them a pure joy to his hunterâs soul. He tested them
against the tree bark, peeling the rough spruce bark effortlessly.
He could only imagine the ease with which he could clean an
animal with such a tool, although the curved knife puzzled him.Maybe it was only used to cut the big bone from the bobusowet ,
a practice he had never seen before.
Very pleased with his find, he didnât consider stealing them
wrong. The knives had been left unguarded. He had simply taken
them. He would fully expect the same done to him, if he were
foolish enough to leave such valuables unattended.
Buka now turned his attention to the pungent codfish. Peering
at it in the darkness, he tore a strip from its thick breast and pushed
a piece of it into his mouth. For a second he was puzzled, then
revolted, as an
Similar Books
