EPILOGUE
They were a Cree trapping family and they had worked this area for three years. As soon as the ice was frozen on the lakes they flew in by bushplane and set up camp, trapping beaver, fox, coyote, marten, fisher and some lynx, living on moose meat—the popping sounds Brian had heard were the man, named David Smallhorn, shooting a moose for camp meat—and supplies brought in by air.
The plane came back every six weeks, bringing more fuel and staples—flour, rice and potatoes—and school supplies for the home schooling of the two children. Brian stayed with them for three weeks until the plane returned with the next load.
The Smallhorn family were scrupulously polite and because they had lived in the bush and didn’t have television, they knew nothing of Brian’s disaster. They thought he must be another trapper. It wasn’t until after they’d eaten beaver meat broiled over a small metal stove in the log hut that David leaned over and asked:
“How come is it you have skins for clothes and stone arrowheads? You look like one of the old-way people . . .”
And Brian explained how he came to be in the woods, talking about each day as it had come, as he could remember it, until it was late and the children’s heads were bobbing with sleep and finally David held up his hand.
“Tomorrow. More tomorrow. We’ll take the dogs and toboggan and go back to your camp, bring your things here, and then you can tell us more and show me how to shoot that thing”—he pointed to the bow—“and how to make arrowheads.” He smiled. “We don’t use them anymore . . .”
And Brian slept in his clothes that night in the hut with the Smallhorns and the next day watched while David harnessed the dogs and they set off on snowshoes. The dogs followed behind, pulling the toboggan, and in one trip they brought back all that Brian owned, including the meat supply. Brian sat another evening and night telling them of all the things he had done and become. He showed them the bows and fish spears and killing lance while they ate boiled potatoes and moose hump and had coffee thick with sugar, and the next morning Brian went with David on his trapline. They walked on snowshoes while the dogs followed, pulling the toboggan, to load dead beaver from trap-sets, and it came to be that within a week Brian was almost part of the family, and within two weeks he had to force himself to remember living alone and surviving. By the third week, when he watched the bushplane circle and land on the lake ice on skis, the truth was he almost didn’t want to leave. The woods had become so much a part ofhis life—the heat of it seemed to match his pulse, his breathing—that as he helped the Smallhorns and pilot unload, he felt as if he were unloading gear and food for himself, as well as the family; as though he would be staying to watch the plane leave.
But when it was done and everything unloaded, the pilot looked at him and nodded to the sky. “There’s weather coming in—I want to be gone before it hits . . .” Brian stood by the plane, his hand on the wing strut, looking at the Smallhorns, who were standing by the pile of supplies.
In the long hours of darkness, they had sipped tea and eaten greasy beaver meat and talked, and David knew Brian enough to know why he hesitated. He left the pile of supplies and came forward and smiled and waved an arm around at the country, all the country, all the woods and lakes and sky and all that was in it. He knew, and he touched Brian on the shoulder and said:
“It will be here when you come back. We’ll keep the soup hot . . .”
And Brian turned and stepped up into the plane.