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During the snowstorm the white sky flattens to infinity.

The night descends and the sky shrinks to nothing.

It was late in the year for the ferry to be running. It had been delayed by the unseasonably rough weather, which would only get worse as winter set in. The passengers had boarded at the Port of Tobermory, where Georgian Bay meets the greater part of Lake Huron. The town was very busy for a place so small: there were 5 pawn shops exchanging goods between those who had brought too little, those who had brought too much, and those who had brought the wrong things to this godforsaken outpost of English civilization.

Though Gavin McKinnon was born only 50 miles from Tobermory in Kinnoch on the Georgian Bay side of the Bruce Peninsula, he had never been to Tobermory because until recently it had been too difficult and dangerous to get to. The roads were terrible and the land was unsettled, save the new Cape Croker Indian reservation, which itself was mostly wild. Tobermory was thriving because it was an excellent staging point for travel to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Northern Ontario and ultimately Manitoba, where the Government was giving away land for free.

As soon as they boarded, most of the passengers went inside to drink and escape the cold wind. Gavin was neither interested in drinking nor able to stop himself from taking in the view, so he remained on the deck. He looked due east and saw nothing but Georgian Bay, a bleak expanse of water that was but one part of a vast inland sea. He remembered how his Aunt Margaret used to say that Grey County was the land of the Old Testament God: demanding respect, evoking awe and grudgingly giving sustenance.

There was only one other passenger on deck, a man dressed like the younger brother of a Toronto banker. He wore what was once a very nice, though ill-fitting, dark blue worsted wool suit and a finely cut lamb’s wool jacket. The suit was a tattered hand-me-down. Gavin didn’t judge harshly. He had rarely owned new clothes.

Gavin moved beside the other passenger. For a moment they stood beside each other in silence leaning on the oak rail, looking eastward toward Georgian Bay. To the north, from horizon to horizon, an embankment of dark clouds had gathered. It was pushing warm, misty air southward. As they watched the mist grew thicker. Tobermory was on their right, to the south. The boat moved slowly through a small chain of islets toward open water.

After a decent moment, Gavin addressed his companion, even though he continued to face the Bay. “Those clouds on the horizon are moving our way. If the storm is as mean as it looks, we are in serious trouble. I hope that you can swim.”

The other man looked at Gavin somberly as he spoke. “At this time of year you die of the cold before you drown.”

Gavin replied, “I know it. I lost two cousins on Lake Superior in October 1893.”

The native replied, “You must be in a hurry to be traveling this late in the year. I trust you’re not rushing off to your cousins’ fate.”

“I am in a hurry. I hope to get a land grant in Manitoba. I want to get there before the land runs out.”

“The land will always be there.”

Gavin laughed, “I mean the free land.”

The Indian smiled a flat, bleak smile as he replied, “Everything has a cost.”

“Touché.”

The Indian continued. “How will you spend the winter?”

“I intend to walk to the Bruce Mines via Wikwamikong. I’ll work in the mines until spring, make it to Kenora by June and Winnipeg by early August.”

“You won’t be getting much work in the mines. I strongly suggest that you spend the winter on Manitoulin Island.” He nodded toward the Island and the storm.

“There’s only logging work there and I neither like to drink nor to get rough.”

“There’s other work in logging aside from cutting down trees. The loggers need supplies and services. Think about it. You may not have any choice if that storm is as bad as it looks. Let me give you my card. If you stay in South Baymouth I can find you work.” Joshua withdrew a slight silver container from the inside breast pocket of his suit, turned his back to the north wind, opened it and withdrew a card.

Gavin was astonished. The last thing he expected was an offer of employment from this man who looked like a vagrant, who he hadn’t even been properly introduced to. “Thank you. I will seriously consider your advice. Thank you.” After this brief moment of intimacy they both withdrew into themselves and looked meditatively back towards the Bruce Peninsula. After a pause Gavin continued their conversation. “I’ve heard that all of those trees will be cut down in just a few years, just like in Huron County. British money, American management and Canadian labour. The achievement is tremendous.”

The Indian replied, “It reminds me of the myth of Prometheus.”

“Bringing light to the world?”

“No. Challenging the Gods.”

“You are very provocative, Sir. I am pleased to meet you. I am Gavin McKinnon, from Lion’s Head., just north of Owen Sound. What is your name?”

“In Toronto they call me Joshua Stanton. On the Island I’m known as Otter.”

“So you are an aboriginal?”

“Yes. I am a member of the Anishinabek nation. I was born in Wikwamikong but grew up in Detroit and Orangeville.”

“Is your brother a banker?” It was a perverse question. He knew no Ontario bank would hire an aboriginal.

Joshua looked self-consciously at his clothes. “My step-brother is.”

“Can I ask what is your purpose in traveling so late in the season?”

“Oh, that’s no secret. I’m here for the Pow Wow.

[Periodically the People of the Three Fires –the Potowatami, the Ojibwa and the Odawa Indians –meet at Manitoulin Island for a Pow Wow. Manitoulin Island is the home of Gitchi Manitou.”]

“I fear you’re a few months late for that.”

“I am very late. But there will still be great magic lingering on Manitoulin. I feel that Gitchi Manitou is benevolent this year. If you can talk about the benevolence of God.”

Gavin bristled slightly and replied, “In Sunday school I always speak of the benevolence of God.”

The native replied, “In Sunday school you speak of the benevolence of the New Testament God. You said yourself that this is an Old Testament land.”

“Touché again, my friend.” Gavin’s laughter stopped abruptly when he noticed how serious Joshua remained as he looked north toward the storm.

Joshua spoke after a pause. “Perhaps my theology is totally wrong. Could it be that people allow evil to thrive when they abandon God? Perhaps God and his agents want to be benevolent but too often give up in despair.”

“That explains God. But what about Satan?” A sliver of moon floated over the horizon, casting its pale light through the mist. The moonlight limned the rough, round face of Joshua who was also-known-as Otter.

Otter answered. “There’s no shortage of devils, Mr. McKinnon. That’s the problem. Abandon God and you’re not protected.” He paused and again looked toward the storm. “Tonight is a bad night to be out.”

“Why?” Gavin asked, though the answer seemed obvious as he looked down through the fog at the boat’s chill wake.

“Because there is so little light and a storm is upon us from the north. The Windigo loves the shadows and the cold.”

Gavin was taken off guard by Otter’s plain-spoken response. He had heard the myths of the cannibal monster that inhabited the northern forests, but had never met someone who believed them.

A cruel wind began to freeze the mist as the ship met the storm. Joshua started to shiver uncontrollably. His wool jacket was far too thin for this weather.

A native hawker approached Gavin. “A blanket for your friend, Sir. Only 5 cents.”

Gavin’s condescending smile was flashed benevolently. “That is a ridiculously cheap price for this blanket, Madame. It’s easily worth 10, maybe even 15 cents.” He laughed at himself. What would my Scottish friends back home think, seeing me try to raise this woman’s rates?

“You give the blanket back to me when we reach South Baymouth, Sir.”

5 cents to rent a blanket. Very expensive, he thought. But Joshua’s conversation is certainly a rare treat. He is certainly someone who deserves God’s mercy.

“Here is your money madam. I will meet you at the exit and return the blanket to you when we land.” Gavin found it easy to pay her price.

“Here you go Otter.” The native woman winked then tenderly wrapped a colourful woolen blanket around the Huron’s body. Then she pressed her breasts against him in a forward fashion. “We’re drinking and playing cards inside if you want to join us.”

Otter fondly squeezed her then chastely kissed her forehead. “We’ll see.”

She slapped his bum then turned away. Otter turned to face Gavin.

“You are very kind, Mr. McKinnon. Thank you.”

“A pleasure. It appears as if you are popular here, Otter.”

“I’m not that popular, though the folks around here know me. Some people insist that I am good person fallen on bad times. But most people dislike me…” He shrugged.

The conversation paused again. They looked over the Great Lake in silence as the cold, brittle fog that had followed them for the past few minutes was finally blown away by the on-coming storm. Everything looked much smaller on the maps. Georgian Bay stretched beyond the horizon and yet was a fraction of the size of the rest of Lake Huron. Manitoulin Island was a huge iron and granite finger pointing northwest over the horizon to Sault Ste Marie, where the Niagara escarpment crossed the border into America. To the north, the broad sky flattened to infinity as it became white with snow.

The landing at South Baymouth was uneventful, though the waves near shore were choppy. As promised Gavin returned the blanket to the native hawker when they landed. She thanked him and then when she thought he wasn’t looking gave the blanket to Otter. This act of kindness made Gavin think, Three times this man had highlighted a weakness of mine and I only met him today. They bade farewell at the dock and made plans to meet the following Sunday after mass at the Episcopal Church.

§

Gavin was greeted at the entrance to Fleming’s pharmacy by his companion from the Chi-Cheemaun

“Gavin, I didn’t expect to see you until Sunday, if at all. Though I hoped that you weren’t so foolish as to try to travel during the blizzard.”

“You were right my friend. There is no point in traveling at this time of year. Now that there is 2 feet of snow on the ground I doubt that I could make it to Wikwamikong, much less the Mines. At least not by myself. I had hoped to talk to you about employment.”

“Joshua, let the man in.”

Joshua nodded backwards to the source of the interruption. “That’s Fleming. I work for him as a bookkeeper and clerk.”

“If what I hear about him is true then you must be very accurate. At Church they say that he can scrutinize the gears off a clock.”

Joshua’s smile was far easier than it was on the ferry. “It’s good to see you. I think that I can help you…”

“Let the good man in Joshua.” A tall, stooped man with blond hair and watery blue eyes appeared at the door that separated the house from the store.

“Hello Mr. Fleming. We haven’t been introduced though you may have seen me at evensong yesterday.”

“I did.”

“Well, I .. uh ..”

Joshua easily interrupted Gavin’s stuttering. “Mr. Fleming, I can vouch for Mr. McKinnon. We had a very interesting conversation about the nature of God’s creation when taking the ferry from Tobermory.”

“I have similar thoughts when I take the Chi-Cheemaun. I am amazed that men can have eyes and not be humble. Come into my parlor Mr. McKinnon.”

They walked through a beautifully appointed dining room into a parlor that could have been in one of the finest homes in Toronto or Detroit. The thought of moving a walnut cabinet up here, along with bone china and crystal, was astonishing.

“Have a seat.”

Gavin noticed that Fleming’s movements were very precise as he quickly turned and sat down. He immediately spoke as he sat down. “I don’t know why you are here, but I do have work for you if you want it. “I pay $12 per month, with board. You don’t drink do you?”

“No.”

“I usually ask that first, but I assumed from your manner. You can’t be too careful so I had to ask.”

“What should I start on?”

“I would like you to assist Joshua in itemizing the store’s inventory. Then I would like you to run supplies to the Sandy Lake logging camp. To get there I suggest that you travel from Providence Bay to Misery Bay – along the south coast.”

“So I start by going from Providence to Misery. Not unlike Adam.”

“Or Satan.”

They laughed at each other’s jokes.

Fleming continued. “After Misery Bay you must go inland to Silver Water and then to the Sandy Lake camp. From there you will drop your sledges off in Meldrum Bay, rest, turn around and come back. It’s a lot easier coming back.”

“I’m not coming back. Why doesn’t Joshua just pay me out of profits when we get to Sandy Lake? It’ll be spring then, he can surely get back by himself.”

Fleming frowned, then smiled. His smile hardened again into a frown. “Your suggestion is fine. I trust Otter. You should too. He may once have fallen, but now he is redeemed. He is a good man.”

§

Gavin and Otter departed on a cold, clear December morning during the second moon of winter, exactly one month after they met. The snow on the road to Providence was packed and had few obstructions, so their sledges were easy to drag despite the difficult terrain.

The trek from Providence to Misery Bay was bleak. The dull daylight varied through shades of rust to iron grey. The wind began to blow from the south and though it was warmer than the north wind, it blew strongly. The water blown off the Lake chilled them to their bones. On the third day out, the Lake splashed them so heavily that they had to take refuge in a limestone cave. After hours of effort they finally built a fire.

While they warmed themselves they had little to do but talk. Gavin began. “My friend, sometimes you speak like a native. Sometimes you speak like a Catholic.”

“You mean sometimes I am Otter and sometimes I am Joshua?”

Gavin smiled. “That’s one way of putting it. Yes. Who are you? What do you believe?”

Otter paused for a moment to stoke the fire, as if preparing for, or avoiding, his response. “I believe that when we are born we have an innate understanding of good. That’s the piece of God in all of us. But throughout our lives we make choices that take us onto or away from God’s path. Evil may tempt us, but we have that piece of good within us, so it’s always a choice to be bad; we always know better.”

Otter stoked the fire again, and then continued. “I was bad with money, but my wife was good with it. So I would give her my paychecks – I was a teacher – and she’d give me an allowance. Our rent was always paid on time and our beautiful daughter was always well provided for.”

“One day, quite by accident, I stumbled upon our family’s savings. $200. For a teacher, which is what I was, it was one entire year’s wages. I couldn’t stop thinking about that money. I thought of it every day. Five summers ago, on the last day of school, I went out drinking with some teachers who were my friends and I mentioned the money. I let myself be convinced by them to steal it. We called it borrowing. I took the money and we went to Sault Ste. Marie.” He waved northwest. “We drank for the entire month of July. Gavin, you can unwind an entire life in one month.”

“Joshua, I’ve seen it happen in one minute.”

The native’s expression was too rueful to be a smile. “Faster. I destroyed my life in the instant it took to make one decision, though it took 40 days for my escapade to end. In the first week of August the money ran out. Suddenly I was friendless and broke. I worked my way back home arriving in the last week of August. The big dipper dominated the night sky and Mars was close enough to Earth to make Georgian Bay red. When I came home my wife met me at the front gate with a large knife in her right hand. She just stood there, shaking ever so slightly, and looking at me. She looked at me for an entire minute, her grip tightening then loosening on the knife. After about a minute she realized that she needed to breathe and loudly exhaled. She only relaxed slightly, but it was enough, the difference between murderous rage and a broken spirit. She walked into the house and came back 5 minutes later with my daughter and one trunk that had wheels. She was ready to go. She had been waiting for me. About 50 steps from the house one of the wheels on her trunk came off. She kicked the trunk a couple of times, opened it, took out a couple of sweaters and then kept going. I just stood there watching this pathetic scene, thinking that it would have been better if she had killed me. She and my daughter left with nothing.”

Otter stopped as Gavin continued to trudge forward in the snow. The Ojibwa had apparently lost his ability to keep moving. Gavin wasn’t surprised. Otter’s story was shameful. But he could not find it in himself to give up on any soul, least of all one so clearly in search of forgiveness. Gavin turned to the native and challenged him. “Why don’t you kill yourself?”

“I can’t do that!”

“If you are not going to kill yourself, you must keep moving.”

§

Misery Bay didn’t exist as a town so much as a lone mission school and outhouses that acted in wintertime as way stations for loggers on the way to the interior. It was situated in the middle of a stand of birches. A screen of spruce had also been planted to protect against the brutal north wind. Looking south from the mission towards Detroit he saw nothing but Lake. The area near shore was covered in angles of ice; further out the deathly cold water roiled.

They arrived on the solstice and asked leave to stay until St. Stephen’s Day, December 26^th, the feast of the first Christian martyr. On Christmas Eve snow started to fall. The ensuing blizzard was both gentle and relentless. On Christmas morning the children were excited and woke up early. On the table Mary, who ran the orphanage, had laid out presents, which she gave to each child in turn, starting with the youngest and ending with the eldest. They were the modest presents of a pioneer household: crafts made from local materials; simple things like mittens, multi-colored scarves and ornate boxes whittled out of oak and decorated with pine-cones and acorns.

When everyone had received a present, including the two guests, Mary had the children kneel together and say a prayer of thanks. Then she leaned forward to them conspiratorially and asked, “Do you know what today is?”

The children giggled at her easy question and then shouted back “It’s God’s birthday.”

“Actually it’s the birthday of the Christ child.”

“But God the father and God the son are joined in the Trinity, so Jesus’s birthday should also be God’s birthday.”

“You are quite right, my little squash.” Mary affectionately scrambled the precocious Huron’s dark hair, which made the girl both scowl and smile. “We’ll make a nun of you yet.”

“Are you a nun?” Gavin cut in to the conversation. Otter sat quietly by the fire and watched.

“No. I am not yet married. But there aren’t too many men out here so I guess you could say God’s my date.”

“I honestly didn’t expect to find a mission here.”

“Gavin, though you think that missions are for China and Africa there are also heathens to convert in Christian Canada. I am trying to spread the word of the Lord to the Ojibwa and the Cree. In many ways it is easy work because so many of their myths are like ours.”

“It’s beautiful to see someone doing the Lord’s work, Miss Kilcoyne. Would you consider taking your work somewhere else, perhaps to Manitoba?”

She laughed wickedly. “All the young men ask that question. No one ever wants to stay. Would you stay? I now you won’t, because you couldn’t even wait out the winter. You’re on your way to Manitoba right now.” She placed his hands in hers and pulled him forward so that she could whisper in his ear – “I’ll tell you this and I would never let the children hear”, she looked to ensure none were about, “it’s very dangerous out here. We’re on the other side of the line between civilization and wilderness. If that fire goes out and we can’t restart it we’ll die. My family thinks I’m crazy for staying here, but I don’t think that I can leave. At least not while there are children to care for.”

He felt her warmth and wanted to pull her closer. She suddenly stood up and addressed the children. “Remember the song that I was teaching you. Let’s sing it for our guests.”

The well-disciplined children arranged themselves in a choir formation in front of the fire. They were beautiful children with large, dark brown eyes and straight black hair. Though their clothes were worn thin they were clean and colourful. They tentatively, then more firmly, started to sing:

“Twas in the moon of winter time when all the birds had fled.

That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead.

Before their light the stars grew dim, and wandering hunters heard the hymn:

While the children sang Otter and Gavin drew their blankets tighter around themselves. Despite the hot fire, the cabin was draughty and the air was frigid.

“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.”

The beautiful voices of the Huron children settled around them like snow.

§

Gavin thought that he would have no trouble sleeping once the children had been put to bed. But he couldn’t sleep so he rose and prepared to go outside for a walk. He exited the mission building with no incident. Once outside, he was surprised to see that he was not alone: Mary Kilcoyne was standing by herself right at the point where the cabin light ended, staring into the darkness. She ignored his approach and continued what she was doing, which was singing the English version of the Huron carol the children had sung earlier:

God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan’s power when we’d gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.

Tidings of comfort and joy

The mission yard was both peaceful and sinister in the flickering light of the cabin fire. It took no effort to imagine the agents of Satan lingering in the cedars and the pines. There was comfort here too, but it ended at the point where the light was swallowed by the cold night.

§

The next day, the feast of St Stephen, Otter and Gavin began to walk inland along the spine of the Niagara escarpment.

“Otter, you said you were a teacher?”

“I am still employed as a teacher, but I go through the motions. I have lost my skill.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did nothing for a year after my wife left me but eat vegetables from our garden. I didn’t tend them but they grew anyway. After some time, I got more energy. I started fishing every once in a while. One day I hooked a giant catfish, bigger than I have ever seen. I struggled with it for an entire morning. Do you know how long a time 3 hours is if you are fishing? Most times it takes seconds to land – or lose – a fish. But Catfish was playing with me. It was angry play.”

Gavin was puzzled by Otter’s personification of the fish.

“Do you know anything about totems, Mr. McKinnon?”

“I have read a bit about the myths and legends of Canada’s aboriginal people.”

“You know that every clan has a totem?”

Gavin nodded.

“The totem of my clan, the Waussee, is the catfish. We are teachers. After that struggle with Catfish, my totem, I lost my ability to teach. That was punishment for my destroying my family.”

Recalling their conversation on the ferry Gavin asked, “Did you forsake Catfish or did Catfish forsake you?”

“I think it’s more complicated. I left him no choice.”

“You speak as if you have no hope, my friend. But you know the difference between good and evil. I am certain that you can be redeemed.”

Otter sighed. “Perhaps, though I don’t think so: the reason why I despair is because I feel that it is too late. I cannot undo what I have done. Now I have no choice but to wait for death to vanquish my spirit.”

“Your spirit will be condemned only if you abandon God. There is no reason to do that.”

This time the rueful expression on Joshua’s face could be called a smile, but the conversation nevertheless ended. They trudged through the snow in silence.

§

The walk up the escarpment was brutal but invigorating. By the time they reached the top they had stripped down to light jackets. When they crossed the crest of the escarpment the north wind blasted them and they had to bundle up again. At times the wind was so strong that they could not move forward. The next two days involved walking from gulley to gulley. In the gullies and creeks you could shelter yourself from the wind and, if you were lucky and the air currents were favorable, you could light a fire.

It started to snow. The world became progressively whiter, and the air became muted and heavy The air was still chilled as it entered their lungs, but breathing was not painful.

They encountered their first logging camp two days north of Misery Bay, in a town called Silver Water. They heard the camp 3 hours before they entered it. The final approach was harrowing as they walked directly into a line of trees that were in the process of being felled.

The town of Silver Water was no more nor less than a lumber camp, though it was different from the camp at Misery Bay and those along the Bruce Peninsula: most lumber camps in this section of the world were made up of young Scottish and Irish men. The crew that lived here was a community of French Canadians, métis, and their native wives. The squaws sat perilously close to the camp with their papooses, patient, covered in many layers of filthy, though colorful, blankets.

The crew paid for their supplies in cash and furs; there was no trouble.

§

They proceeded north to Sandy Lake. On the second day they heard voices in the distance. Several hours later they encountered an Irish crew at the intersection of two roads. They were very rough and angry looking.

A scrawny, wicked looking man who was impossibly thin, dressed in patched denim and stank of sweat and booze, and a blaze of roughly cut red hair on the top of his head made the introduction, “Where are you from?”

Gavin replied, “I was born in Belfast but grew up in Lion’s Head. My mother is Irish, my father is Scottish. I’ve lived in Bruce County since I was six.”

“You’re not logging here are you?”

“No. We work for Fleming. In South Baymouth. We’re bringing supplies to Sandy Lake. Then we’re going to Meldrum Bay to rest and get supplies.”

“Fleming’s a cheap bastard, so I hope he paid you up front.” The wicked looking youth laughed then continued to speak. “We’re also headed to Sandy Lake. We’re working at the camp there. What do you have to sell?”

“A few medical supplies. Some bandages. And a cold remedy.”

“Dr. Jakes, perchance?” The Irishman smiled wickedly.

“As it happens, yes.”

The Irishmen smiled and patted each other on their backs. Their gaunt leader spoke for the group without even bothering to address them. “We’ll take it all, even the bandages. I’ve got the money to pay for it right here.”

Just like that their mission was completed

§

The next day they walked north with the Irish crew, not exactly together, but on the same path. Much to Gavin’s dismay the Irish drank the Dr. Jakes bitter remedy as if it was booze, which of course it mostly was. When this dawned on Gavin he became very angry.

“Otter, did you know that Dr. Jakes is liquor?”

“Yes.”

An unimaginable thought struck him, “What about Fleming, does he know?”

Otter shook his head. “He doesn’t ask too many questions about his most profitable product.” Gavin fumed as they walked slowly through the snow, following the path left by the loud, drunken crew.

The Irish crew were much faster than them, so eventually disappeared and the woods became quiet again. Their path was easier than it had been for a month. Their loads were light and the path through the forest was clear. The mostly frozen Silver River was on their left. It was stunningly beautiful in the daylight: sunshine reflected merrily on its surface. The ice and water mixed together in so many different. Ice covered logs floated languidly south, most of the time not moving at all. On each log, if you looked carefully, you could see some form of brand or logging company mark.

In the corners of the river clumps of leaves had frozen together in eddies.

Late in the afternoon they reached Slow Eddy. The presence of loggers could be found in the garbage piles and the embers of recently extinguished fires.

Yet no one was here. They set up their camp in the pale light of the late afternoon sun. Their campsite was sheltered so before setting up a fire and eating, they sat down together on a fallen tree and looked south west along the river surface. Through breaks in trees they could see the cold red ball of the sun sink into the west.

“What is that?”

“Where?”

Gavin pointed to a plaid covered mound amongst the tangle of logs at the south end of the eddy. Otter rose quickly and moved closer to the water. Gavin followed. As they moved closer to the river they intersected a path down to the water. The path was fresh with the marks of lumberjack boots.

The corpse had been pulverized by the logs and then frozen. Gavin had heard many stories of people clearing log-jams and then falling to their deaths. The corpse’s buddies were probably stuck on the other side of the river and could do nothing to help him as he died. Now his body had floated here.

The corpse was close to shore so without much effort they pulled it out of the water and lay it on the flattened reads at the water’s edge.

“Its too late tonight to do anything about this poor soul.”

“It’s Etienne. From the camp.” Gavin moved closer to confirm Otter’s observation.

“Look.”

“What?”

“There. A bullet hole.” Otter knelt down beside the body to inspect it in greater detail.

“Let’s be careful tonight.”

“Yes. It’s getting too late. Let’s make a fire.”

“A large fire.”

“Yes. We can attend to the corpse in the morning. May he rest in peace.” They both made the sign of the cross as he uttered this brief prayer and then heaved the corpse into the bush, away from the heat of their campfire.

Otter and Gavin trudged up the river’s embankment back to their camp, lit a fire and sat down to eat.

After dinner they put almost an entire tree’s worth of wood into a fire. The fire was so strong that Gavin was able to sleep in front of it, outdoors, despite the bitter cold. Just before dawn the fire began to die and the winter set in with a vengeance, waking him up. Under the light of the full moon Gavin saw a shadow cross the river right where he had picked up Etienne’s broken body. The river froze underneath the shadow as it moved. Though the monster had no eyes, it turned towards him and scanned his soul. Its gaze was so cold that Gavin felt as if a piece of it had been frozen into his brain. The Windigo did not linger, but headed northwest following the path of the Irish crew.

As the monster rustled away through the cedars Otter walked up behind Gavin, casting a shadow over his shoulder. “Come Gavin. Let us bury Etienne and get moving.”

“Joshua, Etienne was a Christian. He deserves a Christian burial, in a Churchyard: it is the greatest gift that we can give him. He cannot get in to the kingdom of heaven if he is not buried in consecrated soil.”

“Gavin, we should not kill ourselves for the sake of this man’s soul.”

Gavin snapped back, “Look around here. This is our fault. Etienne’s dead because we got the Irish crew drunk on bogus cough medicine. Bringing his corpse to the Church in Meldrum Bay is least we could do.” Gavin recoiled somewhat at the vehemence of his words and continued with a calmer tone of voice. “Besides, Otter, we should be prepared to suffer for the salvation of any soul. Sandy Lake is only 20 miles away. Meldrum Bay is just a little further. Etienne is as stiff as a sleigh board. Who knows, Otter? Perhaps you will redeem yourself through this adventure.”

Otter said nothing, but did help strap the corpse to an empty wooden trellis and they sullenly began the miserable journey northwest to Sandy Lake. Though they followed in the tracks of the Irish crew each step took them further into the bush and further away from the protection of civilization. The path quickly dissolved into a deer trail, often becoming completely impassable. He began to doubt that Sandy Lake, or any town at all, could actually exist in this cold and desolate land.

It took them an entire day to traverse one small cedar swamp. At the end of this day they found themselves in what in summertime would be a circular meadow, surrounded on all sides by silent cedar trees. They entered the circle and made an amphitheater in the snow. In the center Otter quickly built a fire.

Gavin slouched below the lip of their tiny snow amphitheater so that his whole body was sheltered from the wind. The fire burned hotly, but crazily. Otter sat cross-legged. He took of his hat; this caused his long, black hair to blow in what the natives called the evil wind.

Gavin addressed his companion. “I have heard stories about the bush but did not expect to see women as young and vulnerable as Molly and Mary working out here in the company of violent, drunken young men.”

“O’Connor’s crew is a site better than Boyd’s.”

“They are all heavy drinkers.”

“Boyd’s crew are murderers when they are drunk.”

“Or when they’re sober.”

“They are never sober.”

“Though I try not to judge, I still feel that Mary’s virtue is worth more than either the Québéçois or Irish logging teams.”

“All these souls can be saved? Mary can help. You know that.”

Gavin responded by rote; he had said this so many times. “I do not believe that the souls of her companions can be saved as long as they are addicted to liquor.”

“Perhaps they will quit.”

“They won’t.”

“I think you are right. But Mary is less virtuous than you think.”

“How is that?”

“Do you believe in free will?”

“I believe that God gave us free will and an innate knowledge of good so that we can choose to follow His path.”

“Do women have souls?”

“Of course. Where are you heading with this, Sir? Are you implying that Mary is less than virtuous?”

“I am implying nothing.”

“If you are implying nothing, then what do you know about Mary?”

Out of nowhere and from every direction, a warm wind suddenly started to blow. The fire burned haphazardly and a fine mist of snow began blew off the crowns of the giant cedars that surrounded them.

Suddenly Gavin understood. “You compromised her virtue, didn’t you?” It wasn’t really a question because Gavin <i>knew</i>.

“Mary would tell you that she seduced me. Ask her, Gavin”

“Joshua, should have been stronger.”

“I needed no second invitation to warm her on a cold, lonely Christmas Eve.” Otter’s face was impassive and his tone of voice was firm.

“You slept with her!” Other people may treat morality as something theoretical but Gavin certainly did not.

“My friend, I’m pleased to report that her virginity is still intact.”

Gavin looked long and hard at Otter. It seemed to him that for the first time he was seeing the true face of this evil Huron. To have been so carnal with one so young and vulnerable and <i>good</i>. But what could he do? He needed Otter’s help to bury Etienne. He would give Etienne a Christian burial and then give Otter his due.

§

Otter backed away slowly down the hill to where Sandy Lake should be. Gavin followed him, his eyes burning with hatred.

Unlike the other towns on their route, Sandy Lake did have a number of permanent structures, a school, a tavern, a general store, and a boarding house. At the center of town, at the falls where the Silver River drains Sandy Lake there was even a mill. Though there were signs everywhere that the Irish crew had passed through there was no sign of them now.

Gavin finally found the Irish crew behind the school house in a bloody heap. Their deaths had been cruel – gunshot wounds, knife wounds. One man had been cut several times with an axe. A couple of members of the Québéçois crew lay respectively outside the main area of slaughter: their team may have won this ambush but they had not.

Gavin wondered what could do this.

“The Windigo.” Joshua crossed himself and backed away.

He looked at Etienne’s soulless body then back towards the corpses of the murderous Irish crew. He didn’t give the crew a second glance and proceeded due west out of town straight into boreal forest and swamp along the Meldrum Bay road.

§

The bush was far more passable in winter-time than in the summer. The cedar swamps, completely impassable in the summer, were relatively easy to navigate if you stuck to the parts that were frozen. In pockets throughout the swamps, on the higher land, were ancient stands of white pine. In the stands, the ground was clear of plants making it easy to walk using snowshoes. On the ground the air was still, though sometimes the giant trees shivered, unsettling their mantle of snow and luminescent needles.

When they did not converse together, Gavin would talk with himself, or perhaps with some unseen other, Otter had difficulty telling because at these times Gavin would mutter and swear.

“Gavin, I have a question for you. Why do you want to bury Etienne? You’ve told me yourself you’re not Catholic. Why do you want him to be buried on consecrated ground?”

Gavin replied with a question, “Why do you want to leave him behind?”

“Gavin, I am helping you bury him.”

“But you advised me to bury him in unconsecrated ground.”

“I told you that we shouldn’t try to bury Etienne because I didn’t want us to die trying. Your life is precious. Your soul is even more precious.”

“Why are you helping me now? Why haven’t you simply run away?”

“I think that all my choices lead to my death. I’m continuing with him”, Otter nodded towards the corpse wrapped in stiff woolen blankets, “to help save you.”

Gavin tried to understand Otter’s inscrutable remark but could not. As they continued west the north wind grew stronger and the gun-metal sky darkened to black.

“Otter, do you think that the Windigo is here? I keep hearing strange noises and think that we are being followed.”

Otter replied “If the monster is hunting us, we won’t hear it.”

Gavin persisted. “Perhaps I am hearing other animals responding to the presence of the monster. The animals know that something strange is here. Don’t they?”

Otter knew that the Windigo was very close to them and catching up. The monster moved in the form of a persistent breeze that blew a channel of air before it; pulling dead leaves from birch trees; knocking blocks of snow off the cedars; driven forward by its insatiable hunger.

After walking for half a day they reached an area that had already been logged by Americans who had shipped the timber out north-west to the Sault. The lumber road closely followed the curves of the land. The forest on either side was young and scrubby, all but impassable until the deer ate trails through it in the summer. The road, however, was very good. Enough traffic passed from Sandy Lake to Meldrum Bay that the snow was packed. Their progress was very fast.

The Windigo enveloped them a short distance from Meldrum Bay.

While being pursued the air around them blew. Now that they were caught the air around them became still. Otter reached in to his soul, trying to find that place where God is, and prepared to die.

The demon was very cunning: it showed Gavin images of Otter sleeping with Mary; it reminded him that he had sold liquor as medicine to the Irish crew and had caused Etienne’s death. The images enraged Gavin. It was this rage that allowed the monster finally to take control.

Gavin stopped walking. “Otter, I’m seeing things. I’m seeing things that make me very angry. “

Otter replied in a flat but insistent voice. “Gavin, what you are seeing is a vision from the Windigo. It is trying to trick you so that it can control you. Don’t give in. Please be strong. The fate of your soul depends on this.”

“Joshua” Gavin stopped trudging through the snow, dropped the reins to the sled and turned to face Otter. “Joshua, I feel compelled to defend the honor of the woman you have defiled. Mary.” Gavin slurred his words as if drunk.

Otter looked ahead of himself and saw a break in the trees. Meldrum Bay was only a 100 chains away. He could see people there who could help him. But it was too late. The monster had found a path into Gavin’s mind. Possessed by the demon Gavin would catch him and kill him. It would be easy: he would not fight back because he had no reason to live and deserved to die.

The monster was disoriented in Gavin’s body. While it consolidated control, Otter kept walking toward the edge of the forest. Never once turning his back to Gavin, Otter angled around him and began to walk sideways to the beach. Gavin shook slightly but persistently as the monster spoke with his voice. “Otter, we’ve talked a lot about the New Testament God and the Old Testament God. I believe in both. The God of forgiveness and the God of punishment. I believe that you’ve had enough forgiveness. It is time for you to be punished.”

Gavin’s judgment was delivered in a flat tone, more a homiily than a prelude to murder. But there was murder in his eyes as he stopped and methodically withdrew an axe and a gutting knife from his pack.

A large black fish swam close to shore, oblivious of the ice. Dark eyes and whiskers poked up through the rim of the water. Catfish watched as Otter stepped backward out of the forest onto the pebbly beach, dragging the trellis with Etienne’s stiff body along with him.

When Otter reached to the beach he stopped. “Gavin! I am not going to fight you. If you’re going to kill me, kill me quickly. It is all a shame.”

Ice had begun to form on edges of Gavin’s coat and his skin had turned blue. “Why is it a shame, Otter?? Is it a shame that you want to die? Is it a shame that you deserve to die because of the evil things that you have done?”

“Gavin, you are the one who believes that God’s ability to forgive is infinite.”

Gavin lurched toward Otter like Frankenstein’s monster. Catfish stirred and fluidly tracked his movements. Gavin stepped out of the shadows of the forest and raised his hands over his heads as he prepared to strike. For the second time in his life Otter was saved by a breath. Gavin inhaled and as he exhaled the sun poked out from behind a cloud, the air around him shimmered and the Windigo withdrew into the cold shadows of the forest. Gavin stood on the cusp between shadow and sunlight shaking. The axe and knife fell from his hands into the snow. He was now free of the monster’s spell.

Catfish knew that the drama was over and dove into the frozen water of Lake Huron and was gone.

§

The town of Meldrum Bay was a dock, some sheds and a sailor’s church all fully functional, despite the season.

Together they dragged the trellis noisily along the pebbly beach toward the westernmost point of the island, where a tiny wooden church obdurately squatted. The dozen people who were about followed their progress with their eyes, waiting to intervene until they were asked.

“Otter, it is time to give our friend Etienne a Christian burial.”

“Indeed.” Otter was relaxed and smiling. Smiling. “Gavin, have you ever buried a body? I didn’t think so. Let me show you how to do it.” Within moments they were at the entrance to the rectory making burial arrangements with the priest. Though Otter saw nothing because he was engaged in conversation, Gavin was certain that he saw Catfish poke his head out of the water, at the tip of the dock on the far side of the Church, one last time before swimming away.

Gavin followed Catfish’s wake northwest across the Lake. In the light of the setting sun you could just see the United States of America, if you squinted. Beyond that lay Manitoba where the Government was giving away land for free.

 

 

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A gentleman and his young wife entered the boutique, which overlooked the Canyon. The store was unexpectedly opulent given that it was the last stop on the Santa Fe railroad. The gentleman was dressed like a Roughrider, with loose khaki pants, long, laced leather boots, a leather jacket and kid gloves. He carried a wide brimmed hat under his arm. His eyes were yellow, his black hair was thin and streaked with gray. He had a delicate frame: his head was long and narrow, as were his limbs, fingers and nose. He was gaunt, his skin was stretched and translucent white, as if no longer able to absorb sunlight. His leather boots made firm, sharp sounds as he walked, but he was unsteady on his feet. He used a thin ebony cane as a prop when he made the small effort of ascending the three wooden stairs at the entrance to the shop.

While the man looked like he had been aged by disease, his wife, because of her rude health and light disposition, looked younger than her twenty-five years, almost adolescent. But she could not be mistaken for a youth because of the assurance with which she deported herself. She wore a white calico dress. Her dirty blond hair was covered by a muslin shawl decorated with images of blue violets; she wore white sandals on her feet. She could have been headed for a summer garden party except for the large rucksack slung over her left shoulder. It was of a type favored by railway workers because of its sturdy, coarse leather, and its fringe of iron hoops, to which she had attached an array of tools, and a parasol.

The Lord hobbled over to a glass and mahogany-wood display case, in which the store showcased its more valuable goods, while the Lady selected an assortment of items from the wooden shelves that lined the walls of the shop, and then headed to the fitting room to change; a hopeful sales clerk followed closely behind her.

While the gentleman idly browsed the store’s collection of knives, guns and accessories, the store manager sidled up beside him. The manager was dressed in an English style: light gray woolen trousers held up by suspenders that curved around the outside of his rounded belly, and a fine white cotton shirt on which was printed blue pin-stripes. He was a large, lumpy man, so the stripes made him look like a topographical map. His vest was slightly darker than his trousers. The outfit was completed by a short jacket that hung over the edge of the chair beside the cash register.

The store manager knew better than to make a sales pitch to his high-born customer, so instead took out a cigar and started to idly chew on it, while hovering a barely polite distance away.

“Would you like a light?” The gentleman removed small, ornate silver lighter from his trouser pocket and vaguely waved it in the direction of the shopkeeper.

“I’m not really a smoker. But now that you offer a light, I think I will have a smoke. If you don’t mind, that is.”

The gentlemen indicated his agreement by removing a cloisonné cigarette case from his breast pocket, from which he extracted and quickly lit a cigarette. He offered the lighter and the cigarette case to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper tried not to let his eyes linger indelicately on the ruby and emerald pattern that adorned the case. When he averted his eyes he noticed the dried scabs that lined the gentleman’s hands. Having no where to avert his eyes, the shopkeeper looked directly at the gentleman as he spoke, “I’ll smoke this.” He indicated his cigar, while gingerly taking the lighter from the gentleman’s hands. “I’m celebrating. I just received a telegram indicating that my brother now has an heir.”

“Congratulations. Is this his first child?”, the shopkeeper asked.

“No, third. But the first two were daughters.”

“I’m envious. I have no heir myself, although I do have one daughter.”

“If I may risk being forward, sir, I think that with a wife as young and healthy as yours you should have no …”

“I’m not getting any younger”, the Lord snapped. The shopkeeper watched in silence as the gentleman unconsciously traced his right forefinger along the line of scabs on his left wrist.

“Are you in Arizona only to view the Grand Canyon or is this a side trip from some more important business?” the shopkeeper asked.

The gentleman replied. “I am an investor.”

“In the Jerome mine, perhaps?”

“Indeed.”

A female voice spoke to their backs. “I and my father are the investors.” The Lady had returned from the fitting room. She was now dressed in brown riding boots, jodhpurs and a light, white, collarless cotton top of a style popular in the Raj. The only item remaining from her earlier outfit was the muslin shawl, which was draped around her shoulders. The sales clerk stood a respectful distance behind her, with a chiffon dress that looked like a bouquet of wilted flowers in her arms.

The gentleman replied in a testy voice. “Jeanette, I am head of our household. Your interest in the mine is my family’s property.”

“Yes, dear heart. But I control the trust.”

The gentleman snapped, “When we pass away, your interest in the mine will become the property of my heir.” His anger made his yellow skin turn red.

The Lady averted her eyes. At first the shopkeeper thought she did so in submission, but then realized she was looking at the blood seeping out one of her husband’s torn scabs. When he noticed at what his wife was looking, the gentleman made a show of putting on his black kid gloves. He tugged each glove once and then turned to the store keeper. “I’m off to inspect our mounts. Please take care of my wife’s every need. Charge whatever she buys to my room.” The effect of his brusque exit was marred when his cane got stuck in a crack in one of the floor’s wodden planks, and he stumbled.

The Lady lingered after her husband’s departure, to ask the storekeeper detailed questions about the poisonous snakes and insects that she should be wary of on her upcoming hike. At the shopkeeper’s suggestion she purchased a small, sharp knife, which she strapped to the inseam of her right leg. She did not haggle over its premium price, and left an extravagant tip for good service. She exited the store in half a dozen sharp, precise steps, but paused when she got to the veranda to look north, over the Canyon. It was dusk; the sky was terraced by bands of clouds. The Canyon walls were similarly paneled. Although the earth was darker than the sky, both were interlaced with shrinking purple shadows and lengthening bands of colored light. On a near horizon two condors floated on updrafts, while in the distance an eagle swooped down upon its prey.

§

The dining hall at the El Tovar hotel was crowded with visitors from Phoenix, many of whom were here not to commemorate the completion of the railway, but rather to see the renowned people who had come here to do so. They were particularly interested in the New York Lady and her noble English husband. The room buzzed when the maître d’hôtel greeted them at the entrance to the restaurant.

Before the nobles could be seated, a crowd of bourgeois notables, doctors, lawyers and mining contractors, coalesced into an impromptu receiving line. 20 minutes of introductions followed. The Lord was gracious, but did not extend even one calling card, although he promised to call on a middle-school principal from Phoenix who claimed to have excavated a treasure of Navajo artifacts from a gravel pit just east of Flagstaff. The Lady annoyed her husband by answering all of the many questions she was asked. Most of the time she was as brusque as her husband, but she those she liked she gave her time and attention.

Eventually the greetings ended. The couple sat down at a table with a view of the Canyon. It was dark, and despite the electric light in the restaurant, the sky was black and speckled with stars. The couple did not talk. The Lady nursed a glass of wine; her husband drank whiskey and soda while he smoked a cigar. He affected the manner of someone who was pensive, but his gaze was unfocused; she saw that his illness was making him weak and listless.

After the Lord poured his third drink he spoke. “Jeanette, why did you publicly discuss our affairs in front of that shopkeeper?”

The Lady looked out over the Canyon while she answered, “If I remember correctly, it was you who first mentioned Daddy’s mine.” Her words were spoken without affect. Almost listless, except her manner was tense.

“Never talk that way in front of commoners.”

“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up”. The Lady turned to her husband, narrowed her eyes, and then reached for his cigarette case. He scowled while she removed and lit a cigarette. She averted his scowl and instead stared at the scabs on his hands.

§

They slept in separate rooms, which provoked little comment. Although the Lady was reputed to have frontier manners, the Gentleman was known to be civilized.

§

Although the gentleman got up later than his wife he was ready for the hike sooner. He preferred to have a cigarette and shot of scotch for breakfast, whereas she always ate a full meal. Their plan was to enter the Canyon from the Horse Thief Trail, follow the Colorado River up-stream for 6 miles and then loop back along Cameron’s Trail. They walked their mules in silence along the rim of the Canyon. At Yavapai point they stopped to look out over the canyon. It was 20 minutes past sunrise: the shadows that were bushes and trees were filling in with the color the sky was losing. The Lord returned to the journey to the trailhead before his wife. The Lady lingered until the transferal of color from sky to earth was completed.

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Although the El Tovar hotel had been open for several months, most of the tourists to the Grand Canyon still stayed at the tent camp clustered around the railway station near the head of the Horse Thief trail. The tents were of a military style: squat, rectangular, with peaked tops, and were just big enough to hold 4 cots. The gear was the same as what American soldiers had just used to defeat the Spanish in Cuba and the Philippines.

It was late in the season so the camp was empty except for two tents, which were populated by an extended family who were just waking up. A young girl dressed in a flowered dress made of fine but dusty cotton was sitting on a stump while her sister, who was dressed in a thick dark gray woolen dress of a style favored by teachers and maids, was curling her hair with an iron she had heated in the pine-log fire. The girls’ brothers were playing tag, or perhaps fighting, in and out of the shadows cast by the low-slung sun. The sky was cloudless. Venus was visible just above the horizon; Mars could be seen glowing faintly red above it. In the foreground vultures floated on a morning thermal.

The Lord looked at the dusty family with the sour expression, as he skirted around their camp and proceeded to his appointment at the trail-head. The Lady appeared several minutes later. She intentionally walked close to the tents, curious to learn more about who they were.

“Yer Jenny Jay, ain’t ya?”, the younger girl in rough clothing asked boldly, as the Lady passed by.

“She means to say you are Lady Jennifer né Jay”, the elder, tidly dressed sister corrected. Jenny Jay was indeed her nick-name in the yellow press.

The Lady replied, “I am indeed. And you are?

The younger girl answered the Lady’s questions, as if it were she who had been asked. “Penelope Jones, you can call me Penny and this is my sister Victoria.” After a brief curtsy the girl then informed Lady Jay that her family had made it all the way to the Indian Village in a two day hike, but had turned back, instead of doing a loop, to avoid paying Mr. Cameron any more fees for the use of his trail. “Mr. Cameron even charges to use the loo”, she noted disapprovingly. “I thought the English were spreading civilization.”

Victoria cut in and said soberly, “Bring lots of water. People die here. Every week. Every week”, she repeated. “The midday heat is wicked.”

The Lady graciously thanked the girls for their assistance and bade them fare well.

The trail-head lay just beyond the small wooden building that passed for a railway station. When the Lady reached it, she saw that her husband was at the first switchback, 100 yards into the Canyon, where he was conversing with two guides. With great difficulty she steered her stubborn mule onto the trail and carefully began her descent.

While still out of earshot of her husband she stopped her mule and looked out over the Canyon. The scene reminded her of a Sunday school class she had attended as a child, where she had been told that if she wanted to find an example of God’s glory she need look no further than a sunrise. She was not one to embrace religion because of words, but that advice she had never forgotten.

“Miss.” A small voice broke her reverie. The Lady looked down. Penelope had followed her. The child’s hair was tied up into tight, dirty blond curls, and her calf-high black leather boots were tightly laced, and polished.

“Madame. Do you want to know a secret. I learned it from a Hopi shaman.”

The Lady nodded and smiled, but the girl took no notice. She did not need affirmation to continue.

“Mother told me not to talk to Hopis but my eldest brother said they all know magic, and he’s been to war, so when my mother was fighting with Mr. Cameron about his fees I did. Talk to an Hopi shaman, I mean. He had a feather cap and moccasin shoes and a small cloth around his privates. He told me that sage brush has the power to clean things, not like vinegar, lime and water does, but like the way the wind blows dust away. I gave him my charm bracelet and in return he gave me this and told me to burn it. Please have it. Mother said I can’t take it home.”

“My goodness, that sage is on fire!” The Lady shied away from the smoking herbal bouquet the child had just handed her, but continued to clasp the girl’s hand.

“Please take it”, the girl implored. “It has to be a present or the Native Gods will frown.” The child pushed the sage into the Lady’s hand. It’s smoke disturbed the mule so the Lady moved downwind, the smoking bouquet firmly clasped in her gloved right hand.

The child spoke, “Now wave it. The cleaning magic is in the smoke.”

The Lady solemnly waved the sage in the air before her eyes, like a Catholic priest with a censer. The heavy smoke fell down into the shadowy, cool area along the edge of the trail where her husband was talking. The sage smoke merged with the swirling smoke from his cigarette, until a slight gust of wind dispersed it. The Lady turned turned to the girl, “Thank you very much. My family could use some healing magic right now. Let me pay you …”

“… oh no! The shaman was clear about how you can’t take money for magic. That would corrupt it. I’m trying to help you!”

“Can we trade for something?”

“Sure. That could work. How about that button?”

The Lady’s satchel was adorned with a button she had been given during President Roosevelt’s campaign for Governor of New York several years previously. She had forgotten she had it. “Absolutely.” The Lady unpinned and handed the button to the child.

“Penelope! Come here right now!”

“Bye!” The girl curtsied and then ran back to her mother.

When the sage had burned down to its handle of sticks, the Lady dropped the bundle onto the ground and ground its remains into ashes with the heel of her riding boot. She resumed the descent toward her husband and guides, leading her mount by a rein made of frayed rope. Although the sun was shining hotly, the trail was cool because it was still in shadow. She followed the faint smell of sage to her husband.

The sun was now high enough that the features of the two men with whom her husband was talking could be seen. She knew that the European was their Québècois guide, the famous hermit who lived in a cave in the Canyon. She was surprised to find him accompanied by a Hopi. The hermit was dressed in denim overalls and a threadbare flannel shirt. He was not so much unshaven, as crudely shaven, with the slightest distinction between long white grizzled beard and coarse skin . His skin was dark from the sun. His head, like that of the Lord, was shaded by a Roughrider hat, although his hat did not have an ornamental string bow attached to its rim.

The Hopi man was a young adult, or perhaps an old looking child. His muscles were tough but wiry. The result was that he looked both athletic and malnourished. His head was adorned with a simple, lightly feathered headdress that had been dyed, or perhaps stained, the same dusty maroon red of the Hakatai shale that lined the walls of the Canyon¹. His gnarled, unwashed black hair hung straight down to below his shoulders, but was parted in the center so as not to cover his face. Two strands were tied back with a leather cord. Around his neck he wore a half dozen strings of yellow and cyan colored beads. A palm-sized copper talisman was attached to one strand of beads; it looked like a cross between an ankh and a miniature horseshoe. The snake image that had been tattooed around his upper arm indicated his clan. The necklaces and headdress suggested that he was a  shaman or snake dancer. A leather sash held up the woolen cloth wrapped around his mid-section. The cloth was reminiscent of a kilt, rather than the loincloth worn by the Navajo; it had been bleached white, and had a stylized image of a sidewinder snake fashioned out of yellow, green and red beads; a second band of black was embroidered along its lower fringe. The native’s boots, which looked like they were made of deer or elk leather, came to mid-calf and were fringed. He had red and blue colored strips of fabric tied just above his knees.

The men were dismounted. The Lord’s mule blocked the trail and from the Lady’s perspective was bleached white by the glare of the sun. The two guides’ mules were standing fully in the shade, passively eating from the feedbags attached to their necks. These mules were piled high with camping gear and water skins, leaving no room for a saddle. The guides, apparently intended to walk. The Lady stopped between her husband and the guides, at the point where the sun met permanent shadow, beside the canyon wall. She stood fully in the sun, she nudged her mule into the shade.

There was a moment of silence while her husband took one last drag on the cigarette he was smoking, and then ground it into the earth with the heel of his dusty brown hob-nailed boot. When the Lord finally made the introductions he address the Hermit, “Louis Boucher, this is my wife Jeanette.” He nodded towards his wife and said, “Mr. Boucher will be our guide.”

The Lady held out her gloved right had, which to her surprise the man shook rather than kissed. As he did so, she said, “L’ermite?”

“Bien sûr” the man replied.

“Une plaisure de faire vôtre connaissance.”

The Lord scowled. The Lady thought the Hermit presented himself well. Most prospectors were coarse.

The Lady nodded toward the Hopi guide and asked the Hermit, “comment il s’appelle?”

“Pachu’a”, he replied.

The native nodded his head, smiled and asked, “What is your name?”

“Jennifer. No. Jenny. Please call me Jenny. Whether we like it or not, a journey like this one is bound to get intimate.”

As she spoke the Lady turned slightly so that she face Pachu’a directly. She curtsied ever so slightly while saying, “Um waynuma”².

The native’s smile broadened. His teeth were stained yellow from tobacco, one of his front teeth was black. He replied, “Um-pi-tuh”.

The woman looked sideways at her husband. His scowl had been replaced with the terse smile he used when he lost a hand at poker.

“Do you know many American Indian languages?”, the Hermit asked the Lady.

“Not even one, although my grandmother claims her grandmother was Potawatomi.”

The Lord broke up the discussion by reaching out and grabbing the rein of his wife’s mule and tugging the beast onto the path and in to the sun. The Lady, with a short, sharp motion, yanked the rein out of her husband’s hand. The scowl returned to his face. He tersely said, “It’s time to go.” As he spoke, the Lord awkwardly mounted his mule. His left leg buckled on his first attempt, but after a brief struggle he succeeded on the second. He began the descent without a backwards glance. His wife followed: although she had mounted her mule before her husband, she let him go first. The guides followed on foot, leading their mounts with thin black leather reins.

The path into the Canyon was steep, ill-defined and surprisingly cold because the part of the trail they were on was still sheltered from the rising sun. That was not a bad thing. The cloudless and deep blue sky promised a wickedly hot day.

They rode together in silence. Eventually the Lord addressed his Lady. “Do you think Miss Astor will marry the Duke?” He spoke over his left shoulder to his wife, who rode just behind him.

“What?” Her husband’s Fifth Avenue gossip was out of context, so it took a moment for the Lady to realize what he had just said. She replied before he could repeat himself. “Let me return the question to you, dear. Do you think it will be a good marriage?” The path narrowed as they approached a switchback. To their right was a small, steep gully, to their left the canyon wall. The Lady maneuvered  her mule so that she rode directly behind her husband. He had taken off his hat and was rubbing his profusely sweating face with the dark red, cowboy-style neck scarf that he had tied to his sun-burnt neck. As he turned the corner of the switchback, a stone was dislodged by the foot of his mule. It fell into the gully, causing a small slide of gravel that looked like red steam.

When the path widened again, the Lord said “It is a good match. She is very rich. And he is noble.” He spoke toward the Canyon. As a result his words echoed faintly.

“She may be rich. But I understand that he is a philanderer”, his wife replied.

The Lord guffawed and then quickly composed himself, “That is to be expected of a man of that station.”

The Lady stopped her mule, and shouted to her husband’s back, her face white from rage, “Are you a man of that station?” The Lord kicked his mule to make it pick up its pace, but did not reply. Pachu’a cut into the space between the aristocrats. The Lady fell back until she was abreast the Hermit.

When the Lady finally regained her composure she said sub voce, “Pardon me, Mr. Boucher.”

He replied that her heated words with her husband had not offended him. Although he spoke in French, he made a point of speaking quietly, and directly toward the Lady so her husband could not hear that they were conversing at all.

“Do let us talk about something more pleasant”, she replied. There was another moment of silence while she thought of what that might be, then she said, “Is there a theme for this trek, or a lesson that you like to impart to visitors? Or perhaps a gimmick?”

The Hermit thought for a moment and then replied, “No, but when asked I always reply that this loop is a complete adventure, beginning and ending with a sunrise. What that adventure will be, however, I can not predict.”

The Lady nodded. “That reminds me of an aphorism of my grandfather’s, ‘You can have everything in a day.’”

§

They moved very slowly forward across a wide, stone terrace that was at the mid-point between the top of the Canyon and the Colorado river. Their path took them along the lip of the terrace. They were walking at an angle to the river, which lay ahead of them to their left. A condor circled lazily in the sky above them. Suddenly the Gentleman reined in his mule and shouted in a loud voice,

“The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones.”

His words startled a flock of birds that had been hiding in the shadows below them.

The Lady nudged her mule past her husband. The Hermit followed on her right, beside the edge of the path. The Lord lingered for a minute more before he continued. Pachu’a passively kept his mule several paces back; the Hopi followed the Lord when he began riding again.

“What was that about?”, the Hermit asked the Lady, while nodding toward her husband. They were far enough ahead of him that their conversation was private.

She replied, “He was quoting Ezekiel. He did the same thing when we visited Mount Sinai. He thinks that he can achieve penance for his misdeeds through bible study and prayer … ” she nodded toward the echoing canyon “and whatever you call that. A prayer?”

“I see. What about you? Do you try to elicit favors from God? Or ask Him to forgive your sins?”

“The last time I prayed, I asked God to strike my Sunday school teacher dead with a lightening bolt. But to answer your question, no I do not ask favors of God, it is bad religion as well as bad policy. Not that I couldn’t use one or two favors, myself.”

The Hermit replied in a quiet voice, “If I understand your situation correctly, it would require just one favor for your fortune to be perfect.” He glanced at the Lord, who was once again rubbing his pallid, sweaty face.

“Indeed.” She smiled ruefully. “But enough of such talk. Tell me a story. Tell me a story about here.”

The Hermit smiled as he replied, “My pleasure, Madame. This place is called Sipápuni³ by the Hopi, which means the Place of Emergence … ”

The sun was high in the sky. The air was now burning hot except in pockets in the narrow strips of permanent shadow that clung to the canyon walls, and in the sparse shade provided by the Yucca trees. Lord Churchill had once again covered his head with his Roughrider hat, and covered his neck and lower face with his cowboy kerchief.

They entered the valley after several more switchbacks. The canyon wall was to their right and the Colorado River to their left. As they rode, the area on the right side of their path gradually rose to form a wall and then narrowed into a channel through rock, like a wedge: above them the canyon was wider. To their left, a steep embankment led down to the water.

Eventually the wall to their right completely blocked their path and they needed to ford the river. It was the last day of September, after a dry summer, so the river was very shallow. The mules lived up to their sure-footed reputation by making the descent down the now rocky embankment with no incident. As they forded the little stream they caught a glimpse of a brown rattlesnake hiding in the shade of a rock.

On the other side of the river they encountered a small group of natives who were resting in a cool dark outcropping of rock. The natives were elaborately decorated. One had white dots painted on his legs and wore a hat with two white horns. The effect was both comical and sinister. The man beside him was painted in two colors of red. A third, on whose back was tattooed a black spider, sat with a large diamond-headed sidewinder rattlesnake in his lap. The fourth man stood apart from his companions. He had no markings on him whatsoever. This last man noticed the travelers first. He calmly rose, approached the Hermit and asked, “Where are you going, Looie?”

The Hermit stopped; the party followed suit. He replied. “We’re going as far as Cameron’s trail, and then returning to the South Rim via the Village. What about you?”

“We are on our way to Ovapai to fight with Tawákwaptiwa and his brothers. We are going your way. Let us walk together.”

While the Hermit and the native conversed about the causes of the dispute, the Lord moved protectively beside his wife. He pulled back his jacket, revealing his Remington revolver. He fiddled with the rifle strapped to the back of his mount, but did not remove it. His show of force was wasted, for the warriors were watching the Hermit. Boucher signaled for the natives to join him. They rose and began to collect their scant belongings into fatigued leather pouches.

The Hermit edged his mule toward the path. Pachu’a followed closely behind. The Lord and the Lady brought up the rear, still mounted on their mules, she with her hand near the bowie knife she had strapped to her right calf, his hand rested on the pearl handle of his revolver.

The Lady made a motion to pull ahead of her husband. When she did, her husband said, in a loud whisper,“Jenny, ride with me. I want to tell you something, in private.” She dutifully fell back, expecting a lecture about how she needed to be wary of natives.

The Lord rubbed his face with his red kerchief, while steering his mule with his legs. He retied the damp kerchief, and then began to speak, tentatively, “I decided to embark on this adventure because I hoped that the dry climate would help to cure my … condition. I think that my plan has worked. I am feeling better than I have all year …” He scratched a dried scab on his left hand with his right. “I was thinking that tonight would be a good night for us to conceive an heir.”

“We already have a daughter.”

“You know what I mean.” When she did not reply, he spoke again, “A male heir.”

Lady Churchill snapped, “I think that it would be best to conceive our next child when you are fully recovered.” She glowered at her husband for an instant, and then kicked her legs into the side of her mount. Her mule sluggishly picked up its pace until she was once again beside the Hermit. Pachu’a fell back until he was abreast the Lord, who was moving forward very slowly. The native warriors walked in between.

The Hermit pulled abreast of the Lady and said, in a whisper, “There is  one person between you and a perfect fortune; that same person promises you a life of misery.”

The Lady smiled tersely as she replied, “Let’s not dwell on my domestic problems, Monsieur Boucher. Most women have much more serious problems than an unfaithful husband. For example poverty. I am rich and resourceful. I can cope.” She nudged her mule and pulled away from the smiling Hermit. §

The overhanging rock gradually fell away, leaving the party in the middle of a wide, shelterless river valley. The dry air was so hot that it shimmered the way waves do in clear water. The buzz of insects echoed off of the walls of the canyon, creating the impression that the land itself was vibrating.

The natives began a low chant that was almost a hum. It was strange music to walk by because it was reminiscent of the irregular sounds of the canyon, and did not match their walking rhythm, which was slow and steady, except when rough, rocky terrain obstructed them.

A rattle snake hissed. The travelers all stopped moving and the Hopi stopped chanting.

The Lady scanned the path in front of her until she spotted the dust-colored snake, partially covered in the shadow cast by a wedge of sedimentary rock. It was not within striking distance. She was still, afraid more of her mount throwing her out of fear than the snake.

The Hopi encircled the snake. Its back was a lattice of white diamond scales set against a background of dusty gray-green. It had been lying on the ground in a stretched S shape but had now tightly coiled itself and raised its head. It moved its head in a semi-circle, sticking its tongue out to sense the air.

Pachu’a carefully moved behind the snake. Once in position, he crawled toward it very slowly. When he was one arm’s length away, his hands darted out, the left grabbing the snake’s throat, the right its tail. He slowly stood up from his crouch, still holding the snake. His thigh muscles strained from the effort of rising slowly. He turned to face his companions.

Pachu’a showed the snake to each native in turn. Although their faces’ remained solemn the Lady sensed that Pachu’a was showing off.

When Pachu’a had completed his circuit he gestured for the group to continue. Once they had disappeared around the first bend he returned the snake to the spot where he found it, found his mule (it had tried to hide itself in the scant shadow of a Yucca tree) and relentlessly prodded his mule in an attempt to catch up with the group.

After an hour, the natives headed off on a diagonal path, along an off-track shortcut that approached the Havapai village from the back. The Lord’s group continued along the south bank of the Colorado River. The trail was flat and exposed; the dry air searingly hot.

The canyon narrowed again. They reached a choke point where a spur of rock enclosed on the path. They spotted a shadow under the tree. As they got near they saw that the shadow was an old man.

The tops of the old man’s limbs, fingers and toes were lined with dots of white paint that made him look like a skeleton. He was covered in a filthy blanket that was decorated in white diamond shapes, like the skin of the rattlesnake they had just encountered; a horned felt hat hung from his neck by a coarsely woven cord.

The Hermit signaled for the group to pause. He nodded toward Pachu’a, who proceeded purposefully forward. Pachu’a greeted the old man in Hopi, and then reached into a pouch tied to his waist and pull out a small handful of cactus flowers which he presented to the old man,  who cupped his hands in order to receive the flowers, and then placed them in a battered tin bowl near his feet.

“What did Pachu’a say?”, the Lady asked the Hermit in a quiet voice.

“Greetings Másaw. Please let us use this land. We will respect it.” As the Hermit spoke, a tiny pink striped snake emerged from the rock enclosure in which the old man sat. Pachu’a quickly picked it up, the same way he had done with the rattlesnake. He presented it to the old man who laughed, clapped his hands, and then bowed to the snake but did not take it.

Pachu’a knelt to the ground and released the snake. It quickly slithered under the rocks to the right of the old man.

The old man spoke once again, with a cracked, dry voice; the Hermit translated for the couple, “You may use this land. But do not forget that you are here to fulfill the Plan of Creation.”

Pachu’a bowed from his neck, and then stepped back into the group. The Churchills, not certain how to respond, bowed and curtsied.

[The Hermit approached the old man, clasped his right hand for a moment. He then removed a paper bag from his satchel and handed it to the old man, who did not open the bag to inspect the present, but he did smile gratefully.]

They continued along the path, with everyone on foot and in single file: the path had narrowed to the width of one mule. The valley edge now encroached on the river to such an extent that there was no longer an embankment; a half-arch of rock towered over the path.

The old man joined them. He walked in front, as if he were now their guide.

The Lady drew abreast of Boucher and asked, “Can I talk to him?” She nodded toward Másaw. “Will you translate?”

“Certainly.”

They quickened their place slightly until they were beside the old shaman. Boucher spoke first. The old man responded with a toothless smile and nodded. Boucher turned to the Lady and invited her to begin her interrogation. Her first question was, “Are you a shaman?” The Hopi man smiled and shrugged.

“Yes”, the Hermit replied.

“Do the Hopi believe in God?”

The old man spat out a couple of syllables. The Hermit translated, “Not in the way you mean.”

“But you have gods?”

“There are spirits, life-force in everything. Some are more powerful than others.”

“Is there a prime spirit, like Jupiter, in the Hopi religion?”

The Hermit answered her question directly, rather than referring it to the old shaman, “Yes. The principal Hopi god is named Tawa. He is the sun god. But unlike Jupiter he prefers not to get involved in the affairs of men.” Boucher then translated the conversation to the old shaman, who indicated his agreement by nodding his head.

“Are there other important deities?” the Lady asked.

Boucher translated Másaw’s reply , “Spider Woman. In many ways she is a more a influential being than Tawa. I think of her as fate.”

“I see.” The Lady nodded her head and then asked, “Mr. Boucher, what is the significance of those cactus flowers you gave Másaw?”

“I gave him Peyote. It is used in religious ceremonies.”

The Lord, who was now leading the troop, stopped his horse and turned around. The entire group stopped behind him. He said, “You have peyote? We will talk about this at our next stop.” He wheeled his horse around and continued the trek.

It was now late afternoon. Although it was still bright outside, the sun was low enough in the sky that its light did not shine where they were walking. Their path was increasingly covered in shadow.

They followed the trail around a bend. The path widened considerably, while still remaining under the shadow of the valley wall. The Hermit walked his mule to an outcropping on the inner side of the path, and tied its rein to it. He then turned to the group and said, “We’ll camp here.”

Pachu’a unpacked the kindling the Hermit had packed for their camp fire, which he quickly started. Minutes before they had been fatigued by the heat, but the air in the cave was cool, dry and still. They sat around the fire, in a broad circle which calmly burned. There was no wind to stir the air.

They ate dried beef and drank water for dinner. When they were done, the Lord abruptly rose and addressed the river,  “Mr. Boucher, I’d like to converse with you in private.” The Hermit nodded. The two men walked away from the camp to a place where the path was exposed to sunlight. It was far brighter outside the shadow cast by the overhanging rock, but quickly getting darker. They spoke briefly then the Lord returned to the camp fire, a chesire-cat grin on his face, while the Hermit smoked a cigarette just outside the light of the fire. When Boucher returned to the group the Lord said, “Jenny. Come here now.” His wife dutifully rose and followed him to the edge of the campfire, on the side opposite to the Hermit. The Lord made a show of having a private conversation, even though their voices were still audible to Másaw and Pachu’a because of the echoing acoustics of the half-cave.

“Jenny. I have spoken with Mr. Boucher about that new man, Másaw. It seems he is a shaman. If we wish, we can engage in a religious ceremony tonight. It will be like the ayahuasca ceremony in Peru, except with snakes and not condors. Are you interested?”

She nodded.

“Very good.” The Lord eagerly rubbed his scabrous hands together. §

Lord Churchill and his wife sat at opposite sides of the fire. The air was still, so there was no problem with blowing ashes.

Pachu’a began to grind the peyote flowers, which looked like hand-made buttons, into powder. He then added water to the powder, which created a paste. When the paste was fluid enough to drink he poured it into a series of small clay bowls. Másaw sat beside Pachu’a, periodically giving him instructions.

The sun had long since set. The sky was so full of stars that the heavens looked like a web. Another web of shadows danced around the fire. The edges of the canyon, which in daytime were in permanent shadow, were now black as pitch.

“Drink this”. Pachu’a handed the Lord one of the clay bowls. It was full to the brim with the cactus flower paste.

The Lord took it and drank deeply. He handed the bowl to his wife. The Lady had a small sip, began to hand the bowl to Louis Boucher, had second thoughts and took a second small sip. When the bowl was handed to the Hermit, he immediately gave it to Másaw, who drained what remained in one long draught. They repeated the ceremony; on the second pass Boucher did have one small sip from the bowl. Moments after the peyote was finished, the Lord began to cough, as if he were choking. His palsied hands struggled with his waist coat; eventually he produced a silver flask of whiskey, which his shaking hands struggled to open. He drank until the flask was empty. When done, he paused. Then he coughed furiously until he had no energy to cough at all. He sat for a few, long, moments with his bent head held up by his hands. His long, thin hair fell forward, over his face.

While the Lord vomited onto his dusty Roughrider boots, the Hermit handed the Lady a skin full of water, from which she drank. In the middle of her draught she became so nauseous that she sat bent over her legs, with her arms cupped over her head for several minutes, and retched.

An unseen hand helped her re-find her equilibrium. When she looked up again, she saw that her husband had also composed himself. Her nausea had passed; she felt fine.

She noticed that her senses were sharper than normal, and more sensitive. Even though it was night, in the dim starlight she felt overwhelmed by sensations: sounds, lights, smells. The slopes of the canyon rose solemnly all around her. She could faintly hear the babble of the Colorado River. The more she listened the more it sounded like a cacaphony of voices talking to her.

The air was full of vibrations.

A visitor emerged from a web of shadows in the darkest part of the campground, the area of permanent shadow.

The Lady asked, “Who are you? What are you doing here?” She whispered her questions. For some reason she did not want the others to hear. They hadn’t noticed the apparition. He replied, “I am Sotuknang. I bring you a message.” He was old, his skin was dry and gaunt but his body had a sinewy strength. His long, thick black hair was tied into strands by beads.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Look at the shadows.”

She looked to where he pointed, at the shadows cast by the campfire on the walls of the cave. She fell into a trance while looking at them, as if ensnared in a web.

The shadows began to organize themselves into a story. She saw a flood wash away the world. Then the water shadows drained away and the ground opened up. From the dark deep hole the shadows of people emerged and spread out into the night. Many lingered around the campfire; a shadowy crowd that mingled with the flames.

The scene changed again. The dark shadows where the stranger had once been standing resolved into the face of a very old woman. Her eyes were shut. Her sockets were like pits lined with wrinkles. Her hair was a web of dark brown roots that merged with the flickering shadows. The woman sat cross legged on the ground. Her eyes remained closed but she was looking at everyone and everything. She reached her hands out to the Lady, palms facing up. Jenny rose, moved to beside the old woman, knelt down and grasped them.

“What do you want?” Spider Woman asked.

The Lady knew what she wanted most, though she kept that desire locked in the shadowy recesses of her mind.

Behind her someone fell to the ground with a thump.

Lady Churchill did not immediately turn around even though there was a commotion behind her. She continued to stare at the web of hair and wrinkles and shadows. The web grew darker and blacker until Spider Woman disappeared into blackness.

When Jenny finally turned around to look at her prostrate husband she knew immediately that he was dead. He had hit his jaw on a rock when he fell, the force of impact had broken his neck. His hips, which had followed his body to the ground, were twisted awkwardly so that his legs were skewed. She had dreamed of this moment in her mind’s eye every day since she had discovered her husband’s syphilis. In her mind’s eye the scene of her release was always a funeral home or hospice, and she always imagined feeling relief mixed with joy and expectation at her husband’s death, but now she felt nothing.

She let the shadows smother her senses and wrap her in sleep. §

The next morning the sun rose as it always did. The Lady awoke gradually. Her eyes were still sensitive to light and her ears sensitive to sound.

When she remembered her husband she lay still for a moment wondering how accurate her memory was. She lay on her back and looked up at the bright morning sky, but with closed eyes. She asked the Hermit, “Est-il mort?”

“Oui. Your husband is still dead”, the Hermit replied.

She opened her eyes. The rock face was above her, but its shadows were thin. Outside she could see daylight creeping along the top of the cliff. She heard Pachu’a making coffee.

“Dead!”, she shouted. The word echoed like a chime against the canyon walls.

Jenny pulled herself up and took a seat on a rock by the camp fire. The Hermit offered her a mug of coffee and sat down beside her. She said, “Who was that man?”

The Hermit replied, “You mean Másaw? He’s a Hopi shaman …”

“Not him.”

“Pachu’a?”

“No. The man last night who was dressed like a Hopi warrior.”

“There was no other man.”

“I see. And there was no woman with hair like a web of roots?”

“Peyote makes you see things that aren’t there.”

“How did my husband die?”

“He had a heart attack and then broke his neck when he fell. If I may be so bold …”

“Yes?”

“I think that it would be better if you returned alone. The Lord’s death could make trouble for us.”

“Of course. And please do not worry. I will take care of everything. How far is it to Cameron’s trail?”

“Less than one mile straight along this path.”

“Can you secure my husband to my mule before you leave?”

“It has already been done.”

“Its going to be an interesting day today, isn’t it”, the Hermit said after he strapped the last of the camping gear to his mule.

“I agree” Jenny replied. “There is a whole universe of possibilities awaiting me …”

Gas escaped from the corpse.

“You’d best hurry. Bon chance, Madame”. The Hermit and his companion were gone in moments.

Jenny Churchill grabbed the reins of the two mules and began the short walk to Cameron’s trail. As she walked, she thought, “Cameron will certainly earn his fee today, dealing with my late husband. He probably charges his dead clients double.”

She laughed. Yesterday she could have left her deceased husband’s body for the vultures, but today rancor was a burden. She didn’t need burdens. Or favors. Not even hope.

She pulled down the brim of her hat and then stepped out of the shadows into the light of the indifferent sun. Fin