Talking at the Woodpile Read Online Free PDF Page B

they slid down the bank into a pool in the creek and sank to its depths.
    A light snow began to fall.
    Yugunvaq picked himself up and walked out of the bush. The air was filled with screams and sobbing. Malak lay on his back, his chest crushed. Blood ran from his ears and nose, and frothy pink bubbles flowed from his mouth. He tried to sit up, but Yugunvaq held him down. Malak struggled, but then his eyes dimmed and he was gone. Yugunvaq moved to Ukuk. His leg was twisted at an impossible angle, and he shook uncontrollably, biting his hand to distract him from the pain. Manikaaq tried to straighten his leg, causing Ukuk to faint and go limp. Yugunvaq took advantage of his unconsciousness and expertly set the leg and bound it.
    The other men staggered about, all injured and in shock. They returned to camp, then went back for Malak’s body and made a litter. Iqilan, Suyuk and Yugunvaq carried Malak up a hill that overlooked the valley. There they built a platform and wrapped the body in a tent hide. They placed him on it, then raised their hands to the heavens and laid their plaintive sorrow at the Creator’s feet. Suyuk walked away weeping, and though the men tried to comfort him, he waved them off and would speak to no one.
    Yugunvaq returned to where Angunatchiuk had disappeared. He threw himself on the ground and pleaded for strength to tell the families the horrible news. Worst of all, he couldn’t recover the body. Angunatchiuk had been his friend and successor, and Yugunvaq had cared deeply for him.
    He took off a looped ivory carving that he wore around his neck and placed it on the hill above where his son-in-law had disappeared. The carving represented a storm spirit. Angunatchiuk had been spiritually born in a storm and had died in another storm. Yugunvaq then chanted a prayer that someday Angunatchiuk would be buried with honour.
    Back at their camp the men had made a fire and were trying to rest. Yugunvaq sat down, too tired to talk. Finally he said, “Angunatchiuk was the bravest of us all. He carried the grizzly spirit and proved his worth. We all owe him our lives.”
    The others nodded in agreement.
    Suyuk sat with his head down and would not meet Yugunvaq’s eyes.
    â€œWe all owe him our lives,” Yugunvaq repeated, speaking directly to Suyuk.
    Suyuk looked up with a face full of rage. “He didn’t save everyone.”
    â€œIf your son had been at the end of the line where he belonged, he would be alive today,” Yugunvaq said angrily. He stood up and disappeared into the thick willows. Moments later there was a rustling of wings and a hawk flew from the bush, circled into the sky and headed off in the direction of Moosehide.

Talking at the Woodpile
    Wilfred Durant and William Pringle were good friends—had been for years. William usually visited Wilfred bringing newspapers and jars of preserves that his sister Dot put up.
    Toward the end of 1931 William arrived with the usual bundle under his arm. “Howdy, Wilfred, brought you some papers flown in this morning and hot off the press. They’re only about two weeks old.”
    â€œI didn’t think the airplane could land in that fog,” Wilfred said. “I heard them go over early this morning—must have circled around to Mayo and come back. Reminds me of Lindbergh flying blind over the Atlantic. Have a seat, and I’ll make coffee.”
    William sat at the kitchen table reading while Wilfred served strawberry jam and thick slices of freshly baked whole-wheat bread that was still hot from the oven. They washed this down with brimming mugs of freshly ground coffee, thickened with cream and laced with mounds of sugar.
    â€œI can stand my spoon in it,” William complained about the strength of the brew.
    â€œThere’s no such thing as strong coffee, only weak men,” Wilfred reminded him as they settled in to read.
    The two of them passed their time as bachelors, having little