She was still wearing Many-Doves moccasins, and she was very glad of them. Elizabeth wondered how she would ever wear her own shoes again, or even her beloved boots with their elegant little heels and fine needlework. She thought much of Paradise, particularly of her students, and of Hannah, who was her daughter now. It would have been a wonderful idea, to have a daughter, if it hadn't been for Richard Todd. He had managed to steal this joy from her, and Elizabeth resented it deeply.

What was so very frightening about this was not the memory of Richard's hateful smile when he claimed Hannah as his own child, but the complete lack of emotion from Nathaniel. No mortification or surprise or anger. Things Elizabeth would have expected, even if—and this was an unwelcome thought—Richard's claim were true. She told herself, as she had already a hundred times, that it did no good to contemplate his incredible declarations until she could talk to Nathaniel about all of it. She wondered with considerable discomfort if Nathaniel might have told her more of Sarah, and of Sarah and Richard, if she had been willing to listen when he tried to talk to her about his first marriage. She could not help thinking that he should have told her, anyway. They began climbing again, through the woods on a path that Elizabeth could barely discern, although Bears showed no hesitation at all. Above their heads a woodpecker drilled in the soft wood of a cedar above a clinging mass of orchid like flowers with brilliant crimson stripes. There were birds all around, busy with their nests. She had found out that many of them did not have Kahnyen’keháka names and so she had stopped asking, satisfying herself with observing their habits and making up names of her own. So engrossed was she at the sight of a porcupine perched up high and stripping buds from a maple tree that she did not notice that Bears had stopped dead in his tracks.

He swung his rifle around and up in a fluid gesture. Elizabeth had barely picked out the buck grazing upwind from them when the shot sounded and the animal leapt wildly into the air and then fell.

"Robbie will be glad of the meat," he said by way of explanation. The birdsong had stopped, replaced by the echoing of the gunshot.

* * *

They walked into Robbie's camp a few hours later, although Elizabeth did not realize that they had done so until Bears had hefted the small buck over his shoulders and dropped it to the ground.

But it was a homestead, of a sort. There was a small natural clearing, sunlit, and surrounded by stands of birch and maple. The woods as far as she could see were completely clear of underbrush; she had come to recognize the significance of this, the difference between tended forest and bush. Off to one side there was a deep fire pit, lined with rocks and well used, with a trivet on one end and a spit on the other. On two sides of this open hearth there were logs at a comfortable distance. One of them, the one that faced away from the mountain and looked down the trail, had a shiny spot in its middle. The cabin itself she had not seen at all at first glance, because it was built into the side of the mountain. It was not so much a cabin as a lean—to, stripped logs weathered into the color of granite, with a roof of evergreen boughs over bark. There was one small window, just an opening in the wall with propped—up shutter. It was a tidy place; the walls were hung with snowshoes and traps at regular intervals.

Bears had pulled back the rough pelt that served as a door, hooking it back over a great rusty nail on the wall. He called in, a kind of whooping hello in Kahnyen’keháka and then in English.

When it was clear they were on their own, they made themselves comfortable in the clearing. Bears set to butchering and cleaning the buck. While Elizabeth knew that she should watch this process, she was glad to forgo the lesson for the moment to fetch water from a mountain spring behind the cabin. She filled the cavernous iron kettle and began to cut the chunks of meat he passed to her into pieces, using a flat rock as her board, and shooing away flies with ever—increasing irritation.

They worked for a few hours, until there was a stew cooking over the fire pit: venison and wild onions she found growing nearby, dried beans and squash and corn from the stores in the cabin. The smell of it made her stomach growl, but this was such a common experience in the recent days that she had learned not to be embarrassed by it. The rest of the meat Bears hung on hooks inside a hollow tree stump as high as himself. It was capped by a little shingled roof, and it had a door on leather hinges. There was a pile of split oak under a tarpaulin, and he used this to start a slow fire in the bottom of the tree trunk. He showed Elizabeth how to feed the fire, which would burn for days until the meat was thoroughly smoked.

He had held back some of the raw liver, and he offered her a strip.

"Makes the blood strong," he explained.

She could put it on a stick and thrust it into the flames, or she could do as he did and chew it raw. Elizabeth saw him grin at her, and so she ate it raw to show him that she could.

Her handkerchief, now in a truly deplorable state, could not deal with her bloodied fingers and dirty hands, and so she went to wash in the spring. In that quiet corner between the cabin and the mountain, she took a few minutes to think on her own. It occurred to her that she had now spent more time with Runs-from-Bears than she had ever spent with Nathaniel. This was not a welcome thought, as much as she was coming to like him. She could hear Bears singing softly to himself. The black fly song; he had taught it to her, and she hummed along.

"The black fly is bringing a message

He's coming to tell us how poor he is.

The truth of the matter is,

He is so old—fashioned and brings