The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [104]
He felt the caribou around them, running above their bodies, and below through the ground. He could smell their earthy hides, their wet, mossy breath. He could hear them panting, clicking, eating. Living.
He imagined the two of them melting together, the grass mat weaving itself into their skin, the hide becoming their own skin, the herd surrounding them, engulfing them.
Protecting them.
He kept his eyes shut tight as the blinding white enveloped them, bathing their bodies in warmth. The clicking of the hooves, the rumble of the herd against the permafrost, and their breathing coalesced into a single steady rhythm, into one beat that filled the world around him.
“Just listen to them,” he whispered, and he held her like he would never let go.
Beneath the heavy caribou hide the gunfire was muffled, the echoes and the sounds of a motor came from some distant place. The hunter would be coming and it didn’t matter any more. The hunter. The cold. The outcasts. Or the hunger. None of that mattered.
Under the warmth of the hide, the cold frozen world beneath them fell away. The light around the edges of the hide was too bright for him to see. He held her close, and imagined himself rising, escaping, her hands wrapped around him, his arms becoming two wide black raven’s wings. He flapped the wings once, rolled to his back looking down at the tundra below, and then lifted them into the sunlight.
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The black snout poking beneath the hide pulled him from his sleep. In the space between the hide and tundra he could see paws and furry muzzles.
“Wolves,” he whispered, feeling around for the pistol, “we’re surrounded.”
He found the pistol and readied to shoot the next snout that he saw.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Listen.”
Suddenly the hide lifted off them, and John pointed the pistol skyward.
“Don’t shoot, dude! Whoa, sorry!” the voice from above pleaded, and the hide was quickly dropped down on them again.
Darkness.
“Put some clothes on, man! What are you guys, animals?”
John knew the voice. He pulled the hide back and peered out. He squinted at the piercing sunlight that surrounded them. His eyes adjusted to the light and he saw the caribou were gone, and around them stood a team of panting sled dogs. The boy had levelled his rifle at them.
“Alex? That you? Alex!”
“John? Little Bug! No way!” Alex dropped the rifle to his side and knelt down and kissed Rayna on her forehead. She kept the hide pulled up to her neck. He looked at the old hide and then off to the south, the direction the caribou had gone. “Nice hideout. I thought you guys were a sick caribou. Free dinner for the dogs. Why you ain’t got clothings?”
“My cousins, where are they?” Rayna asked.
“I’ll take you to them. They’re safe at Nyac Camp,” Alex said. “Did like you said, John. Took care of myself, and then the others.” He went to the bag on his dogsled and pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants. “Put these on,” he said, handing them to Rayna. “You can wear these, John,” he said. “I have two layers.” He pulled down his snow pants and tossed them to John. “And my jacket, for her.”
“Our stuff, back at the tent,” John said.
“Burned. Looks like Maggie used gas and torched the tent and the sno-go. Maybe she wounded him. I took the ice pick and food from the sled, though. Lots of food you guys had. His tracks went that way, followed the herd like a wolf. He thinks you’re hiding in the caribou.”
“We were hiding, just like she told me to,” Rayna said, with a sad smile. She turned her face away from them. “She said I would know when it was time. She was right. Is she gone?”
“She is, but she died fighting.”
“Before I left her she said a word,” John said. “Be-you-gaw. What is that?”
“Piuraa? I’ll see you,” Alex said. “We say that and not goodbye. We don’t say goodbye.”
“That’s what we say,” Rayna said, “but that’s not what it really means. My grandpa told me why we say piuraa. It means stay as you are. She was telling you to stay as you are, John.”
Alex laughed. “Maybe she