I start to sing it to the rhythm of my stick striking the ground.

Tusunkawiye. Tusunkawiye,
Tsunkawiye, Tsunkawiye
Sauh! Sauh! Sauh! Sauh!

My uncle Red Bird taught me that song, which must be sung four times, imitating that snort of the deer—Sauh!—after each verse. No boy’s uncle could have been a better teacher. He also taught me to rub my feet in the ashes of the fire before singing it and then setting out.

But no one has ever taught me a song that will keep away the memory of harsh and unkind words.

Perhaps Uncle Red Bird, my mother’s smiling older brother, knew such a song, but if he did I will never hear him sing it. Almost a year has passed since he caught the coughing sickness and made the last walk to the Night Land. I do not have the words to express how much I miss him. Remembering him just brings back the pain I felt when his spirit passed from us. I need to turn my thoughts elsewhere.

Sitting here on the steps of my mother’s cabin, I can hear her moving around inside. She is making more noise than she usually does when she is cooking, banging the rough wooden spoon I carved for her against the iron pot. She is making squirrel stew.

That’s no surprise to me. I am the one who sat patiently under the oak trees as Great Sun walked slowly up into the morning sky, casting her light down on me through the leafless branches. As always, I had taken six long blowgun darts with me and one short one. I had already fired that first short dart at random, sending it off into the woods as an offering and for good luck.

I held my long blowgun steady, pointing it up where I knew the squirrel would appear. Only my lips moved as I imitated its call, knowing its curiosity would be too much for it.

Soon I heard the scrabbling of the first squirrel’s claws against the bark high above me. I drew in a deep breath and then—as soon as it leaned out from the trunk to peer down at me—whooot! My aim was true and the first squirrel landed at my feet, its heart pierced by my dart.

“Saloli,” I said, placing a little tobacco next to it as my uncle taught me to do. “Wado.”

I picked up the leaves which had been marked by the squirrel’s blood when it fell and placed them at the base of the tree where I could easily find them. When my hunting was done, I would make a fire and take all of those leaves and burn them. In that way I would both remove the traces of my hunting and make an offering of thanks to the ancient fire.