Free An Island Between Two Shores by Graham Wilson Page B

snow to the jagged edge of the ice. The deep snow made her legs tingle as it fell over the cuff and into her boot. She followed the short trail to the ice and took a couple steps. It yielded slightly, cracking and popping under her weight.
    She knelt near the edge of the ice and dunked her cupped hands into the meek current. She needed only a single palm full of water to feel satisfied but forced herself to take three. The water trickled down her raw throat to her empty stomach. She felt indifferent to everything, not just the cold. She was startled by her reflection in the water. Her emaciated face was unfamiliar and frightening. She trudged back to the log and climbed underneath.
    The storm raged through the evening and most of the night. Since she was always awake, she listened attentively to it surge and abate. She heard the shrill shriek of the storm and tingled with each gust that sent tendrils of drafts into the cave. Liana knew the river was slowing and losing energy; she could feel it.
    Morning took forever to come. The snowfall had insulated the log, and Liana felt less cold, as if she had a light blanket covering her. Or perhaps she was dreaming this feeling of relative warmth, she thought, unsure of her own judgment.
    Liana reminisced about Henry. She never knew when he would tell one of his stories: when he was cooking dinner, sitting beside the woodstove, stacking firewood outside. Sometimes he would tell several stories in a day, and other times, he wouldn’t tell a story for weeks. Some were mystical stories about animal helpers; others were practical stories about not being selfish or the importance of talking gently to people. Once he told her about the first time he cooked dried beans. He had met some white prospectors on his trap line. They invited him into camp and traded him some meat for a pouch of tobacco. They were both fat and were new to living on the land. They offered Henry some beans from a large pot that bubbled on their fire. He ate three big bowls of beans, surprised by their sweetness and soft texture. It was a flavour he had never known, and he was hooked.
    When Henry got to town he went to the general store and bought a bag of beans. Back at his cabin, his kids and wife watched him pour the beans into the pot of water on their woodstove and they eagerly waited for them to cook. He expounded on their incredible taste. His kids dogged him every five minutes and begged, “Are they done yet?” The men had told him to let the beans simmer in the water for at least a couple of hours, but Henry couldn’t wait. After a half hour of boiling, he tasted a bean. It was black and hard and the water tasted foul. He let the beans cook for another hour and tasted them again, but they were still hard and bitter and not at all like the beans the prospectors had made. He let the beans cook the rest of the day and late into the next, but the beans never softened and the family was sullen. Disappointed, Henry took the beans outside and dumped the mess into the snow.
    Later that year, he ran into those same trappers and he told them what had happened. They listened to his story with amusement and then howled with laughter. They explained that Henry had bought coffee beans. Henry also thought this was funny. “I’m a bush Indian,” he said. “I never knew about coffee.” Liana loved this story and the way Henry always easily laughed at himself.
    Hours later she looked through the much smaller opening to see if it was still snowing. She saw stars and the emerald green of the northern lights. The narrow band of iridescence tore across the inky sky, swaying from side to side like a dancer. It was a sight Liana had never tired of. The northern lights had fascinated her more nights than she could remember. She watched them until most of the night had passed. Liana waited in the dark for daylight, dreaming and feeling strangely peaceful.
    Liana awakened from her vigil to the faint call of the raven. At first