Up Ghost River Read Online Free PDF

day, and we should follow them. And if the grass is dry, or the soil hard, they are long gone.”
    â€œSo are we going to follow it?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “It’s already too far away.” We walked out to the Albany River, to where Papa had found martens last year. As we got closer, I heard what sounded like a baby crying. Papa started to run, panicked. The trap was supposed to break the marten’s neck, but instead the animal was desperate, hissing, squirming, clawing. It smelled of sweat, piss and fear. A bad omen, signalling that Gitchi Manitou was unhappy.
    â€œShh,” he said to the marten, and he made tender sounds like the ones he used to make with Rita. Then he reached into the trap with both hands, there was a snapping sound, and the marten fell slack. A female, from the size. He freed her from the trap and brought her close to his face.
    â€œLife is a gift,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
    â€œPapa, one day, can I be a hunter like you?”
    He shook his head no. I waited for him to explain, but he stayed quiet as he put a piece of meat on the bait pan. Martens don’t recognize human scent as easily as animals like foxes and wolves do, but Papa was always extra careful, especially when he had something on his mind. This time he reset the trap with such focus, it was like he was handling a robin’s egg. For extra measure, he wiped everything down with a rag.
    Alex greeted us at the door. “What you get? What you get?” he said. “A couple of martens,” Papa said.
    â€œAnything else?” Mama asked, looking up from her sewing.
    â€œNo, I didn’t set any more traps.”
    â€œWhy not?” she said.
    â€œWell for starters, there aren’t many animals around here. But I’ve also noticed the martens and beavers are pretty thin right now. Let’s let them recover.”
    â€œWhat about your debt at the store?”
    â€œI’ll have to speak to the manager.”
    â€œWhat about the extension to our house you were going to build?”
    â€œI can still do that.”
    â€œKeshayno, we’re in debt.”
    â€œWe’ll be fine, Netchi. I heard that fur prices are up again.”
    Over the next few days, Papa scraped the hides and stretched them on a circular frame. He showed me how to scrape the hide with asharp knife so it could dry better. We hung the frame from a high branch, safe from the dogs.
    The day the furs were ready, Papa and I got up before the rest were awake. He helped me button my coat and pants, cooked bannock and tea, and we walked over to the Hudson’s Bay store. We climbed the steps and opened the wooden door. A tall man about the same age as Papa was standing at the counter holding what looked like a bulky gun, which he was using to put sticky labels on some bread loaves. Papa had already told me that the manager was also called The Boss and that we all had to be nice to him. Ignoring Papa, the man straightened a price tag on a bag of flour. Above him were shelves stacked with supplies—sugar, Klik canned meat, tomato soup, lard, tea—and on the wall to his right, the more costly goods—ammunition and a number of rifles including a new one just arrived called The Savage 45. Furs were draped from the ceiling and counters, with the most valuable—otter, black fox and wolverine—sheathed in cotton to keep out the dust.
    Papa shifted his weight and cleared his throat, and still the man continued pricing. After what seemed like a long while, he turned and slowly began to wipe his hands on his apron.
    â€œGood morning, Abraham,” The Boss said in Cree. “What do you think of our weather? Jesus, it’s cold.”
    â€œIt’s not so bad. Just the wind.”
    â€œIt’s always so goddamned windy.” He looked at my dad. “I had it better in Timmins, you know. Little house in South End, right near the water.”
    â€œYou have good fortune