he let out a wail that could have been heard in Greenland.
Jenny shot a look toward the island across the channel. The hunter broke from the cover of the fallen timber, eyes on the place where the baby lay. He lifted his rifle, and he sighted.
TWENTY-TWO
Fourteen thousand islands,” Mal said. “Who owns them all?”
“Some of them belong to our people,” Amos Powassin replied.
“And most of the others are what’s called Crown Land,” Bascombe said. “They belong, technically speaking, to the monarchy of England. But they’re overseen by the provincial governments, who set them aside for preservation. That’s why most are uninhabited. Pretty much, you can’t build on them. Which is a good thing, I think. To my mind, this whole area ought to remain wild forever.”
They’d returned Cherri Allen to her home on Windigo Island. Those remaining in the boat—Rose, Mal, Stephen, Bascombe, and Amos Powassin—had headed north and were now in the devastated area, weaving among islands where trees lay fallen like blades of mown grass. It was a terrible sight, and although he was blind, Powassin seemed to sense it.
“I can feel the change here,” he said sadly. “Something magnificent has been wounded.”
“It all looks dead,” Stephen said.
“No.” Powassin shook his head, then repeated, “Wounded. The energy of life is still everywhere. I can feel that, too.”
“I don’t understand, grandfather,” Stephen said.
“Don’t understand what?”
“Why Kitchimanidoo would do this kind of thing to a place so beautiful.”
“And who is Kitchimanidoo?” the old man asked.
Stephen seemed surprised by the question. “The Creator, grandfather. The Great Mystery.”
“Sometimes us Shinnobs get lazy in our thinking, Makadewagosh, and we think of Kitchimanidoo like a human being, some kind of powerful old man, maybe. An old fart shoots sparks and magic out of his fingers, like one of them wizards in a Harry Potter movie.” The old man laughed at the image he’d created for himself. “Know what I think? I think Kitchimanidoo is not the Creator but the possibility of creation, all creation, good and bad. You understand?”
“I’m not sure,” Stephen said.
“In all good is the possibility of evil, and in all evil the possibility of good.”
“So,” Stephen said, mulling it over carefully, “a thing that seems good at first might be bad in the end?”
“Or the other way around,” the old man offered.
“So there’s the possibility of something good in all this destruction?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Who knows what Kitchimanidoo is capable of? You, me, we’re just humans. In the big picture, we don’t see nothin’. And Kitchimanidoo is the big picture.”
Stephen was quiet after that. They all were. And for a long time the only sounds came from the engine grind and the propeller churning water.
“If I’m correct in my judgment of distance,” the old man finally said, “we should be approaching Bishop Point Island.”
“You nailed ’er, Amos,” Bascombe said.
“Point the bow of this tub west,” the blind man said.
“Toward Outer Bay?”
“For a bit, then we’re turning north again.”
“You’re the captain,” Bascombe said. He consulted his GPS and carefully swung the launch left.
“Long time since I visited Neejawnisug,” the old man said. “In the old days, it was a place our young men often went for
“Their vision quest,” Stephen said.
The blind man seemed surprised. “You know about this old Shinnob ritual?”
“A little over a year ago, after my mother died, Henry Meloux guided me on my vision quest.”
The old man nodded. “No wonder you’re so sensible. Wish I could convince more of our young men here to give the old way a try. They think ownin’ a gun or maybe a fast boat is what makes ’em a man. I think it’s about time we headed north. You ought to see an island with a cliff face white as pigeon shit.”
Bascombe laughed. “I do.”
“Run along the left side. Real careful. Lots of hidden rocks. And with that storm, maybe some snags, too.”
“Roger,” Bascombe said.
He cut the engine, and the launch cruised slowly between the island with the pigeon-shit cliff and another island just to the south. When they came out of that passage, all Rose could see was island after island with a labyrinth of channels running between them.
“How does anyone keep from getting lost here?” she asked.
“In the old days, they didn’t,” Powassin said. “That’s why our people were able to hide the children here.”
“But you know the way, and you’re blind,” Stephen pointed out.
“I learned the way early, and in those early days I came here often. It’s a special place. A powerful place.”
“Where now?” Bascombe said.
He’d no sooner spoken the words than they heard a sound like a firecracker exploding.
“What was that?” Rose said.
“Sounded like a gunshot,” Bascombe said.
“A rifle,” Powassin said. “A big rifle. In that direction.” The old man pointed ahead and to the left.
“Cork?” Rose said.
Mal shook his head. “I don’t think he took any kind of firearm with him.”
“Hunters?” Stephen said.
“Nothin’ in season,” Powassin replied. “Then again, maybe what’s being hunted hasn’t got a season.”
Bascombe said, “I think we should have a look-see.”
And he eased the throttle forward.
TWENTY-THREE
Atop the bluff, Cork had hunkered behind a blind created by the trunk and branches of the fallen aspen. He’d waited patiently for the hunter to appear on the outcropping where the few ragged cedars still stood. His clothes had begun to dry, and his muscles had begun to cramp, and when the hunter didn’t show, he’d begun to believe he’d been miserably off target, miscalculated completely. All his predictions about the man’s behavior had been wrong. He was afraid that being wrong could lead too easily to being dead.
He should continue to wait, he knew, to be patient, to trust his instincts. That’s what his years as a hunter had taught him. But things were different when the life of his daughter and an innocent child were at stake. Where he hid, he had a view of only the upper half of the cedar-topped outcropping. If the man chose not to climb that promontory, Cork realized he might not even see the hunter. He battled with himself over the urge to get up and stand at the edge of the bluff for a clear view all the way to the waterline. What held him back was the stubborn certainty that the hunter, when he reached the end of the island, would climb the height for the view it would give him. That’s exactly what, in his place, Cork would have done.
Then he heard the baby scream.
He leaped up and looked north. At three hundred yards, he couldn’t see much. He dashed to the edge of the
