the stands of birch, the bony pillars seemed to shift around him.
The only thing Gabriel had now to guide himself with was a compass. There were no paths except the narrow trails of moose and deer, which he followed when he grew too tired to make paths of his own through the face-scratching branches of pine. Every hour, he took out his compass and took a bearing. Then he began walking again. Often there were mountains in the way. He climbed them, feeling the ascent in his calves and his thighs, leaning into the slope so that his face was no more than a couple of feet from the path. His arms went numb from the digging pack straps. When he reached the stony skull of the mountain crest, he would stop, let his pack slip from his shoulders and sit down on it to rest. Blueberries grew among the ripples of the rock and he would pick as many as he could, the pale-blue and the dark-blue, almost black berries disappearing without inspection into his mouth. He would crush them with his tongue and swallow, feeling the sugar jump through his body.
It was dusk before he even realized it was growing dark. The light had faded so gently that he’d barely noticed it. The first stars popped out of the blue. He walked on a while longer, seeing color fade from the trees until he was in a world of black and white and the navy of the sky. He began to stumble on roots. Then he knew it was time to stop.
Gabriel found a patch of soft earth. He walked around the place where he would put his tent, the way a dog circles the ground it chooses for a bed. When his tent was pitched, he cut a two-inch-deep hole into the trunk of a birch tree. As the sap started to run, he folded a piece of birch bark into a tube and set it in the hole to act as a funnel. Then he pulled the lace from one of his boots and tied a blue-and-white-speckled enamel mug to the tree to catch the dripping sap. He touched his finger to the drop-by-drop trickle and brushed the clear liquid across his lips, tasting the sweet pepperiness of thesap. He checked that the mug was secure and crawled inside his tent.
The night brought silence, except for wind moving like a scavenger around the trunks of trees. Inside his tent, he felt the quiet cup itself around him. He switched on his angle-headed flashlight. It had a red filter over the bulb to help him keep his night vision. He rooted in his pack, taking out the plastic-bagged bundle containing his clean clothes, smelling the perfume of detergent from a Laundromat in Thunder Bay, Ontario, where he’d washed them a week ago. At the bottom of the pack was a tan canvas holster. From it, Gabriel pulled an old Webley revolver. Its blue-black, hexagonal barrel showed him back the red light of the bulb. There were no bullets in the gun now. He kept those in an airtight plastic tub, which was itself wrapped in plastic. He was careful with the bullets: they were .455 caliber, which was hard to find, and he could not afford to go buying handgun ammunition now. Suspicion would follow him out of the shop. He put the gun away and sniffed the oil on the tips of his fingers. Each time he brought out the gun and looked at it, he felt reminded of how far he was beyond the point of turning back.
The last thing he looked at from his pack was his wallet. It was made of black nylon with a Velcro closing strap. From it, he pulled his American driver’s license and social security card. It was a New Jersey license, with a red band across the top that said
Operator
. The name on the license was Adam Gabriel. The first name was his, but not the second. He had been given the forged document six weeks before, out in Idaho.
Gabriel switched off the flashlight and lay down in his tent. He looked out through the mosquito-netted opening. A meteor shower cut arcs above the trees. He imagined the night as black paint on the glass vault of the sky, the meteors scratches across it, showing the sunlight beyond. “Get out the way for old man Tucker,” he whispered. Then
The only thing Gabriel had now to guide himself with was a compass. There were no paths except the narrow trails of moose and deer, which he followed when he grew too tired to make paths of his own through the face-scratching branches of pine. Every hour, he took out his compass and took a bearing. Then he began walking again. Often there were mountains in the way. He climbed them, feeling the ascent in his calves and his thighs, leaning into the slope so that his face was no more than a couple of feet from the path. His arms went numb from the digging pack straps. When he reached the stony skull of the mountain crest, he would stop, let his pack slip from his shoulders and sit down on it to rest. Blueberries grew among the ripples of the rock and he would pick as many as he could, the pale-blue and the dark-blue, almost black berries disappearing without inspection into his mouth. He would crush them with his tongue and swallow, feeling the sugar jump through his body.
It was dusk before he even realized it was growing dark. The light had faded so gently that he’d barely noticed it. The first stars popped out of the blue. He walked on a while longer, seeing color fade from the trees until he was in a world of black and white and the navy of the sky. He began to stumble on roots. Then he knew it was time to stop.
Gabriel found a patch of soft earth. He walked around the place where he would put his tent, the way a dog circles the ground it chooses for a bed. When his tent was pitched, he cut a two-inch-deep hole into the trunk of a birch tree. As the sap started to run, he folded a piece of birch bark into a tube and set it in the hole to act as a funnel. Then he pulled the lace from one of his boots and tied a blue-and-white-speckled enamel mug to the tree to catch the dripping sap. He touched his finger to the drop-by-drop trickle and brushed the clear liquid across his lips, tasting the sweet pepperiness of thesap. He checked that the mug was secure and crawled inside his tent.
The night brought silence, except for wind moving like a scavenger around the trunks of trees. Inside his tent, he felt the quiet cup itself around him. He switched on his angle-headed flashlight. It had a red filter over the bulb to help him keep his night vision. He rooted in his pack, taking out the plastic-bagged bundle containing his clean clothes, smelling the perfume of detergent from a Laundromat in Thunder Bay, Ontario, where he’d washed them a week ago. At the bottom of the pack was a tan canvas holster. From it, Gabriel pulled an old Webley revolver. Its blue-black, hexagonal barrel showed him back the red light of the bulb. There were no bullets in the gun now. He kept those in an airtight plastic tub, which was itself wrapped in plastic. He was careful with the bullets: they were .455 caliber, which was hard to find, and he could not afford to go buying handgun ammunition now. Suspicion would follow him out of the shop. He put the gun away and sniffed the oil on the tips of his fingers. Each time he brought out the gun and looked at it, he felt reminded of how far he was beyond the point of turning back.
The last thing he looked at from his pack was his wallet. It was made of black nylon with a Velcro closing strap. From it, he pulled his American driver’s license and social security card. It was a New Jersey license, with a red band across the top that said
Operator
. The name on the license was Adam Gabriel. The first name was his, but not the second. He had been given the forged document six weeks before, out in Idaho.
Gabriel switched off the flashlight and lay down in his tent. He looked out through the mosquito-netted opening. A meteor shower cut arcs above the trees. He imagined the night as black paint on the glass vault of the sky, the meteors scratches across it, showing the sunlight beyond. “Get out the way for old man Tucker,” he whispered. Then
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