He paddled a good part of the day and he didn’t sleep in the canoe and he studied each place that became available to stop and take fish, studied the ground and listened to the birds for the sudden silence that meant something . . . always meant something.

When he at last came to a place where a small stream came out across a gravel-rock bed and there was no bear sign, he stopped, pulled the canoe up on the gravel, but close to the water so if he needed to make a quick escape it was available.

Then he took fish with the wooden spear – marvelling that he had not dropped the spear when he first saw the brown bear – pinning the fish to the bottom and sliding them up on the shore rather than trying to lift them out.

When he had five good silver-sided salmon, he put them in the canoe, moved back into the stream and opened one of the females and ate a handful of eggs. Just to cut the hunger.

With his catch he travelled along the shore until he came to an island isolated enough to avoid bear, where he stopped, made a fire, a drying rack, put a pot of fish stew-soup cooking and sat near the fire to keep away the ravens and crows, which had come with him when they saw the dead fish and started moving closer to the racks.

He cooked one whole salmon and ate the entire fish when it was just slightly steaming, warm enough to enhance the taste, licking the salty fish oil from his fingers before he leaned back and let his mind roll on.

Had to do a new story board. Different, too. He had started the first one by just carving single items – a killer whale, a salmon – no story there. Just pictures. Needed more. Needed to show how it all started. The fish camp. The death ship. Old Carl. Had to find some berries, too. Berries on top of the salmon made a good gut feast. Berries . . . and he saw the bear pause and eat green grass. Seemed odd. But if a bear ate grass maybe Leif should try it. Add some grass to the fish soup. Berries, stories, fish, grass, stew . . .

And he slept again.

Safe this time.

He awakened at intervals to add wood and grass to the smoke fire to keep the ravens from the meat. They were openly brazen now. Walking around like chickens.

Leif wondered how they would taste but put that thought away. He had fish. Ravens were probably tough and stringy. That’s if he somehow caught one. They were cagey enough to get away from him, and besides, he was getting used to them, liked having them around, listening to them talking to one another . . .

Rested, finally, then back on the water. Found berries and ate them until the berries added to the salmon made his stomach feel like a drum. Packed tight.