He cleaned the salmon – setting the liver aside for soup later – and put the whole fish on a flat rock propped up and leaned towards the fire so the heat from the flames cooked the meat. When one side was done – the skin peeling away – he flipped the fish over and cooked the other side, and when that was done he lowered the rock flat, used it like a small table, lifted the skin from the meat, and pulled the tender pink flesh away from the bones.

He had never tasted anything so wonderful. It was like pouring something new inside his body – which had in the sickness, he felt, become something impossibly old – and he kept swallowing the meat whole, not taking time to chew, letting the fish slide into his stomach. The meat was oily with fat and he could feel the grease move into his arms and legs and chest like rich, soft fire.

When it was done, when he had eaten all the meat, he ate the eyes – which had their own salty taste – and then put the leftovers, liver, skin, and skeleton into the copper pot, added seawater, and with more wood brought it to a boil. When it made a soup with the head and skin and fins, he took it aside, let it cool, and drank the whole thing without putting it down.

Then sleep.

He pulled the canoe completely onto the shoreline, sat down next to it, leaned against the side, and dozed.

Small dreams.

One of Little Carl running around the camp looking for something. He could not tell what it was but everybody was laughing and smiling and they seemed to have something the little boy wanted.

Short dream of a bear stealing his berries, just reaching again and again with hairy arms and long-clawed paws, eating all the blackberries in the world before Leif could get to them.

And a small dream of his mother. He had dreamed the mother dream many times and it was always the same. She was with some other people, talking to them – he heard her voice as muffled sounds that were almost words – and she always had her back to him so Leif could not . . . quite . . . see her face. Just there, just the edge, but never quite enough to see. Short, quick dream.

Then another of orcas playing with his canoe and him lying in it while they pushed it back and forth. It seemed very real and he thought it may be but could not openly remember it happening. Still, he thought of them as a form of whale brothers – with breath that smelled of rotten fish – and in the dream did not mind them playing with him.

As a toy.

Then no dreams and just sleep, stomach wrapped around blackberries and greasy fish meat and salty soup, warm and filling.

A blanket inside his stomach.

Wind Music

Sunshine.