Mad Girl’s Song

Aputi—light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. A. Pu. Ti.—the hand moves downward, three feet from crown to waist where her hair falls like silk. A. Pu. Ti.

O Goddess Sedna, why did You bestow her upon me, so that in the arid twilight of my hollow, forsaken life, I might taste Your mercy, bask in Your light.

I was lost in the curve of her frame. I gave her love without measure, without name. I breathed her in like perfumed flame. For her, I burned through time I could not reclaim.

I held her tight. I touched her skin. I shaped her world, I drew her in. I knelt before her, in silent sin, And kissed her toes—pale, bare, drawn in.

She was my final flame, my final light, my final love, my last lingering gaze.

She fell backward to the floor, eyes wide to the heavens. She sobbed. She screamed. She wept. She recoiled. She pleaded. She fought. She took the ulu knife and severed the artery in my neck. That scalding, love-stained blood spilled between us, bearing witness to the last moment of pride in my life.

I collapsed, watching her flee—through the door, into the endless storm, into the black cold night. She knocked over the Inuksuk at my door—stones scattered across the ground, like the wreckage of my final disgrace.

Then I closed my eyes. I came to stand before You, my great Goddess Sedna.

LT sat in the last row of the long-distance bus, bored and waiting for departure. It was a bus from Vancouver to Banff, and there weren’t many passengers aboard. The driver, a white man in his early fifties, held a cup of coffee and moved unhurriedly through the pre-departure checks.

Behind him sat a black woman in her thirties, somewhat overweight. At her feet was a woven bag, too large to qualify as carry-on. She stared out the window, lost in thought.

A few rows behind her, an elderly white couple in their sixties sat close together. Both were silver-haired, speaking softly to each other, and from time to time, the woman would let out a quiet laugh.

Behind them—two rows away—sat an Asian man, his posture stiff, reserved. He looked like a Japanese student, clutching a small paperback book, reading with deep concentration.

The back row was empty except for LT.

He had an urge to smoke, which was strange—he’d never wanted to before. The impulse caught him off guard, as if it didn’t belong to him.

Through the front door, another passenger stepped aboard—a young woman, likely not even twenty. She stood about five foot six, with the face of an East Asian, though something about her suggested she wasn’t quite “Asian” in the usual sense.

Her hair was jet black and gleaming, tied into a ponytail that swayed lazily near her shoulders. Her face was round, eyes equally round, with a small, cute nose—rounded at the tip—and full lips flushed with youthful energy and a healthy glow. Her teeth were white, slightly uneven. Her ears caught LT’s attention—round, thick lobes, adorned with earrings made of animal teeth. LT recognized them at once: wolf fangs, pale with a faint yellow hue, curved and sharp.

She wore light makeup—probably—but LT couldn’t tell the difference. What he did notice was the necklace around her neck: a fine black cord strung with small animal bones and teeth. At the centre hung a larger tooth—definitely a bear’s, LT was sure—but he couldn’t tell which kind.

She wore a burgundy sweater, loose at the sleeves and shoulders—the sort called a batwing top, currently in vogue. Her jeans were faded, almost white, paired with high-waisted white socks and canvas shoes. A black backpack hung off her shoulders.

A college student, maybe, headed to Banff for spring break? LT guessed as much.

The girl smiled and nodded at the driver, then walked down the aisle, choosing an empty window seat near the middle. She sat, pulled a book from her backpack. LT saw the cover clearly: Cosmos by Carl Sagan.

Not exactly what you'd expect a girl to read, LT thought.

He didn’t give her another glance. Closing his eyes, he leaned back to rest. It hadn’t been easy landing this job in Banff National Park—as a ranger and part-time lifeguard—but the pay was decent, and they provided staff housing during the off-season. LT hadn’t dared return to the U.S. in almost twenty years; during holidays, he crashed on couches at friends’ or coworkers’ places. It was never convenient.

As LT was mulling over his plans for the next year or two—maybe longer—a sudden commotion erupted at the bus door. A woman’s voice, loud and forceful, rose in angry argument, accompanied by hurried footsteps climbing aboard.

LT opened his eyes. A middle-aged woman of about five foot five stormed onto the bus. Yellow-skinned, hard-eyed, her face was twisted in fury. She swung her arms wide as she walked, aggressive and unrestrained. Her gaze locked instantly on the young girl who’d boarded earlier.

She marched straight toward the girl, and without a word, reached for the girl’s collar.

The girl shrank against the window. From behind, LT saw her profile clearly—shock and fear written all over her face. She had no way to escape; the woman grabbed her and yanked her up, shouting in a language LT didn’t understand, completely ignoring the flustered bus station staff trailing behind her.

The driver was visibly pissed. He shouted, “Stop that! You can’t do this!”

The woman released the girl, turned, and stomped toward the driver. She shoved him hard in the chest, sending him backward into his seat. Her English was broken but full of venom: “White man! Stay out of tribe’s business!”

The driver stared at her, stunned. He hadn’t expected her to get physical, let alone with such force—and it was clear she wasn’t local.

The older man from the white couple stood up and barked, “No violence! One more move like that and I’m calling the police!”

The woman sneered, then suddenly pulled a handmade knife from her coat, flashing the blade at him. “Do it! Call the cops! Let’s see you do it!”

His wife grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the seat, alarmed.

The student clenched his jaw, nervous, biting his lip in silence. The black woman in the front rows, already half out of her seat, dropped back down, wide-eyed—clearly not expecting the knife.

The young girl spoke, her voice timid, saying something LT couldn’t follow. The older woman grew even more enraged. She turned slightly and reached again for the girl’s chest with her free hand.

LT sprang up from the back row. In a single stride, he was on her. His left hand slipped under her elbow and shoved upward, knocking her arm aside. His right hand shot out, clamped down on her knife wrist and squeezed hard. He twisted, slammed her hand down against the seat back. A dull thud followed by a sharp cry—the blade clattered to the floor.

LT’s foot swept behind her ankle, pressing down as he forced her into the seat. Then he turned and barked at the station staff: “What the hell are you waiting for? Call the cops!”

At that moment, another figure burst through the bus door—a young man of medium height, stocky and powerful. He took one look at LT pinning down the woman and let out a wild yell. A blade flashed in his hand.

The girl shouted in English, loud and clear: “Qanik, stop!”

Qanik glared at her, furious, and roared: “Aputi! Come home with us!”

Aputi shook her head hard. “I’m not going back! You want to send me to another Angakkuq, let him rape me again!”

Qanik’s rage burned hotter. “He’s a servant of the gods! It’s an honour!”

Aputi backed away toward the rear of the bus, voice cold, steady. “Who’s the new Angakkuq? Suki? Or Aput? You’re going to send your own sister to one of those old bastards’ beds?”

Qanik’s eyes burned red with rage. He screamed hoarsely, “If you don’t come back, the tribe will take away our sled dogs! Father and the rest of us—we’ll starve!”

“I’m not going back!” Aputi raised her backpack to shield her chest. “If the tribe exiles you, then come south. It’s warm here. No need to fight polar bears to survive. You can find work as a gardener. Mom can stock shelves at a grocery store. With my wages, we can feed Father. Brother, people don’t starve to death in the south.”

“I don’t believe it! No white man is good!”

LT rolled his eyes. So, it’s a domestic dispute—Indians this time.

He released the woman and said, “Do you people pull knives every time you argue at home? Qanik, she doesn’t want to go back with you. Here, in civilized land, your tribal violence won’t work. Got it?”

As the standoff continued, two Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers rushed up to the bus. Seeing the knife drawn, they didn’t hesitate—they pulled out revolvers and aimed straight at the raging Qanik.

The older officer barked with authority, “Drop the knife, Injun!”

Qanik tucked the blade back into his coat, then suddenly pointed at Aputi. “She killed a shaman in the tribe! She’s a fugitive. Police, you gonna do something about that?”

The two Mounties exchanged looks. The older one holstered his weapon and asked Aputi, “Is that true?”

Aputi bit her lip, hard. Tears welled in her eyes, glistening but unshed.

The officer seemed to understand. He sighed. “Step off the bus,” he said to Qanik. “Let me handle this.”

Qanik gave Aputi a cold, venomous glare, then turned his fury on LT before grabbing the middle-aged woman and exiting the bus.

Aputi watched the officer approach, then gritted her teeth, picked up her copy of Cosmos, and with her backpack in her arms, walked toward him. As she passed LT, she whispered, barely audible, “Help me.” Then, in a louder voice,

“Thank you, sir.”

Without hesitation, she moved to the front of the bus, standing at the door. She looked at the passengers and the driver. “Thank you all for your kindness.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on the woven bag on the floor, then turned briefly toward LT. Then she stepped off.

A younger officer boarded, went row by row, taking down names, addresses, and contact numbers from each passenger, stating they might be contacted later as witnesses. Then he exited, signalling the driver to move out.

The driver cursed under his breath, and the bus pulled away, slowly.

The old man in the front turned back to LT. “Nice move, son.”

“Ex-military,” LT lied casually, standing and walking toward the black woman. “Ma’am, sorry to bother you.”

She looked surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“Could you check the bag at your feet? That young lady—Aputi—might’ve slipped something in there.”

She hurried to rummage through the bag, pulling out a small leather wallet and handing it to LT. “This isn’t mine. I’ve never seen it before.”

LT nodded slightly. He opened the wallet for all to see: a driver’s license, a paper health card, two twenties, and some loose change. He glanced at the license—an address in East Vancouver. He put it back in the wallet and walked to the driver.

“Sir, I’ll leave this with you. That okay?”

“No problem. I’ll hand it to the company when I get back,” the driver replied, tossing the wallet into his side compartment.

“One more thing,” LT leaned in, voice low. “Find a spot. Let me off.”

“Oh? Oh—yeah, sure.” The driver nodded, pulled into a nearby gas station, and opened the door. LT grabbed his pack from the back and stepped off, unbothered by the mix of stares. He patted the bus frame twice as he walked away.

LT took the bus to Aputi’s rented place—a basement unit with its own entrance. The lock wasn’t much of an obstacle. He quickly found a spare key under a flowerpot and opened the door without hesitation.

A damp, unpleasant smell hit him as soon as he stepped inside. LT frowned slightly. He hadn’t expected the girl to be living like this. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and flipped on the light. The ceiling lamp gave off a dim, yellow glow—barely enough to see by, and oppressive at that. The entrance led straight into a small sitting area. At the far end was a basic kitchenette: just a sink and a single-burner stove. The fridge looked like it was at least ten, maybe fifteen years old—rounded edges, bulky curves, completely outclassed by the sleek, straight-lined models people used now.

Against the vent window sat a dark red, worn-out three-seater couch, with a matching armchair beside it. The cushions looked flat and tired, with barely any spring left in them. The couches surrounded a battered glass-top coffee table, its wicker frame scuffed and scarred, covered in scratches and bite marks—probably from cats or dogs. Near the kitchen stood a small round table, foldable, made of wood. It was set up now, with a pile of books stacked on top.

Off to the side of the sitting area was a thin, flimsy door. LT pushed it open, felt along the wall for a switch, and lit up a narrow hallway. At the far end was a bathroom. To the left, stairs leading up; beside them, a storage closet and a utility room. On the right was the bedroom—maybe a hundred square feet, if that. Just enough space for a single bed and a nightstand. No room for even an extra chair. The room had no windows, and the ceiling didn’t even have a light fixture. It looked more like a solitary confinement cell than a bedroom. LT pulled the chain on the nightstand lamp. The bed was neatly made. He went straight for the drawer.

Inside were odds and ends—a young woman’s personal stuff. The first thing that caught his eye was a diary. Brown leather cover, soft to the touch, with a faint, lingering scent of leather. LT pocketed it without a second thought. The rest of the drawer held only some cheap handmade jewellery, a few coins, and two keys. Old-fashioned, both in style and material—didn’t belong in a place like this. Probably keys to an antique safe, LT figured. He took them too.

Reaching under the pillow, his fingers brushed against leather—the feel was familiar. A handcrafted knife sheath. LT turned his head toward the door: it had a bolt lock and two old-fashioned sliding latches, top and bottom.

He pulled the knife out from under the pillow—a crescent-shaped Ulu knife, snug in its leather sheath. The handle was polished bone, smooth and warm, fitting his palm perfectly. He tucked the Ulu into the back of his belt. Probably the girl’s most prized possession. Pity. She’d still been careless.

LT closed the drawer, turned off the lamp, and stepped out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He paused, noticed a notepad and a pencil on the dining table, and sat down. Holding the pencil sideways, he swept it lightly and quickly across a sheet. After a moment, faint white indentations emerged against the gray graphite smudge:

“Dear Roni,

I’m heading to Banff over spring break. Can you swing by my place every couple day to grab my mail and see if anything needs handling? Thanks!

Love, Aputi~”

Roni? LT repeated the name silently. He tore off the sheet, crumpled it, and stuffed it into his bag along with the diary. Then he gave the stack of books on the table a quick once-over. Some college textbooks, some novels—no typical bookmarks. Aputi had been using maple leaves—golden, fiery red ones—as page markers. Artsy. There were no hidden notes, nothing slipped between the pages. Just books.

LT stepped out, locked the door behind him, and returned the key to its spot under the flowerpot. Then he walked to the front entrance and knocked.

A woman in her fifties opened the door. Caucasian, with a curious look. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m the TA for Aputi’s class. Before spring break, she forgot to pick up an assignment from Professor Kirk. He asked me to drop it off. I knocked earlier, but it seems she’s not home?”

“Oh, that’s right. Aputi left early this morning—said she was going hiking in Banff. I can hold the assignment for her if you like.”

“No need for that. Actually, do you happen to have Roni’s address? I can take it to her instead.”

“Yes, of course! Just two blocks over—78 Robinson Street. Roni didn’t go to Banff with Aputi?” She stepped out and pointed the direction for LT how to go to Roni's house.

“Not that I know of. Thanks again, ma’am. By the way, my name’s Lucas Bonham. If Aputi comes back, could you let her know I dropped the assignment off with Roni?”

“Certainly, certainly. Thank you for making the trip, Mr. Bonham.”

“Appreciate it. Have a good day.”

“You too, sir.” The landlady watched LT walk away in the direction she’d pointed, gave a slight shake of her head, then closed the door.

LT took about ten minutes to reach 78 Robinson Street. He knocked. The door was answered by a young woman—probably Roni herself. Early twenties, full of energy, around five foot six—about the same height as Aputi. Her golden hair was styled in loose waves, makeup immaculate, denim from head to toe. She blinked in surprise.

“Are you Roni?” LT asked.

“Yes—yeah, I am.”

“Aputi was taken this morning at the long-distance bus station. Her brother and mother forced her to go with them.” LT’s tone was calm, unhurried. “She asked me to help her—any way I can.”

Roni didn’t even pause. She swallowed the story whole. “Oh my God, I knew this would happen. She told me about it, you know. Her brother…”

“Qanik.”

“Yeah, Qanik. He basically gave her to some old shaman in their tribe to be his wife. She ran off, but I guess they tracked her down after all, huh.”

LT nodded slightly. Smart girl—Aputi had kept her mouth shut about the killing. Not a single word to this scatterbrained, wide-open kind of girl. LT said, “Roni, right now I’m counting on you. Do you know where she escaped from? I mean, the tribe’s location. Maybe she mentioned it?”

“She did, actually. Let me think… Herschel.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Herschel—H-E-R-S-C-H-E-L, I think? Or maybe with an R at the end, I dunno. It sounded like Herschel anyway, you get my point.”

“Got you,” LT said evenly. “There’s a chance the RCMP or Vancouver police might come ask you about Aputi in the next couple of days.”

“She fought them, didn’t she? Like, with a knife or something?”

“So you figured that out too.”

“She always carried this little knife with her—about this long,” Roni said, holding her fingers apart, roughly four or five inches. “When I first met her, she’d whip it out the second she got startled. Kinda freaked everyone out, you know? But then we found out she’s Inuit, and carrying a knife’s, like, part of their culture, so nobody really worried after that.”

LT nodded. “Things almost got physical. Cops showed up. All three of them—her, her brother, her mom—they’ve been taken in for questioning. After they talk to you, the cops will probably let them go. Stuff like this—Native business—the Mounties usually don’t dig too deep.”

“No, no, wait,” Roni said seriously, frowning. “They’re not Native. I mean, not Indians. They’re Inuit, okay?”

“Oh? There’s a difference?”

“Totally. Indians have red skin; Inuit are more like yellowish. Plus, Inuit live way up north, like really north. You don’t find Indians up there; it’s just Inuit and Dene folks.”

LT gave an awkward smile. Hell, if he could tell the difference between Indians and Inuit. The only thing he remembered about Indians was some U.S. general once said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” Hell of a line—stupid and cruel—but it stuck.

Roni seemed to notice his discomfort and quickly laughed to put him at ease. “No worries! We were just like you at first—couldn’t tell any of that apart either. One of our professors always said, ‘Ignorance isn’t a flaw. Not bothering to learn is.’ You’d agree with that, right?”

“Your professor sounds like a wise man.”

“Oh, totally. Professor Hoover’s really popular with us students,” Roni said, a little sheepishly. “By the way, sir, I didn’t catch your name. How did you and Aputi meet, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m Lucas Bonham. Aputi and I were on the same bus, that’s all. Her mother pulled a knife, things got messy, I stepped in. That’s about it. When the police come knocking, don’t forget to speak up for your friend.”

“Of course!” Roni said quickly. Then, seeing LT about to leave, she asked, “Mr. Bonham, are you headed to the police station now?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to give a statement.”

“Where’s that?”

“Over by the bus depot. I saw a station there when I passed by. Why, thinking of coming along?”

Roni hesitated, then shook her head. “Mr. Bonham, if you get to see Aputi—I mean, if you do—could you let her know I’ve been seeing pied ravens flying around lately?”

“Doubt I’ll have the chance. But ravens? Why would she need to know about that?”

“She really cares about ravens, you know? Not the regular black ones you see all the time—these are pied ravens,” Roni said, slowing her voice a bit, like she wanted to make sure LT got the point.

“I don’t know much about birds, Roni. Mind being a little more specific?”

“I don’t really know a lot either,” she said, sounding a bit shy. “But Aputi told me all about them once. They look like normal ravens, but there’s these big patches of yellowish-white feathers on their back, chest, and neck. You really can’t miss it.”

“Pied ravens... huh. Interesting. Did Aputi ever say why they mattered to her?”

“She never really said,” Roni replied, thinking for a moment. She frowned, and there was something in her eyes—clear distaste at the mention of the pied raven. Then she added, “Anyway, every time she brought up that bird, she looked kinda uneasy, you know? Like, you could just tell she really hated it. No question.”

“Then maybe there’s no reason to tell her about it,” LT said, puzzled—not quite sure why Roni herself seemed to dislike the bird too.

“Yeah, I dunno if I should tell her or not. But, Mr. Bonham, if you do get a chance to talk to her, maybe just drop it in, like, casual, you know? No pressure. Just small talk, right? That works.” Roni grinned, her tone light again, carefree.

“Where’d you see it?”

“Right in my backyard. Oh—look, over there!” Roni pointed off to her right, into the sky.

LT followed her finger and spotted it—a pied raven perched in a treetop. Same size as a regular raven, but the patch of yellow feathers on its neck and chest stood out like a warning sign against the black. LT suddenly had the odd feeling it was watching him, cold and mocking.

He narrowed his eyes. Something felt off. He turned back toward Roni—just in time to see a thick wooden club swing out from the doorway and crash into the side of his face. Fucking hard.

As he slipped into unconsciousness, LT vaguely heard an old man’s voice say, “Well done, Roni. Your parents are safe now…”

LT woke up, came to in the back of a pickup truck, wrists bound behind his back, ankles tied together. Not far from him, Aputi was in the same shape—dumped there like a sack of potatoes. LT squirmed like a bug across the truck bed until he was next to her, then awkwardly rolled over and patted her face with his bound hands.

Aputi stirred. She bumped him in the side with her forehead and muttered, “I’m awake. Do me a favour—keep your distance.”

LT gave a bitter little laugh and twisted himself again so he could see her properly. “Aputi, you got me into this mess.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Aputi’s eyes widened in surprise when she recognized him, her voice full of guilt. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get caught too.”

“Your friend Roni…”

“I know. Suki and the others found her place, forced the information out of her.”

“How do you know that?” LT asked, clearly shocked.

“In our tribe, the shamans’ specialty is ‘wish fulfilment.’ Of course, they never tell anyone how they make those wishes come true.” She squinted at his face. “Your face—what happened?”

“Suki… does he usually carry a hell stick?”

“The end of his shaman staff is big and solid enough.” Aputi sighed. “What time is it now?”

“No idea. Last thing I remember, I was knocked out the same day I saw you guys on the bus.”

“Then it’s been almost a day,” Aputi said calmly. “Suki worked his magic—put everyone in the police station to sleep.”

“And then he walked you, Qanik, and your mother right out?”

“Yeah. The moment I saw him, I knew there was no escape.”

“Aputi... what does your name mean?”

“Footprints in the snow. That’s Aputi. If it were a man’s name, it would be Aput. My brother’s name is Qanik — it means Polar Bear.”

“It's good to know. Aputi, do you know where they’re headed now? Herschel?”

“That’s the little island where our tribe lives. They’re probably heading that way.” Aputi sounded like she was talking about someone else’s business — calm, detached. “Sir…”

“My name’s Lucas Bonham. You can call me LT — that’s what everyone calls me.”

“LT? Alright. LT, I want to run. Will you help me?”

LT nodded, enduring the jostling of the ride. “You haven’t given up?”

“Of course not, too early to say so.” Aputi turned her head, sizing up the truck bed. “The only problem is Suki — I’m not sure I can handle him.”

“Your ulu knife — it’s jammed in my lower back.” LT struggled to roll over, gesturing with his tied hands. “Suki and your brother didn’t search me. They got careless.”

“To a shaman, one white man alone doesn’t seem dangerous.” As she spoke, Aputi shifted too, bringing her bound hands closer to LT. “LT, you’re a good man.”

“Me? A good man?” LT gave a bitter chuckle — of course, Aputi didn’t see it. “If you say so.”

Her hand brushed his — small and smooth, rough meeting soft — then she roughly lifted his hands, inch by inch tugging up his shirt.

“The sheath’s stuck in your belt. I can’t get it out.”

“Just pull the knife. Worst case, you cut me a bit.” LT sounded indifferent. Honestly, that little cut was nothing — compared to the punch he took in the face, that was the real damage. His molars were half-loose, at least a few of them.

“Sorry, LT. I’ll try to be careful.”

“Tss—” The crescent-shaped ulu knife was sharp at both ends. As Aputi yanked it free, one of the points scraped open LT’s lower back. Blood flowed freely.

Aputi jerked her hands hard, loosening the rope just a little. She bent her right wrist inward and started working one tip of the ulu knife against the rope — slowly, carefully. Minutes dragged by — to LT it felt like a whole year — until finally she cut herself free. She sat up, gave a quick slash, and LT’s wrist bindings snapped apart. Then his ankles, and finally her own.

By the light slipping in through the canvas, LT saw her wrists — blood-red scrapes and bruises. He said with some pity, “Hurts, doesn’t it? Your wrists.”

Aputi quickly hid her hands behind her back. Then, realizing it didn’t matter, she pressed her palms against the floor and shook her head, a bit embarrassed. “Just a scratch. It stings a little. No big deal.”

She held the ulu knife carefully, brushing away bits of brown rope fibre from the blade. Then she held out her hand to LT. “The sheath. Please.”

LT carefully shifted the sheath away from his wound and pulled it free from his belt — it was already stained with blood. He handed it to Aputi.

“Thanks for bringing it out.”

“Your diary’s in my pack. And the keys — I got those too. Here.” LT pulled two keys from his jacket pocket and handed them over.

Aputi took the keys, surprised. “How did you know…”

“I didn’t. Just looked like something that didn’t belong in a rented basement, and it was with the diary. Figured it mattered to you, so I grabbed it.”

“Good thing I ran into you,” Aputi said sincerely. “You saved the three most important things I have.”

“They’ve still got your diary.” LT nodded toward the cab. “We should lie down, talk low. Don’t want them to notice.”

“Right.” Aputi laid back down, hands behind her, staring up at the truck’s ceiling. LT knew the ulu knife — still unsheathed — was now hidden beneath her.

She looked like a young wolf, just starting to bare her fangs. Fierce, calm — nothing like what you’d expect at her age.

LT followed Aputi’s lead and lay down as well. “Kid, how old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Nineteen. I turned nineteen last month.”

“You really killed someone?”

“Does that bother you?” There was a hint of tension in Aputi’s voice now.

“No. I’ve killed too. With a knife. Threw it — nailed a gang boss straight through the throat.”

“Oh.” Aputi let out a long breath. “That’s impressive. I’ve never thrown a knife. I’ve thrown an axe though — it’s hard.”

“Just takes practice.” LT shrugged it off. “Killing bad guys — no big deal.”

“LT?”

“Yeah.”

“When you… when you killed that guy, how old were you?”

“Bit older than you. Twenty-six.” LT let out a long breath of his own.

“Were you scared?”

“No. Not scared. He killed a good friend of mine. Another coworker died too — indirectly because of him. He deserved it.” LT paused for a second. “And no, I don’t regret it.”

Aputi was quiet for a moment, then asked in a low voice, “What happened after?”

“I ran. Same as you. I ran. From the States to Canada. Let’s see… it’s 1985 now. I haven’t been home in sixteen years.”

“Where’s your hometown?”

“Wisconsin. Wausau. You heard of it?”

“No idea where that is. Is it pretty? Warm?”

“Warm? Warmer than where you’re from, that’s for sure.” A faint smile crept onto LT’s face, and his tone softened.

“Pretty… I wouldn’t say that. Flat land, fields and grass stretching to the horizon. Wind’s always blowing — howling past your ears. Roads run from your feet all the way to the edge of your sight, twisting and turning, never-ending. Low, plain houses and shops line the roads. Day after day, it all stays the same.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Aputi looked a bit lost in thought. “What colour are the houses there?”

“Barns have red walls and pale-yellow roofs. Livestock pens are just gray wood fences — not much to look at. But in summer, when the grass turns green and the flowers bloom all over, it’s nice. Mr. Parker’s grocery store, the walls were probably white once, but after years of wind and rain, they turned gray too. The roof was red, but that faded as well.”

“LT, what about your house?”

“My house… The year I left, my dad and I replaced the shingles — dark gray asphalt shingles. Red brick outside, wood inside. There’s a porch by the front door. My mom put two rocking chairs there — cushions in green and white. The little table was bare wood. Summer evenings, my dad liked to sit out there, rocking and drinking beer.”

“Your hometown doesn’t sound boring at all. Why do you think it is?”

“Maybe I just saw it too much, the same view over and over. Maybe I was wrong. Who knows?” LT stared at the canvas above them, lost in thought. “What about your home? Herschel? Sounds German.”

“German? Maybe. I know Germany’s in Europe. My hometown is in the Arctic — that’s what you all call it, right? But in spring and summer, when there’s no snow, it’s beautiful. Sea, sky, grass, tundra. Sled dogs jumping and running wild between the rocks. Back then, before my father’s leg was gone, he and Qanik used to paddle the qajaq back home…”

“I can picture your sky — wide, open, deep blue like a clear gem. White clouds drifting along. The sea, dark blue, silent sky above, and seagulls flying by now and then…”

“You’ve seen it?”

“I’m not a city boy. I grew up in the countryside, always surrounded by nature.” LT smiled again, faintly. “No ocean in Wisconsin, but I’ve seen the Atlantic. Even fished in it.”

“Bet the waves didn’t feel good.” Aputi laughed.

“Yeah, I puked for two days before I got used to it.”

“You really love it, don’t you? The sky. The sea.”

“I do. They’re the purest things I know. They fill me with awe… and I lose myself in them,” LT said honestly.

“Lose yourself? What does that mean?”

“It means giving yourself over completely. Letting it take you in — all of it — the beauty, the ugliness, the truth, the gentleness, the rage, the cruelty… everything. You take it all in. You embrace it. You don’t want to leave.”

“Hmm… then I lose myself too. In the sky, and the sea.” Aputi’s voice was soft, but even with the engine’s roar and the tires grinding below, LT heard her clearly.

“And in winter? Must be freezing.”

“Yeah, we’ve had minus fifty degrees before.”

“God, that’s too cold.” LT shivered just hearing it.

“Heh.” Aputi turned to look at him, and couldn’t help laughing. “It’s not minus fifty every day. But yeah, it’s cold.”

“You talk kinda like Roni, you know?”

“She’s a good girl… do you believe that?”

“…Hmm,” LT answered with hesitation. “She’s a smart girl.”

“Smart? Really? I think she’s kinda dumb… sometimes.”

“She told me to tell you… she saw a lot of mottled ravens.”

“Not mottled ravens — Pied ravens.” Aputi sighed. “She wasn’t lying… They’re the spirits of Suki and Tulok made real.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tulok didn’t let me go. He’s dead, but his hate, his soul — it clings to me, chasing me down, thousands of kilometres from the north to the south.”

“Pied ravens?”

“Yeah. Suki is his student. He has to avenge his teacher, or he’ll never become a full Angakkuq.”

“Anga…kuk?”

“Angakkuq. It means shaman. That’s what we Inuit call our shamans,” Aputi said calmly. “Tulok was the only shaman in our tribe. My dad’s leg got mauled by a polar bear. Hunting was bad those years — people didn’t have enough to eat. Our family, even less. My brothers… they had no choice. They sent me to Tulok’s hut…”

“Stop. Don’t go on.” LT cut her off.

“What is it?” Aputi watched LT’s face. “Did I offend you?”

“No. Not me. How old were you then?”

“Just turned sixteen.”

“Your brother actually…”

“He just wanted to keep the family alive.” Aputi’s voice was steady. “At first, I agreed. But when I saw Tulok… I regretted it. I was scared. He looked like an old wolf — toothless but with eyes that glowed green and cold. He gave me those two keys, said everything would be mine. I was terrified. I told him I didn’t want it; I begged him not to. But he… he forced it.”

“He deserved to die.”

“I cut his throat with the ulu knife. His blood sprayed all over me — it was hot, and reeked of iron. My head went blank. I ran. I ran all night, made it to the trading post. There was a freighter there. I hid in the fish.”

LT stared blankly at the canvas cover. In his ears, he could almost hear the endless crashing of Atlantic waves — rising, falling, the wind screaming like whistles, then dropping low enough to make your legs shake. He could hear Kowalski shouting, hear Lucho’s final words: “…Run.”

Rolling… lurching… up… down… sometimes hurled into the sky, sometimes buried beneath the waves.

“You were scared, weren’t you? You must’ve been terrified.”

“Yeah.” Aputi answered through her nose, like it was a dumb question.

“And then you grew up,” LT murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Do you… hate yourself?”

“No. I don’t hate myself. And I don’t hate you, LT. Sir, I don’t hate you either.”

Her voice was like a spell. LT’s tears burst free.

Her small, delicate hand pressed gently to his rough face, carefully wiping away the tears.

“You’re crying, LT. Don’t cry.”

“Yeah.” But the tears wouldn’t stop.

She sighed and let him cry.

Toward evening, the truck came to a stop somewhere—LT had no idea where it was. He and Aputi exchanged a glance, both silently bracing themselves.

It was Qanik who pulled back the canvas cover. He tossed LT’s backpack at him, cold as stone. “White boy, get off. You’re done.”

LT blinked. “What?”

“The witch says you’re out.” Qanik clearly didn’t feel like elaborating. His tone was flat, but his right hand slipped into his coat. No question—he was ready to draw a blade if needed.

LT pointed at Aputi. “What about her?”

“She’s going back to the tribe.”

“I mean—”

“None of your damn business!” Qanik snapped, anger bubbling up again. “White boy, stay out of tribal business! This isn’t your concern. Move it!”

LT hesitated for a moment. Aputi spoke up, “LT, go. Qanik’s right—this has nothing to do with you. Anyway, thank you. And if you make it back to Vancouver and see Roni, tell her—I don’t mind.”

“Uh…” LT started to say something, but under Aputi’s steady gaze, he stopped. He reached for the journal in his pack, but Aputi shook her head and looked away without another word.

LT had no choice. Biting back the pain in his back, he slowly slid off the truck bed. He hoped Aputi would change her mind—but she didn’t. Qanik climbed in, sitting across from his sister. He wrapped his knuckles on the truck’s rear wall, and the white-and-brown Ford F150 spat dust and curses as it tore off down the road.

LT stood there, his backpack in hand, not even sure what to do next.

The last traces of sunlight faded, cold and gray. The road was empty—no cars, no people. Just LT and his shadow, stretched long and thin until it, too, disappeared into the dark.

He eventually reached an old gas station. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly nine. He’d been walking for over two hours. The man working the convenience store was probably the owner himself—an old guy, over sixty, scruffy beard and all. LT, dusty and worn, pushed open the glass door. As he stepped inside, the man looked up and nodded toward a side door. “Bathroom is over there. Go ahead, kid.”

LT nodded back, too tired to manage a smile. He went in, relieved himself thoroughly, washed his hands and face, and came back out, mumbling thanks.

The old man poured him a not-too-hot coffee into a plastic cup. “Sugar and cream are over there. Help yourself.”

LT downed the black coffee in one go, then asked, “Sir, where am I?”

“Bear Lake.” The man squinted. “You’re telling me you hitched all the way out here and don’t even know where the hell you are?”

“Something like that,” LT muttered, reaching back to feel his bloodstained shirt. The wound throbbed with every heartbeat.

“I close up in an hour. Got a place to sleep?”

“Clearly not.”

“Over there’s the repair shed. You can crash in there for the night.” The old man nodded outside, then reached under the counter and pulled out a white first aid kit. “I don’t ask, and you don’t tell. By morning, I better not see you.” He slid the kit toward LT.

LT grabbed a beer and a big sandwich from the cooler, then pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket. “Will this do?”

“Go grab another sandwich. The rest’s on me.” The man snatched the bill from LT’s hand and stuffed it into the register.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Tomorrow morning, around six,” the old man said. “Some trucks will be heading south to Prince George. You might get lucky and hitch a ride.”

“Anyone heading north?”

“Sometimes, depends on your luck. Most go up to Fort St. John—drivers aren’t exactly the friendly type.”

LT thought for a moment, digging around in his pockets until he found a Loonie. “Mind if I make a call?”

“Where to?”

“Vancouver.”

“Phone’s over there, on the wall.” The old man pocketed the coin in the register and lost all interest in LT.

LT devoured one of the sandwiches like a starving man, stuffed the other into his pack, and walked over to the phone with his beer. He pulled out his notebook, flipped through it, found a number, and started dialling.

“Hello? This is Ugakhpa speaking. Who’s this?”

“It’s me. LT.”

“Oh hey, old friend! Finally crawled out of those woods in Golden Ears, huh? Calling me for a midnight drink?” Chris Ugakhpa was one of the best hunters of the Kwantlen First Nation. LT used to see him often when he was working as a ranger in Golden Ears Provincial Park, guiding tribal kids through the forest, teaching them how to track animals, identify plants, find their bearings, and set traps. Whenever curious white tourists wandered too far into the woods and got lost—or hurt—Ugakhpa never hesitated to help them find their way or call-in park staff and volunteers to get them out safely. Over time, he and LT became good friends. Ugakhpa thought LT was the most forest-savvy, nature-respecting white man he’d ever met.

“Sorry, man. I need a favour.”

“Spit it out. Let me guess, some wild tribal girl’s got you all tied up, huh?” Ugakhpa laughed.

“I’m stuck in a town called Bear Lake. Nowhere to go. Can you come get me?”

“Bear Lake? Shit, that’s way out there. You heading to Prince George or something?”

“Don’t ask, old friend. Just—can you help?”

“You got it. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll be waiting at a gas station in Bear Lake. The address is…” LT read the info off the gas station’s business license.

“Damn, that’s a haul. I’ll try to get there by tomorrow afternoon or evening. You owe me for this one—next round’s on you.”

“No problem, brother. And—thanks.”

LT hung up, grabbed the first aid kit, and went to the restroom again. He cleaned the wound, disinfected it, bandaged himself up. Then he headed back into the store, slung his pack over one shoulder, beer in hand, and stepped outside into the night.

He found the repair shed, cleared a patch of relatively clean ground, and sat down. From his pack, he pulled out a thick coat and wrapped it around himself. He cracked open the beer, stared at the silver moonlight filtering through the treetops, took a long swig—and somehow, the pain didn’t seem so sharp anymore.

In silence, LT finished the beer, shook the can for the last drop, let it slide down his throat, then crushed the can flat. Using his pack as a pillow, he lay down and said a quiet goodnight to no one in particular—and drifted off to sleep.