had used washing up and how many times she would have to go up and down
the hill, today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Anyway, what was there to think about her mother? Nola June had been determined to die and dead she was.
She hadn’t given a whit about the people she was leaving behind, so why should
Olivia waste energy fretting about her?
She worked on the bark, hauled water, gathered wood, and made a few feeble
attempts at splitting logs. Then she put both the beans and a pot of potatoes on to
boil. Suddenly aware of how deep her hunger was, she decided that she did
indeed need to go hunting today. The woods between the river and stream must be home to a lot of animals. It was too early in the day for many deer to be moving, but she would go pick a good spot and return later. She slung the
Hawken and possibles bag over her shoulder, waded across the stream, left the trail, and carefully picked her way through the brush. She lifted her skirt, but it
was already covered with brambles. Thorns scratched at her ankles and sharp
twigs threatened to poke her eye out. She sighed, wishing she’d taken the high-
top work boots she’d seen at Killion’s General. She left broken branches
dangling to mark her trail, remembering that she hadn’t even told Mourning
where she was going. How stupid of her.
Finally she came upon a small grassy clearing. She licked and raised a finger
to check the wind and scrutinized the woods around the edge. There it was – the
perfect tree – with an enormous trunk and low-hanging branches, a ready-made
blind. She walked over and squatted behind it. Yes, it was a good place. She walked to the opposite edge of the clearing and pulled at the leafy branches of a
young tree, breaking a few off and tossing them in a heap. Surely any self-respecting deer would venture two steps out of the woods to browse on those nice tops. Already tasting roast venison, she hurried back home. By the time she
got there, Mourning had returned with another load of roof poles.
“Where you been at?” he asked.
“Finding a blind to hunt from. I’m starving. But if I get anything, you’re
going to have to gut and skin it. I’ve never done that.”
He nodded, and she watched him wield a curved, double-handled draw knife
as he stripped the bark from a thin trunk.
He makes everything look so easy, she thought. And he never whines. Not likeme.
“So why ain’t you watchin’ out for a deer ’stead a standin’ here watchin’ me?”
he asked.
“It’s too early. They’ll still be bedded down,” she said.
She dished up two plates of potatoes and beans and they sat outside, wolfing
the food down. Then she hauled water to replenish the barrel. On every trip down to the river she passed the clothes she had hung on the line yesterday, but
was in no hurry to take them down. There was something comforting – homey –
about the sound of them flapping in the breeze. Then she sewed together two more strings of bark, while Mourning built a ladder that he stood against the wall
of the cabin.
“Maybe I will go settle down, before the deer get up for their dinner,” she said. “And maybe I’ll start looking for a bee tree. I brought some old honey comb.”
“You know how to find one?”
“It’s easy. My Mammo Killion taught me. She had to have her honey wine.
You burn a piece of honey comb and pretty soon a bee comes buzzing around.
Before you know it, there’s a whole swarm of them. Then you wait for them to
leave and watch which direction they go. They circle round and round till they’re
