The Raven's Gift - Don Rearden [83]
“I’m heading home for a while. See what this storm does. I’m going to keep those main doors open, in case someone didn’t get the message over the VHF.”
“Looks like we’re the only ones who didn’t get the message,” John joked.
“I was about to stop by your house. I don’t know why they don’t have a phone hooked up at your place yet. Teachers are usually the only ones without the VHF radios. Anyway—you mind sending anyone who comes in back home? Walk any of the little ones, for liability.”
John nodded.
“This storm sounds like it could last a while,” Dave said. “Nothing like a good Bering Sea blow. Nothing. This thing might shut down air travel for several days. Well, enjoy the extra day of holiday. We don’t usually cancel school unless the chill factor is below seventy-five. Not many snow days, so make the best of it.”
“Yeah.”
Dave slipped out, and John heard the familiar intro music for the KYUK morning news. He reached over and turned the radio up. The young female reporter spoke with far too much gusto for a Monday morning.
“Top stories we are covering for today: The school district battens down the hatches for what might be a record blizzard, the father of the K300 Sled Dog Race has decided to run the Iditarod one last time, and the Yukon-Kuskokwim Health Corporation struggles with a flu outbreak in Hooper Bay. But first, national news.”
John turned the volume button down until the red power light clicked off the radio. He filled two plastic cups with coffee and headed to Anna’s classroom. She had a radio in there, and he wanted her to hear news of their extended vacation from the radio and not him.
THE DAY BEFORE John and the girl would reach the old woman’s village, she told him another of her favourite memories from when she could see. They had stopped to rest and melt some snow for drinking when she began telling her story. As she spoke, he took out the pot and broke a handful of twigs from a spruce tree wedged between the riverbank and the ice. The tree had a small yellow rope tied around it, something he’d learned about from Carl. The rope meant someone had claimed the driftwood, but the hundred or so miles the large spruce had floated and the yellow rope meant little now.
The dry wood caught easily and he had a nice little fire crackling in minutes. He filled the pot with snow and began melting it. They would walk another couple of miles and he knew they hadn’t taken in enough liquid the night before, plus some water would quell the burn inside their stomachs.
“We used to make fires like this in August when we went picking berries. My dad would start the fire, then my grandma would keep it going. He would go catch some silvers and then bring them back, maybe just one or two, and Grandma would cut them up and cook them right on the fire. I can just taste that silver salmon now. I miss fish. I wonder if we could maybe catch a pike or whitefish?”
“I don’t have any fishing line and no way to chip through the ice,” he said.
“Maybe we can find some. Yup’iks used to make fish traps, too. They made them from willow. Round traps that look like those space capsules, except hollow and made with bent willow trees. Fish swim in the hole in the middle and they can’t get out. You could make a fish trap.”
“I don’t think I could. I’ve seen pictures. Don’t think I have what it takes to make one.”
“Darn. I could eat fish right now.”
“Me too,” he said.
She sat down near the fire and removed her mittens. She held her hands out, palms facing her, letting the flames warm the backs of her hands. He noticed the thin band of ivory on her right ring finger.
“Another thing I really remember, one of my favourite times, is getting down close to the tundra, with my face almost in it and just staring at all the plants and berries. My uppa, my grandpa, he was always smiling, he told me to do that once. He said, ‘Look down there, get real near the ground and see all