his head. He would kill a rabbit for food. Easier than a deer or elk unless, of course, a deer or elk presented itself. He would pick herbs, wild vegetables and roots to add taste to the rabbit. Then he would make a fire and skin the rabbit and spit it over the fire on a slant so the juices would collect in the pot Old Man had left him. Then he would add the herbs, cut some chunks from the rabbit, and put them in the pot. So then he would have three meals: The rabbit for breakfast and dinner, the stew for lunch, perhaps find some berries for dessert.
It was a good plan, he decided, and he continued to follow the stream down the mountain. His eyes moved constantly as he trotted through the woods. About mid-day he saw tracks leading away from the creek. He knelt, brushing leaves away from them. They were paw prints. Small. Two pressed hard into the ground, three hands farther there were two not so deep, three hands farther two more deep prints and then two not so deep. In his head he could see the animal hopping.
A rabbit.
This was a good sign. He followed the tracks, walking carefully. As his father once told him, “Always walk an inch off the ground so nothing will hear you.” He understood what that meant. Occasionally he notched a tree so he could find his way back to the stream. He had gone about a mile when he stopped, squatting down behind a tree. The tracks led to a hole burrowed beneath a fallen cottonwood ten yards away.
He slipped an arrow from the quiver, fitted the notch between the feathers and the bow string and waited.
Listen. Patience is the virtue of the hunter.
And so he waited while above him storm clouds were gathering. Owl was right. The Boy could smell rain in the air. And it was getting dark. But his stomach was growling.
Far off, there was a rumble of thunder. He watched the hole. Perhaps the rabbit had left his house. Perhaps he was wasting his time. Then he heard a sound and the rabbit peered over the edge of the hole. It looked around, stuck his head up a little farther.
Ka-Wan very slowly pulled the string back until the arrowhead was almost touching the bow. He sighted down the arrow, could see the rabbit’s head now clearly above the hole. He waited. A minute, two minutes passed. Then the rabbit rose up a little farther and he could see the white fur on its chest.
Now!
He moved his fingers half-an-inch off the bow string. The arrow whirred towards its target. The rabbit heard the sound, turned his head sharply, but he was too late. The arrow had found its mark and pierced the rabbit’s throat, pinning him to the ground at the edge of the hole.
Now he had to find shelter.
He made his way back to the stream and trotted down the mountainside. Ahead of him he could hear a waterfall and then through the trees he saw a band of treetops and the waterfall grew louder. He moved faster and finally came to the rim of a small cliff where the stream dropped into a pool before it continued down the mountain. He climbed down the small ravine.
The Boy was in luck. On the far side of the pool close to the waterfall he saw an opening under an overhang. It was small but large enough to crawl through so he took off his moccasins and hopped through the frigid water to the other side of the pool. He crawled to the cave and looked in, sniffing the stagnant air.
There was a feral odor inside but it was too dark to see anything. He sniffed the air again. Was it fur? A wolf perhaps, or a fox? Maybe an otter? Was he intruding on its domain?
He quickly gathered the makings and struck a fire close to the cave opening and beneath the overhang to protect it from the coming rain. He found a sturdy tree limb about three feet long, set the end afire, and crawled through the opening, following the torch light.
He lay there with his legs still outside, the torch held high, and studied the arched interior. It was four or five feet high, the sides and ceiling formed by sturdy rocks as it coursed back into the mountain and narrowed into darkness. The sandy floor was dry. It was perfect although the smell of the torch obliterated all other odors.
He decided to take a chance. He wedged his torch between some rocks, pulled his blanket and meager belongings inside and carried the pot and rabbit and the wild vegetables and berries he had gathered back outside.
He was unaware that he was being watched.
Inside the cave, a pair of narrow, black eyes followed The Boy’s every move, watched through the cave opening as he skinned the nice, plump rabbit and prepared his dinner, watched and waited as darkness fell and lightning streaked the sky and rain began to pelt the earth, watched and waited as The Boy finished his meal and extinguished his fire.
The eyes narrowed to mere slits in the flickering shadows as he returned.
The Boy crawled a little deeper into the cave, away from the acrid smell of the torch. He stretched his blanket out on the dry floor of the cave and made a bundle of the canvas tarp against the wall for a pillow.
As he settled down, pulling the blanket over him, a bolt of lightning startled him and cast a blue glow through the cave opening.
He did not see or hear the creature as it coiled on the sand, its head rising above a rock two feet away, its tongue licking the air, its eyes widening.
The Boy, his ears still ringing from the crack of lightning, was unaware of danger.
Unaware until he heard the dreadful, dry, terrifying rattle. By then it was too late.
His mouth dried up and his eyes bulged as the snake streaked out almost to its full length. Its fangs snapped like a trap, puncturing the blanket and The Boy’s leggings and piercing the inside of his left leg an inch above his ankle. It felt like he had been hit with a hammer.
He screamed, broke into a sweat, pulled his legs up against his chest, and watched terrified as the predator slithered out of the cave.
His fear was replaced almost immediately by action. He remembered the words of Old Man.
Do not panic or you will die. Be calm but do not hesitate. Move slow like the possum. But do not waver. Do what you must do before the sleep comes.
He moved resolutely but in slow motion, got his knife, cut two, short strips from the canvas tarp, pulled up his pants leg and saw the two scarlet fang marks, already beginning to swell. He leaned over, sliced an inch-long slit through the wound, pulled his leg up and bit hard over the cut and sucked the poison from it. He could taste the venom as he spat it out. He tied one strip of canvas an inch or two above the wound, tightened and knotted it, did the same below the swelling. He bit again, sucking the toxic blood into his mouth and spitting it out. He took a deep swig of water, swished it around in his mouth, spat it out. He got his grandma’s reddish ointment from his small bag of possessions and slowly smeared it into the wound. His teeth began to chatter. Pain overwhelmed him.
Then he lay back and pulled the blanket around him. He was beginning to shake and the pain began to numb his nerves so he began a Nimiipuutimpt chant to himself, slowing the chant, lowering it deep in his throat. He lay still as a sleeping cat and stared at the flickering shadows on the ceiling of the chamber and kept chanting to slow his heartbeat as the room began to tilt and spin and envelope him.
And he slipped eagerly into the void.?
Visions swept through the swirling mist of his fevered mind like the colored shards tumbling in a kaleidoscope, each fragment becoming fleeting instants from the past, nightmares he had forgotten or tried to forget colliding with moments of pure joy:
Picking huckleberries with his mother under a clear azure sky and waiting at the table while she mixed them with honey, his mouth wet with anticipation.
Ka-Wan seeing his father, Charley Wildpony, for the first time. How powerful and handsome he was in his Marine uniform, stepping off the bus as he returned from faraway battlefields, a mighty warrior with colored ribbons on his chest, each a testament to his bravery.
The stink of the hospital in Denver.
Being swept up and held high and hearing his father’s proud laughter and his deep voice full of pride crying out, “Look at you! Boy, how I’ve waited for this time, young fella.”
The three of them together hugging each other.
A shaft of blue sunlight.
Pa teaching him to catch salmon on the big river.
Watching him rounding up and breaking wild horses on the plains of Montana’s Big Open.
Pa vomiting in the bathroom while his Ma tried to comfort him.
