The boy was startled from sleep. A great blue heron soared over his head, her immense wings folding and twisting to carry her safely through the canopy. He looked at the mist hovering over the surface of the lake, heard the water lapping lazily against the rocks, and didn’t know where he was. Then everything rushed into his mind. He looked for the circle of wolves. It wasn’t there. He got up and searched the ground for tracks. There were plenty, unmistakably wolf: large pads, four toes, and non-retractable claws. They could have belonged to Crooked Ear, but faith told him they belonged to the heavenly wolves. He felt braver now. He felt protected, although he wished that Crooked Ear were with him.

      Packing the dream catcher in his bag, he started down the trail and soon came to the shallow creek where he remembered resting with his father. Recalling what the old man had told him, he took off his boots and waded upstream, hoping to throw the dog off his scent. It was slow and painful progress on the humped and rounded stones. The dense spruces and cedars along the water’s edge prevented the sun from filtering through, and soon he was chilled to the bone.

      He climbed out on the far bank, and from that slightly elevated position he could see a beaver pond. Tree stumps stood around the shoreline, their tops nibbled into sharpened points like the pencils the boys used at school. A beaver lay on its back in the sunlit water, chewing on a small branch, but it rolled and dived as the boy lumbered clumsily toward it. He sat on a log in the sun, warming his ice-cold feet. He unwrapped his food, planning to eke out the meagre remains, but hunger got the better of him and he swallowed the bread and cheese in a single gulp.

      A bittern walked furtively through the marsh grass, stalking its next meal. The bird plunged its head into the mud and when it came back up, the hind legs of a frog flailed from its beak. Tossing it in the air, the bird caught and swallowed it in one deft manoeuvre. The boy empathized with the frog.

      Ravens cawing from a perch high above the landscape interrupted his thoughts. The raucous cries spoke to him, reminding him of his childhood, of his father and the ways of The People. The ravens said that an animal was dying, and that they were first in line. The final pieces of bread and cheese had left him feeling even hungrier than before, and he wondered if he could beat the ravens to the rabbit or bird whose life was coming to an end. He put his boots back onto his tingling feet and jogged off to investigate.

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      The ravens looked down at the four-legged trapped in the snare. They bobbed their heads, watching keenly for signs of life, balancing hunger against the fear of approaching a living predator. One made a brief sortie, but when the trapped animal flailed its head and snarled, the bird quickly retreated to the treetop, landing clumsily alongside its companions, pitching them back and forth.

      Suddenly their attention was diverted to the small Upright who had scrambled to the top of the rise, and with arms held out like wings was flying toward them, weaving in and out of the trees, all the while emitting a high-pitched, bird-like call. When he headed toward the dying animal, they attacked him. Red Wolf covered his head with his hands and ran.

      A ferocious snarl stopped him dead in his tracks. Ahead, a wolf drew back his lips in a vicious grimace. The wolf looked so different from the animal he knew well that for a fleeting second the boy didn’t recognize Crooked Ear.

      “I’ll get you out,” he murmured, not knowing quite how and squatting a safe distance away to think. The wolf whimpered then licked and nibbled at the noose of snare wire that had all but disappeared into the swollen flesh of his front paw.

      The boy traced the snare wire back to where it was secured to a metal peg embedded in the ground. He tugged, but it was anchored firmly and refused to give under his weight.

      Crooked Ear was calm now, and the boy moved closer to get a better view. He stroked the big wolf’s head and spoke gently. “I have to get that wire off. If I can loosen it, you’ll be able to slip your paw out. Then you’ll be free.” Although he spoke the words with confidence, he was scared that pain would make the wolf attack him.

      “It’s going to hurt,” he said, lightly touching the wolf’s leg and slowly moving his fingers down to the injured paw. The animal flinched but didn’t pull away. The boy spoke softly as he loosened the snare. Crooked Ear growled and flung his head toward the child, his fangs barely concealed behind grimacing lips. Red Wolf leapt out of the way.

      Yelping in pain, the wolf pulled back his lips and delicately grasped the wire with his front teeth, teasing and loosening it until it lay harmless on the ground. Red Wolf, who had been watching so intently that he had barely drawn a breath, let out a gasp of relief. He wanted to throw his arms around the wolf and hug him, but he kept his distance, watching Crooked Ear gently lick the wound. Finally, with a heavy sigh, the wolf stretched out on his side, exhausted.

      Red Wolf thought about the flat slabs of granite that sloped gently into Black Lake and wondered if Crooked Ear could get there and stand in the water to soothe his paw and drink. The boy remembered that it was not too far away, close to the stream that he had recently walked through.

      He looked for the trail, but there was nothing but forest and bush. Panic rose in his throat. He ran back and forth, looking for any small sign from Mother Earth that he had passed that way. He collapsed at Crooked Ear’s side and rested his head on the wolf’s shoulder.

      “We’re lost,” he said. “And I don’t know how to help you. I’m sorry. I should have picked up Father’s trail on the far side of the creek, but I walked upstream. I should have known that was wrong, especially when I reached the beaver pond, because when I made the trip with father we didn’t pass a beaver pond! And then I followed the ravens, and I flew down the hill like a bird, forgetting to look around.”

      Scorn tainted his voice. “I was playing … like a child!”

      A voice spoke to his understanding. If you had not done those things, you would not have found me, and I would have stayed in the trap until I died.

      The boy buried his face in the warmth of the wolf.

      Crooked Ear struggled onto three legs and slowly limped into the bush. The