The Cast Stone Read Online Free PDF Page A

the price of rabbit above that of beef. They weren’t buying meat; they were buying memories.
    It was gasoline that forced Red into the economy, gasoline for the chainsaw, for the truck, for the boat to go lift the net. If Red did not have to buy gasoline, his life could be a whole lot simpler. Everything he needed for a good life was in the forest; food, heat, shelter. Gasoline was his prison, his captor.
    Red was completely unsophisticated and loved it. The problems and complications of modern society did not touch him, did not enter into his analysis of any given morning. He woke, made a pot of coffee for himself and a kettle for Lorraine’s tea when she got up. His day began with a prayer, usually outside, a simple “Thank you for today, Grandfather.” Then Red would look around to see what needed doing or what the day was best suited for.
    He was getting good at predicting weather, watching the sky for those subtle changes, those markers that he recognized — low clouds in an arc above the eastern horizon always meant that the weather would be warming. Sky colour held meaning beyond the red sky at night, red sky in morning cliché. There were also shades of blue, variations near the sun or moon and an encyclopaedia of cloud forms.
    Today, Red decided, would be a good day to stay close to home, help Lorraine with the little things around the house, knowing that by noon she would be chasing him out, sending him somewhere. “Go help Moses fix his fence.” Or, “Dianne phoned, she needs someone to look at her car. It’s making a funny sound.”

    Rosie sat on the heavy plank steps that led up to Ben’s door. “The light is good here,” she told herself as she sewed beads to leather and created an eight-sided star for the back of a pair of gloves. The truth was that the light at her house, a hundred steps further from the lake, was as intense. But if you challenged her on it, she would argue with you and no matter what proofs you offered, you would eventually lose the argument worn down by the strength of her conviction. She would never admit to you or to anyone that she was there because she was lonely and the feeling of Ben’s spirit moved around his cabin and comforted her.
    A whimper from under the steps drew Rosie away from her beadwork to kneel in the grass, bend way over, and look under the heavy lumber frame. The yellow dog lay curled around six puppies tumbling with each other for a teat, all mouth and sucking, eyes closed. “You picked a good spot to have your babies.” The yellow dog raised her head at the words. “Seems everyone knows Ben will look after them.” The yellow dog licked the puppy closest to her tongue. “Thirsty work giving birth, isn’t it. Bet you’d like some water.” Rosie found a bowl she was sure Ben wouldn’t mind sharing. On the way out she grabbed the left-over fried fish. Sleigh dogs and fish, something about that combination just seemed natural somehow.
    Rosie sat back on the steps — a fed, watered, contented mother lay in the shade somewhere beneath her — and wondered absently where Ben might have gone. To the city perhaps, more than likely the city she agreed with herself. He would not have gone north for any reason without taking his boat. She wet the thread by drawing it through her mouth to stiffen it so that it was easier to control and returned to firmly attaching the string of beads to their precise location on the leather.
    Now if she were her grandmother, she would not sit here and wonder, she would fly away and find out exactly where Ben had gone and how he was making out. Rosie had never seen her grandmother, old Jeannie, do any of the things she was purported to have done. She had only scraps of conversations and whispers that told of the old woman telling her children, including Rosie’s mother, “I’m going to check on your uncles on the trapline. Don’t be