He saw again, and would always see in his mind’s eye, the body of Little Carl, and moved to try to lift the body out of the canoe. But even as light as it was – Little Carl had taken the full force of the sickness and weighed almost nothing – Leif couldn’t do it and stood there, still barely upright over the canoe, hating his weakness. The fact that he lived and was not able . . .

Not able to do.

Anything.

He was ravenous and thirsty and in fact had drunk some mouthfuls of seawater when he was cleaning himself, and while it felt good on his tongue, the saltiness kept it from slaking his thirst. He stagger-walked to one of the small run-off streams, dozens of rainwater rivulets left in the wake of the storm, fell to his knees, and, cupping his hands, drank from the clear, almost sweet, water until his thirst was gone.

Then he rose again to his feet – still difficult, but getting a little easier – and made his way back the short distance to the canoe. There were still several of the chopped-skin strips of smoked fish. They had been safe, away from the mess in the bottom of the canoe, lashed on top of the bundle Old Carl had put in the canoe before making them leave. Leif ripped away some chunks of the smoky red meat and chewed, swallowing them nearly whole. Which he vomited almost immediately. Ate a little more, small bites, well chewed, and kept it down. Then back to the fresh water to drink again, water over the food, feeling the fish and water course through him, fill his body with new-old strength.

To the canoe again.

To Little Carl.

Still weak, but with new strength coming, building, he reached in, took Little Carl up and out in lifting stages, carried him stumbling to the water, and cleaned him as he had cleaned himself, scraping the mess away until the little body was finally clean. Then he wrapped Little Carl in one of the blankets Old Carl had put in the bundle and laid him carefully on the ground.

He sat next to the body, leaning back against the canoe, and did not know what to do next. In the camp they had decided to burn the dead in the small huts, thinking it would help to clean the sick wind left by the men who had lost their shadows. But he could not bring himself to burn the small form wrapped in the soft-coarse blanket. He did not want to leave him here because animals – bears – would find him, and no matter how well hidden he was, they would get to him and . . .

And.

He had to . . .

What?

Had to make it, make it better.

Had to find a place where the bears couldn’t get at him.