Surviving Bear Island by Paul Greci Page A

felt the sweat building under my arms. My whole body was shaking. I took a breath and a chill ran up my spine.
    Seconds passed. I heard it. A chewing, gnawing sound filled my ears and became my whole world.
    Not a big sound. A small sound. I cupped my hands behind my ears and listened. I turned my head toward one entrance then the other, trying to pinpoint the location. Just beyond the light of LF. That’s where I thought it was coming from.
    I stood, and the sound stopped. But I could sense that whatever made the sound was close by, covered only by the darkness.
    I grabbed the unburnt end of a log I’d been feeding to LF, who responded by blowing a stream of gray smoke my way. Then I put the glowing end forward, and stepped outside. But the red glow was so dim I could barely see my own feet.
    Back inside, I knelt and piled handfuls of small sticks on both LF and RF, filling the shelter with warmth and light.
    I thought about just staying put, but I had to see what was out there. Had to know if it was something to worry about.
    I stood again, flush with the back of the shelter, and was about to step outside, but stopped. I reached toward the boughs and scooped up mynew spear. I tapped the tip with my index finger. Sharp enough.
    I took a breath and stepped into the added light, and peered in the direction where I’d heard the gnawing, chewing noises. Under a tree, less than twenty feet away, was a curled-up form twice the size of a football, the tips of its quills shining in the firelight.
    I felt my hand tighten around the base of the spear.
    A porcupine.
    Food. Meat. Food. Meat.
    Every starving cell in my skinny body was sending signals to my brain.
    Kill it. Eat it. Kill it. Eat it.
    On the tips of my toes I took a step toward the porcupine.
    No response.
    I took another step. Then another.
    When I’d covered half the distance, the porcupine turned its head away from me and presented its tail.
    Careful, I thought.
    Only about eight feet away, I gripped the base of the spear with both hands and brought it up to ear-level. I took two quick steps, and lunged forward. The porcupine swung its tail in my direction. I felt the spear point connect, and kept driving it forward into its neck.
    The porcupine thrashed wildly, wailed like a baby, and ripped the spear from my hands. The spear bounced up and down until I pinned it to the ground with my feet. And through my boot bottoms I could feel the spear shaking, the little animal quivering. It went on for maybe ten or fifteen seconds, the life draining out of it. Then nothing.
    I stepped off the spear and grabbed it with both hands. I was pretty sure the porcupine was dead, but I drove the spear forward and down, listening and feeling for movement. One stray swat with that tail and I’d be hurting.
    I lifted the spear, heavy with death, with food. Still, I kept it fully extended. I’d seen salmon that I’d pummeled spring back to life.
    At the band of alders in front of my bedroom I wove the spear between the branches, suspending the porcupine off the ground.
    In the dim light I saw the porcupine’s open mouth, like it was still crying out in agony. I cringed and looked away. I felt bad for killing it, but satisfied, too.
    It felt different than pulling a fish from the creek—there were thousandsof salmon swimming up this one stream, but there weren’t thousands of porcupines running around. I’d only seen this one the whole time. But if I saw another, I’d try to kill it, too.
    Things died all the time so other things could live. Animals searched for plants and other animals to eat while they tried not to get eaten.
    Death is part of life. Part of the cycle. No one escapes it.
    Just last year a bunch of wolves had killed this woman who was jogging down a dirt road outside a remote village. I felt bad for the woman and everyone who knew her and everyone who would miss her and at the same time knew that those wolves were just being