The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [57]
“What does Yup’ik mean?”
John shrugged. “Guess he’s right.”
“Is that Alex again?” she asked. “Man, that kid. You wish you could … I don’t know, help him out somehow. You’re probably the first teacher ever to give him a chance. Think what he could do.”
“Think what any of them could do,” he said, closing the laptop and stretching out on the floor. At the floor level he could almost feel the wind from outside, cutting straight through the walls. The cold air felt refreshing against his face, the back of his head pressed against the cool floor, his eyes on the square tiles of the ceiling. “They have had shitty teachers and zero challenge from day one. How can anyone expect them to even feel good about themselves, let alone maybe go to college or a tech school?”
The corn started to pop. She shook the kettle.
“Maybe that’s the point. For the culture to survive, they’ll have to stay here. Education at once seems like the answer and the problem. Go to school and lose your way of life, or don’t and live your way of life. If they go away to college, what’s going to bring them back? There aren’t jobs. There’s no economy.”
“They could teach, for one. There has to be some sort of sustainable economy that could be created here. There’s always telecommuting. Anyone can work from anywhere. Even here. Plus, I’m not buying the culture thing because three-quarters of my students tell me that all they do is go to open gym, watch movies, play video games, and hang out. Only a couple of them hunt. The girls help with raising the little ones, but that’s it. That’s why I hope I can keep them fired up about this project stuff. I just hope it doesn’t get me into trouble with the district office.”
She turned off the burner, slipped on the oven mitt, and dumped the popcorn into a large stainless steel mixing bowl. “I hardly think the district is going to care if you’re inspiring your students to study their own cultural history.”
“Well, I’m not exactly getting them ready for the standardized tests,” he said.
She held a piece of popcorn above him. “I don’t mean to change the subject,” she said. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. “But …”
“But what,” he asked, opening wide.
“I’m out of birth control,” she said, dropping a large white kernel into his mouth.
HE NUDGED THE GIRL from her sleep and stretched his legs and looked down at them. His black snow pants looked more like a rodeo clown outfit; his legs, butt, and midsection had lost so much muscle mass that the pants felt and looked ridiculously huge. The whole scenario felt off that morning.
“Can I sleep a little longer?” she asked.
“Yeah. A little. I want to get moving soon.”
“I can get up now.”
“Sleep. I’ll wake you.”
He stood and walked a few yards and relieved himself. The light rain the night before had crusted the very top layer of snow. Walking in the crunchy surface would take extra energy.
He watched the horizon for any signs of movement. Life seemed to be in short supply lately.
By the end of the day he hoped to be on the main river, and that the ice of the Kuskokwim would be sound for travel. They couldn’t walk across the lumpy tundra in the snow, or fight the tangled willows and alders that clogged the banks.
There were a couple of villages between them and Bethel. They would find food or survivors at one of those three, he wanted to hope, but on this morning, the hope just wasn’t there.
“John,” the girl whispered, just loud enough for him to hear her. He saw her sitting up in her sleeping bag, the blue tarp covering most of her. He followed her finger and saw what she was pointing at.
He crouched and slowly crept to her as she felt around beneath the tarp and came up with the rifle.
“Thanks,” he whispered. “Cover your ears.”
He quietly put a round in the chamber and crept forward. His breathing picked up, and he tried to steady himself and the barrel to get a clean shot. He wished he had kept the girl’s rusty .22. With his gun, such a big calibre, he had only one chance.
The ptarmigan clucked and pecked at the black lumps of tundra protruding