Free Wilderness by Roddy Doyle

notch at the tip of the branch. He made sure
    the sharp side wasn’t facing his fingers and body. He
    knew how to do it. He knew he was being watched.
    â€œLet’s see,” said Johnny.
    Tom knew what that meant. Johnny didn’t want to
    see the knife. He wanted Tom to give it to him. Tom
    ignored him.
    â€œGive us a go,” said Johnny.
    Tom could feel Johnny leaning into him. But he
    knew that Johnny wouldn’t grab the knife, not in front
    of Aki and their mother.
    â€œNext time, you,” said Aki, to Johnny.
    That was fine with Tom. He was the first one to use
    a real hunter’s knife.
    â€œThat is good,” said Aki. “And, OK.”
    Tom stopped cutting. He didn’t have to be told
    again. He handed the stick to Aki. He held the knife.
    He did nothing with it. He just held it, like it was a
    pen or a ruler or something normal from his life. He
    watched Aki put the branch across the other tree branches, the ones he’d already tied. He made it lean
    across the top of the branches. It was now hanging
    over the centre of the fire.
    â€œSee?” said Aki.
    â€œYeah,” said Johnny.
    â€œAnd, now,” said Aki.
    He lifted the branch off the other branches.
    â€œYou will see why you cut the wood.”
    He picked up the coffeepot. It was like one of those
    old-fashioned pots from a Western film. It was made
    of tin and had a handle at the top. Aki pushed the
    handle between the two split parts of the branch top.
    Then he held the branch and put it hanging over the
    fire again, with the coffeepot right in the middle. He
    sat back on one of the log seats and put the end of the
    branch under his foot. The pot was on top of the fire,
    but the branch was too high above to catch fire.
    â€œThat’s brilliant,” said Tom’s mother.
    â€œIt will take a very long time?” said the man from
    Belgium.
    â€œNot so long, I guess,” said Aki.
    They all sat on the logs around the fire, squashed
    into each other. They were very cold, but a bit too
    tired to notice. They waited for the coffee; they held
    the wooden cups Aki had handed them. The sweat
    was drying inside their suits. Their arms were still
    shaking, from holding on to the sleds. Their hands
    were sweaty and aching. They sat in the silver, slanting sunlight. The heat of the fire lifted the smell
    of strong coffee to their noses. They knew this was
    special. They loved what they’d just done, and most of
    them dreaded doing it again in a few minutes. Some
    people spoke quietly to each other, and most were
    happy to stay quiet.
    â€œBoring!’’
    It was Johnny, and he let himself fall backwards off
    the log, so he’d land on the snow and get out of the
    squash of adult shoulders. Tom followed him. They
    stood up together and ran straight at the deep snow.
    Johnny stopped.
    â€œAre there any snakes here?” he asked.
    â€œSome, I guess,” said Aki. “Adder. Bushmaster.
    Cobra.”
    He shrugged.
    â€œIt’s OK,” he said. “It’s cool. They sleep, I think.”
    Johnny looked at Tom.
    They ran.
    The snow got deeper and deeper. Ankles, shins,
    knees, over the knees. They ran past the dogs. They
    had to lift their legs higher.
    â€œJump,” said Johnny. “One, two . . . three!”
    They jumped out of the hold of the snow. They
    lifted their arms; they stretched them out. They stuck
    out their chests. They hit the snow.

 
The Café
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    Her mother put the tray on the table. She took off her
coat and put it on the back of her chair. Then she sat
down. She smiled and looked away, then looked again
    at Gráinne.
    â€œWell,” she said.
    Gráinne said nothing. What was she supposed to say?
    She took a bite out of her Danish; she was starving.
    But her mother started taking the things off the tray,
    and Gráinne knew she’d started too early. She hated
    this. She’d been rude,