Quick, sudden strike with a rock to kill it, then back to the fire where he used his knife to open the fish, split to expose the meat, cooking on a flat stone facing into the fire, put the liver – it was a male so there were no eggs – and head into the pot for stew, added some seawater, which he sloshed into the pot at the shoreline, shoved the pot into the fire.

Added more wood. More grass and leaves to make smoke to keep the flies – and the ravens, who were still there, waiting, some on the ground and others in the trees – away from the drying meat . . .

Then leaned back against a large rock by the fire and listened to the ravens gurgle-talk.

The sun came out from the clouds. The mist-rain was gone. Warm on his face and his belly all tucked in with good meat and some blackberries he had found and it was just . . . exactly . . . right.

A perfect moment.

He should make it last. In some way, there must be a way, to make it last, or lodge in his mind so when things weren’t quite perfect he could remember this moment, could call it up.

And he thought it would make a good chant-song, a chant-song to go with paddling the canoe. Or even a dance, a shield dance, but then decided they were both too temporary. There had to be a better way, some thing more lasting, permanent. If he had a chisel he could chip his story in stone or if he knew more he could make a rune stone. But he had no chisel nor a way to make one. He would have to think of a different way . . .

And he knew. It came to him like the growing spark in the tinder. Same way. He needed to draw it. No, he had no way to paint or draw the story.

But he had a knife.

And wood.

More wood than could even be measured. There were old cedar logs everywhere and he could use the hand axe to hack off a flattened piece and smooth it by scrubbing it with sand and carve the story.

No. Carve the moments. Carve the pictures from his mind that would make a story. His story.

Carve his memories in wood.

Current Sliding

There came a time when he did not think of the future.

The sun warmed him, he moved the canoe north, not hurrying but often letting the tidal motion take him along and when it went the wrong way – south – he simply tied up to shore and napped or carved on a plank he had chopped out of a cedar log until the current reversed. When the dried meat supply grew low, he would move into an inlet, take some salmon, eat his fill, dry the rest, head out, and move north again.