After collecting two long poles and a shorter one, I set to lashing them together with the cordage I carry in my pack. Lifting the cat is impossible, so I slide the limbs under him and secure him to the poles. The cat’s blood, thick and slippery, soaks my hands, and I’m forced to return to the river to wash them before I can get on my way.
Before leaving the woods, I drape my tattered parka over my shoulders, tying the sleeves around my neck so I can strap the front ends of the travois poles around my waist. In this fashion—my pack over one shoulder, the cat dragging behind me, my back exposed to the air under the shredded remnants of my coat—I start downhill, my eyes locked on the rising smoke, my mind locked on the warm hearth at its source.
About halfway down the slope the clearing ends and the woods begin again, but at the edge of the trees I discover a worn trail. It’s not wide, but wide enough for me to drag the cat behind me. The closer I come to the bottom of the hill the denser the forest becomes, and everywhere I look I spot another unfamiliar plant—crawling vines, broad-leafed ferns, thornbushes covered in tiny white blooms that smell as sweet as honey. The closeness of the trees creates a pocket of silence—the wind dies and a shiver of dread creeps along my spine. I keep my eyes open, but I see nothing but a few squirrels chasing each other from tree to tree. I listen, but I hear nothing but a distant gurgling—somewhere ahead there’s a brook.
Then, not loud but clear, a sound comes from behind me—the snap of a twig. I stop and spin as well as I can in my makeshift harness, but I see no one. Still, nothing but a foot on the ground could’ve made that sound. My eyes search for any movement, but there’s nothing, just the ripple of sunlight on the path, as the wind finally stirs the leaves and changes the shapes of the shadows.
Whoever is back there doesn’t want to be seen.
My hand on the blade in my belt, I turn and take a few more steps forward. Nothing responds. I return to the pace I’d set before, when the unmistakable sound of feet running toward me comes from behind. I turn, the blade in my hand, when my eyes fall on a familiar form. He is still at least fifty paces away, but I would recognize him from twice the distance.
He lets out a shout, and it’s obvious he recognizes me, too. “Kol!”
Pek hurries down the path until he comes close enough to get a clear view of what I drag behind me. He slows. His eyes rake over the hastily made sled, the dead cat, and my tattered parka. “Kol,” he repeats, but instead of a shout, this time my name is more like a murmured prayer.
Pek approaches me with soft steps, as if pieces of me are spread out on the ground and stepping on one might break me. He eases himself around the beams of the travois, pushing into the brush that edges the path, his eyes fixed on the cat. When at last he comes up beside me, he wraps both arms around my shoulders and pulls me into an awkward embrace, careful not to touch my back. “Wait until Chev sees what you’ve done. This cat . . . we’ve all been hunting it. You can’t imagine how this cat has threatened this clan.”
“Has it?” I start, but Pek dashes ahead of me.
“You wait,” he says, “and I’ll bring others to pull the load the rest of the way.”
I stand still for a few moments after he disappears, but the woods are too lonely and strange now that I’ve seen my brother. There’s no reason for me not to pull the cat the rest of the way. I’ve brought it this far, and seeing Pek, alive and well, has taken weight from the load.
About a hundred paces farther down the path, light stirs in the underbrush to my right—a pattern of gold dancing across a sea of green. Something is moving, bending the branches that filter the sun. I stand staring, my attention held captive by the mystery, when all at once from out of the dense growth that borders the path an elk leaps, landing directly in front of me. He stands still for just a moment—nostrils flaring, hide quivering with tension—before he leaps as high as my shoulder and disappears into the trees to my left.
His place on the path is empty only a moment before it is filled by the hunter pursuing him—a girl with a spear raised in her outstretched arm, a girl who moves with a grace that rivals the elk’s.
You.
You see me, and your arm drops to your side. You stumble back as if I’ve struck you, though I don’t dare move. Confusion swims in your wide eyes—a moment ago your thoughts were focused on nothing but the elk. Now, finding me standing here completely unexpected, you seem to have forgotten everything else.
Countless questions tangle my thoughts—Did Pek deliver the pelt of the cat you killed? Were you pleased with the quality of the hide? Are you haunted, as I am, by the Spirit of that cat? Have you seen it stalking you in your dreams?
I want to tell you what happened with this cat—It didn’t give chase, like the one you killed, but instead stalked me from under the cover of tall grass. I heard it just in time to react, but not in time to escape its attack without harm.