their necks. All were overcome with admiration. They brought me to their camp to eat. I struggled to make them understand that I had come for them. They are my new congregation, and I will stay among them. O mother Mary, that with your blessings we can convert them to the true faith. The Eskimos are a really hospitable people. This first impression was very favourable and I think if we can meet them often it would be possible to do a lot of good!
ONE AFTERNOON, only about a day’s journey from the big lake ahead, Creed and the boy arrived at a place where the riverbed narrowed and the current gathered strength. Once again they lowered themselves into the water up to their waists and tracked the canoe, with Creed pulling on the bow painter and the boy pushing from behind. They dug their boots into the gravel and rocks of the riverbed and pushed, making slow progress against the river, but Creed spoke with encouragement as much for himself as for his young companion.
“We’re getting there. We’re doing well. One foot in front of the other. We’ll deserve that hot fire tonight, eh? Maybe we’ll open that tinned ham. What do you think?”
Creed glanced back to see the boy nod in agreement.
“Yeah, the ham,” Creed continued. “Warm it up in the tin. Maybe even peaches. Hell, we deserve it after this.”
Glancing back, he saw the boy nod again, but he was tired and struggling. Creed’s feet found their way between boulders on the bottom. The river was deep here, in some holes reaching to Creed’s armpits. The boy was shorter. They could go in to shore, but the solid wall of low black spruce there would make for a hell of a portage. Creed studied the unaccommodating river ahead.
“Maybe we’ll sleep in tomorrow. Just an hour or so. No one’s going to complain …”
Suddenly the canoe became much heavier and Creed turned to find the boy was gone. So complete was his disappearance that Creed scanned the empty shore for him. Straining at the painter to hold the canoe against the current, Creed stared at the river where the boy had been. Nothing. Then three fingers broke the surface. The boy was caught under the water.
Creed surged back to him and stared down at the boy, three feet below the surface, on his back, arms wheeling, one foot jammed and twisted between two boulders, his body held prone by the relentless current. Creed glanced downstream to where rocks would certainly take the canoe and all their supplies if he let go of it. He put the end of the painter between his teeth and submerged himself, embracing the boy and trying to drag him to the surface. The current was too strong. He worked his way toward the boy’s boot, the pull of the canoe snapping his neck as he took its full weight with his teeth. The boot was jammed in pretty solid. With a lunge Creed went deeper, pulling the canoe back with him, and got his fingers under the sole. The boy’s struggles were weakening. Creed yanked on the boot, the weight of the canoe now assisting his efforts. It didn’t budge. The boy’s arms moved in slow, helpless circles as the last of his strength ebbed. Creed renewed his grip on the boot and, this time with all his strength, pulled again. The air left in his lungs escaped in an underwater growl. The boot came free and he and the boy broke through the surface together, gasping in the air.
He helped the boy to some rocks in the shallows to rest. But for the bruised ankle, he was all right. Frightened and trembling, but all right.
“Thank you,” he said, still breathing hard.
They camped that night on a gravel bar nearby. Creed gathered driftwood for a big fire to dry their clothes, and warmed the promised tin of ham. They opened the peaches for dessert. The boy was embarrassed by the whole episode, and Creed resisted his natural inclination to tease him.
They dried their clothes on a makeshift rack and stared into the fire. It occurred to Creed how little they had spoken to each other on this trip. It
ONE AFTERNOON, only about a day’s journey from the big lake ahead, Creed and the boy arrived at a place where the riverbed narrowed and the current gathered strength. Once again they lowered themselves into the water up to their waists and tracked the canoe, with Creed pulling on the bow painter and the boy pushing from behind. They dug their boots into the gravel and rocks of the riverbed and pushed, making slow progress against the river, but Creed spoke with encouragement as much for himself as for his young companion.
“We’re getting there. We’re doing well. One foot in front of the other. We’ll deserve that hot fire tonight, eh? Maybe we’ll open that tinned ham. What do you think?”
Creed glanced back to see the boy nod in agreement.
“Yeah, the ham,” Creed continued. “Warm it up in the tin. Maybe even peaches. Hell, we deserve it after this.”
Glancing back, he saw the boy nod again, but he was tired and struggling. Creed’s feet found their way between boulders on the bottom. The river was deep here, in some holes reaching to Creed’s armpits. The boy was shorter. They could go in to shore, but the solid wall of low black spruce there would make for a hell of a portage. Creed studied the unaccommodating river ahead.
“Maybe we’ll sleep in tomorrow. Just an hour or so. No one’s going to complain …”
Suddenly the canoe became much heavier and Creed turned to find the boy was gone. So complete was his disappearance that Creed scanned the empty shore for him. Straining at the painter to hold the canoe against the current, Creed stared at the river where the boy had been. Nothing. Then three fingers broke the surface. The boy was caught under the water.
Creed surged back to him and stared down at the boy, three feet below the surface, on his back, arms wheeling, one foot jammed and twisted between two boulders, his body held prone by the relentless current. Creed glanced downstream to where rocks would certainly take the canoe and all their supplies if he let go of it. He put the end of the painter between his teeth and submerged himself, embracing the boy and trying to drag him to the surface. The current was too strong. He worked his way toward the boy’s boot, the pull of the canoe snapping his neck as he took its full weight with his teeth. The boot was jammed in pretty solid. With a lunge Creed went deeper, pulling the canoe back with him, and got his fingers under the sole. The boy’s struggles were weakening. Creed yanked on the boot, the weight of the canoe now assisting his efforts. It didn’t budge. The boy’s arms moved in slow, helpless circles as the last of his strength ebbed. Creed renewed his grip on the boot and, this time with all his strength, pulled again. The air left in his lungs escaped in an underwater growl. The boot came free and he and the boy broke through the surface together, gasping in the air.
He helped the boy to some rocks in the shallows to rest. But for the bruised ankle, he was all right. Frightened and trembling, but all right.
“Thank you,” he said, still breathing hard.
They camped that night on a gravel bar nearby. Creed gathered driftwood for a big fire to dry their clothes, and warmed the promised tin of ham. They opened the peaches for dessert. The boy was embarrassed by the whole episode, and Creed resisted his natural inclination to tease him.
They dried their clothes on a makeshift rack and stared into the fire. It occurred to Creed how little they had spoken to each other on this trip. It
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