Coppermine by Keith Ross Leckie

a reasonable choice so far. He didn’t say much, but his paddle strength was well beyond what his thin frame promised. Creed’s trust would be won slowly. Coming around the first slow bend, Creed put his back to the stroke, digging deep, twisting off with an efficient J. The boy felt the new power from the stern and matched it, and the canoe surged hard against the current. Creed loved canoeing. It was honest, repetitive work that got you somewhere, accomplished something, like piling sandbags or digging graves. You lost yourself in the motion and you could forget about the context.
    That first day, the weather held clear and warm and they covered a respectable eleven or twelve miles against the current before making camp on a flat rock shelf that would hold the warmth of the sun long after dark.
    “I’ll put up the tent if you want to make dinner.”
    “What do you like?” the boy asked.
    “Beans and the bully beef, I guess. Keep it simple.”
    The boy was studying the river. “I saw char. You want fish?”
    “Sure.”
    A small coiled line with a silver spinner dangling from it appeared in the boy’s hand, and Creed watched as he climbed nimbly over some broken boulders collapsed out into the river. He took a position facing the pool, behind the rocks in the lee of the current, where the fish would rest on their way upstream. He tossed the simple lure with a practised hand, letting out enough line for it to descend and hold in the current three inches above the bottom, where just enough light from the low sun would flash off the rotating spoon to seduce a fat char.
    Creed turned and set to putting up the conical canvas tent. It was big and heavy, army issue, the same design they had had long ago in basic training and so familiar he could raise it in his sleep. These tents were useless in the trenches at the front, but this one would be practical here. Miraculously, all the pegs and poles were in the bag, though on the granite shelf he had to use rocks piled one on top of another to secure the floor and wall lines. He cut soft cedar boughs for inside.
    Creed was opening the flaps to air it out when he heard the boy returning over the rocks. He had a nice four-pound char hanging limp on his line, more than enough for both of them.
    “Nice work.”
    The boy nodded at the compliment but didn’t smile. Within minutes he had a fire going, the fish gutted and slow-frying with a dollop of lard in the cast-iron pan. He mixed a little flour with river water, kneaded it into dough, wrapped it in a tight spiral around a moistened stick, and soon had it toasting away over the fire. Then he opened a can of green peas, and for dessert he gathered sweet blueberries and redcurrants from the resolute bushes in the crags nearby to complete the feast. Creed watched the whole process, quite impressed with the boy’s resourcefulness. Considering the lack of choice, he had done well finding him. Only thing, he never smiled. Creed resolved to work on ways to get a smile out of him.
    Over the next few days, the boy’s cuisine did not falter. The fishing was productive and they were eating a lot of salmon and char, saving the tinned beef and beans for the future days of need. They spent their evenings and nights in the conical tent, which offered some relief from the mosquitoes, and Creed read his books. And though it often rained, the tent proved tight and dry. Each morning, as the boy made a breakfast of bacon, fried bannock bread, and coffee or tea, Creed would shave with water warmed by the little spruce fire and write a few lines in his journal. He had never travelled north of the treeline before, and as he warmed his hands at the fire Creed often wondered how they would handle much colder weather without fuel for warmth. He reminded himself that the priests had managed it. At least at first.
    Father Rouvière’s first letter to Ducot had been sent as he travelled for the first time up the Great Bear River. Creed’s French was a