Free Kanata by Don Gillmor Page B

punishment.
    â€œWe are going to die out here, Davy,” MacKay said. “Die a meaningless death in this meaningless land.”
    If there was no meaning, Thompson thought, there was utility. Their bodies would be food for something, the bear, the wolf, the coyote tearing their flesh away in bloody strips,the magpies and worms finishing their work. As for the land, it relied on Thompson to divine its meaning, to give it meaning with his map. Without that, the void.
    â€œWe won’t die if we keep walking,” Thompson said.
    â€œOh, we’ll die, Davy. We’ll die.”
    Thompson tied a length of rope around his waist and then to MacKay’s belt beneath his heavy coat. “Walk behind me,” he said. “Keep a regular pace.”
    It was getting late. Thompson could see Jupiter shining beside the moon. By tomorrow it would be on the other side.
    â€œOne eye between two men,” MacKay said. “The one-eyed king.”
    â€œIt’s all we need, MacKay.”
    â€œSpoken like a man with one eye.”
    â€œWe’ll find the camp. We’ll build a fire. We’ll eat and remember this moment.”
    â€œMoses,” MacKay muttered. “Leading me out of the wilderness.”
    They walked in the deep snow, breaking through the thin crust with each step, making slow progress. When they fell it was awkward getting up in their heavy, frozen coats. MacKay’s imaginative curses were interspersed with pleas for mercy.
    The aurora borealis lit up the night sky, the absurd colours moving vertically in smooth syncopation as Thompson watched. The sky an unread book. He scanned it as he led his profane duckling through the snow.
    â€œ Jesus . My. Fucking. Celtic. Eyes ,” MacKay yelled.
    â€œThe blindness can be healed,” Thompson said.
    â€œBlindness can be healed. Thank you bloody Jesus.”
    For an hour, MacKay was quiet, rendered mute by the cold.
    â€œWe’re dying,” he finally whispered.
    Thompson had a natural resistance to the elements, his mind elsewhere, observing the landscape, making calculations, or working out the elements of a new language. But he could feel its threat.
    â€œWhat was my last sight of this world?” MacKay asked. “Was it the wet thighs of a brown Cree, staring into heaven with a belly full of ale? My last vision was grey sky and grey snow. A vision of nothing.”
    â€œThe last thing you see is the last thing you want to see,” Thompson said. “Picture your mother.”
    â€œA whore.”
    â€œThen picture a whore.”
    They marched, silent and fatigued. Thompson saw a deer ahead, its dignified, cautious movement. He untied the rope, whispered to MacKay to stay quiet, and walked downwind, cradling his rifle. He tracked the deer slowly, stopping when it stopped, gaining sixty yards. He feared that MacKay would bellow some new obscenity, scaring the animal. After ten nervous minutes Thompson stood next to a tree, within range, sighting along the barrel at the deer, which was facing him. He waited for the profile to present itself, then squeezed the trigger, and the deer fell softly into the snow, a shot that owed more to luck or God than skill. He went back to MacKay, who was dangerously asleep in the deep snow, resigned to a peaceful death. With some difficulty Thompson roused him and they trudged to the deer. He used his knife to slit it from throat to tail along the belly, and then took MacKay’s hands and pushed them into the warm entrails before thrusting in his own. They massaged the slippery familiar shapes and breathed the warm visceral scent that came out of the steaming carcass. MacKay’s facewas turned upward to the sky, eyes closed in what looked like rapture.
    It was past midnight when they returned, marching wearily, the blood frozen on their coats, MacKay’s sightless face covered in ice crystals. Thompson made a fire and they sat silently around the heat. MacKay’s