“We returned to the club as fast as we could. The sun was beginning to set and a brisk wind was blowing over the lake. No one talked in the boat. When we got back to the dock, two of them took the cooler and disappeared. I stayed behind with Frank. I had to gut the trout, store the motor and clean the boat.

“Frank came up to me. He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out a wad of bills. He peeled off a fifty and waved it under my nose.

“‘Look, this is for you,’ he said. ‘But if you ever speak about what happened today, we’re going to say you were the one who killed it. Understand?’

“I understood. I kept working as usual, so as not to attract attention. I took my time going back to the cabin.

“When it got dark, Charlotte and the children and I drove the pickup without headlights. I followed the old overgrown road around the bay. We portaged along the stream until we reached the female and quickly cut up the carcass. Nobody saw us. Charlotte is an expert. She learned from her parents. We carried the quarters on our backs back to the pickup and hid them under canvas. As a sign of respect, my boy and I hung the dead calf and what was left of the head in the branches of a tree. We thanked the great creator and the spirit of the moose for their generosity. Then we quietly returned to the club. Today I worked all day as if nothing had happened, but last night my whole family slept poorly and I had nightmares.

“That’s why I came to tell you this story tonight. It may be a bad omen, but I can’t let all this meat go to waste. That would be a sacrilege.”

Sam stops speaking. We have all listened closely without interrupting. We are worried, too. Has the balance been upset? The old ones reflect, weigh his actions, look at the situation from every angle. Finally they come to a conclusion.

“The spirit of the moose does not blame the Algonquin. Sam Brascoupé did what he had to do under the circumstances.”

Poné hangs his big drum from a large branch. It is as round as the full moon. He wets the moose hide with a few drops of water and rubs it with his palm. The skin becomes taut and comes to life. He tunes it by tapping the four corners with his index finger. The skin shudders. Poné takes his stick. It is a huge rib from a male moose that he has shaped by hand. He beats very softly, and the translucent skin quivers in the moonlight. Then he sings a song to the moose. The voice coming from the small man is big and powerful. It fills the clearing, fills our hearts and minds.