Within minutes a storm had buried most of the crows. I
turned to inventory the rest of my crew. The only one I could not find was Ski
Mask. When I turned completely around, I found an ear of corn flipping from end
to end, like a boomerang, to a target somewhere in the proximity of my
forehead, eyes, and the bridge of my nose. “Ha, ha!” Ski Mask cried in triumph.
“Stop that!” I yelled.
“Hey, dude,” said the musher, somewhat concerned. “Weather’s
pretty bad.”
“Should we head back?” I asked.
“Risk too high of getting stranded,” he said. “We need to
take cover. There’s a cave at the far edge of the field. First Nations use it
for cover.”
Before I could gather the crew together, Ski Mask hit me one
more time in the back of the head. But this time he didn’t claim victory. I
turned to see Marbles smack him on the back of the head. “Oh, what did you have
to do that for?” Ski Mask whimpered.
The cave was all but hidden by a large snowdrift that acted
as a natural barrier to the wind and frigid temperatures. I couldn’t tell, but
it looked as though a wisp of smoke was escaping the cave’s entrance.
The mushers entered the cave first, followed by their dogs,
which became quiet and wary. Then Marbles, Summer, Ski Mask, and I followed.
They immediately began the task of building a fire from old wood stacked up
along a wall. The flame flickered and sparked as it gave the cave a warm glow.
I looked up at the roof of the cave and saw what appeared to be dozens of
feathered bats hanging upside down, stirring, and watching our every move.
“Those are crows,” said the musher.
“But they look like huge bats,” I insisted. “And why are
they hanging upside down?”
The musher shook his head as if I were mentally challenged.
“No branches in here,” he said. “Bird’s gotta do what a bird’s gotta do. Adapt
or die.”
Summer had overheard our conversation. She came up to me and
said, “How’s it feel to always be wrong?” She
patted me on the shoulder and smiled at the musher. He returned the
favor.
*** ***
***
The mushers broke out their provisions, and we ate Caribou
jerky and refried beans. I couldn’t imagine what the combination was going to
do to my digestive tract. After that we explored the cave’s inner depths. I was
surprised to find that it led into several other rooms. With flashlights, the
mushers soon came upon two fieldworkers dressing out a gigantic polar bear.
They nodded at us as if expecting our arrival. “Much good to eat,” they said.
“We leave some behind.”
“Too much to carry?” I asked.
“Dude . . .” the head musher sighed, as if there was so much
in this world I just didn’t get.
The fieldworker continued, “We pay it forward.”
Ski Mask threw himself on the bear’s fur. “You kill this?”
he asked, burying his ski masked face in the fur.
“No,” said the fieldworker. “And kindly get off the skin—not
yet prepared.”
“Well,” who killed it?” he asked.
“It died in a great battle with the gods,” the field worker
began. “It broke the laws of the North.”
“What’d it do wrong?” I asked, at the same time Ski Mask did.
“It broke the laws
of the North,” he repeated. “What? You weren’t listening the first time?
Sheesh.”
I sensed his annoyance and asked no more questions. “All I
can say is I wouldn’t want to meet up with whatever could kill a polar bear.”
“You said a mouthful, Dude.”
The fieldworker got up from his squat position and wiped the
blood from his hands. “Almost forgot,” he said. “A note for goofy faced white
man. I’m thinking that’s you.” He handed me the note, smeared with bear blood
and fat.
Marbles and Summer crowded around me, as I read it out loud:
“I killed the polar bear. I can kill anything. You really want to mess with
me?”
A malamute yowled just as I finished the note. I swallowed hard. No one else said a word. All I could focus
on now was a rather large set of boot prints leading off to another room in the
cave. I would follow those boot prints, threat or no threat.
For the record and
my report, here is a rough facsimile of the threatening note. I could only
guess that the smiley face was meant to be some kind of menacing irony. Note
also that the handwriting reflects psychopathic tendencies, as discussed in my
third edition of Threatening Handwriting
for Handy Analysis, pages 2-3:
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