Tom’s hand goes limp on my leg and I am pulled out of my daydream. The old man has closed his eyes for good.

I kiss him on the forehead. Tom’s life has flown up to paradise with the other great hunters, but his spirit is still here in the tent. I can feel his comforting presence, and I stay like this for a long time.

The little stove gets cold. The flame of the last candle flickers and then goes out. A pale light seeps through the canvas of the tent. I can see the outline of Tom’s body in the shadows. I cover him with the blanket that’s rolled up at his feet. Then I go out.

A long fringe of red lines the horizon to the east. A new day appears already.

I take a deep breath and thank the great creator of all things for giving me life.

3

PINAMEN IS WAITING for me. Her face is solemn, her black hair falls over her shoulders. She looks very beautiful.

“Tom is dead,” I tell her.

“Yes. Manie is coming with the women. They’re getting ready now.”

She’s cradling a canvas bag in her hands. The sack is moving.

“What’s that?”

“It’s for you!”

I open it, look in.

“A puppy! What is he doing here?”

Inside, a ball of black fur squirms and wags his tail. I pick him up. He wriggles like a fish out of water. I rest him against my shoulder and he buries his cold muzzle in my neck, licks my chin and nose with his raspy tongue.

“What do you think?” Pinamen asks, stroking his back.

“He’s magnificent! Full of energy.”

“He’s yours. I think he already likes you.”

“Mine? Where did you find him?”

“Manie was keeping him for you. Tom asked her to. She says he’ll help you get over Tom’s death.”

“He’s beautiful. I’m going to call him Mush, because Tom was a great moose hunter.”

I put the dog back in the warm bag and carry the bag over my shoulder. Pinamen and I walk hand in hand along the path lined with pine needles. The smell of the resin and undergrowth are heavy in the misty morning air.

The reserve is still asleep. The fog is stretching and lifting off the surface of the lake.

Suddenly Pinamen grips my hand more tightly. An RCMP patrol car appears at the end of the dirt road. It slowly jolts its way toward us, its headlights still on.

We can’t turn back. Besides, the police have definitely seen us.

We walk along the narrow path beside the road in single file to give them room. Our faces are dark, our mouths clamped shut, our heads lowered.

The car pulls alongside us. The driver lowers his window, stops.

It’s Sergeant Macdonald. He looks at me coldly. There’s spit in the corners of his mouth, like a snake’s.

Black exhaust runs out of the tailpipe and stinks up the air around us. We keep walking straight ahead.