Dogsong by Gary Paulsen

Oogruk, but his father knew it and approved.
    There was school, of course. He was not going to school but he was learning and everybody knew that; it would have been hard to stop him trying to learn what he wanted and needed to know and so nobody tried. It would not have been polite to try itand many considered Russel old enough to know what he was doing.
    Life in the village went on as it had before. Men took snowmachines out on the ice to find seals, when they could get through the leads. Other hunters took other snowmachines back into the hills and found caribou, sometimes killing six or seven to bring back for other people who could not hunt.
    In the long darkness house life took on a meaning that couldn’t exist in the summer. Families sometimes moved in with each other for a time, played games, fought the boredom that could come with the semi-arctic night. The village had a game room with television and it was usually crowded with both adults and children, watching the outside world.
    All but Russel.
    And Oogruk.
    Russel hunted caribou twice more but didn’t get any meat either time. He saw them at a distance, but couldn’t get the sled close enough to make a stalk and a kill. On the second attempt he set the hook, left the dogs, and with the bow worked up some small creek beds but the deer saw him before he could get close enough for a shot. He took rabbits and ptarmigan home each time, using a small net Oogruk had fashioned and showed him how to use. With the net, laying it on the ground and using a longline, he lured the birds with a handful of berries. When they were on the net he flicked it closed with a jerk of his wrist and caught five and six birds at a time.
    So he made meat. Light meat. That’s what Oogruk called it. And it was good meat, as far as it went. The small birds tasted sweet and were tender and soft, which suited Oogruk’s poor teeth. But the dogs needed heavy meat, heavy red meat and fat or they could not work, could not run long and hard.
    And heavy meat meant deer. Caribou.
    Or seal.
    So it came on a cold clear morning that Russel decided to go out for seal again. It was still dark when he awakened and sat up on the floor but before he could get his pants on Oogruk was sitting up and had lighted the lamp.
    â€œIt is time for me to go out for seals again. For food for the dogs. I will go out on the ice.”
    Oogruk nodded. “Yes. Yes. I know that. But this time I will go with you.”
    Russel stopped, his bearskin pants halfway up. He looked at the old man. “To hunt seals?”
    â€œThat. And other things. There are certain things that must be done at this time and it is for an old man to do them when the time is right.”
    Russel waited but Oogruk said nothing further. Instead he stood, slightly stiff, and feeling with his hands found clothes on the side wall. He dressed in pants and mukluks and another squirrelskin underparka. Then he took down an older outerparka, of deerskin, one with holes and worn places, and shrugged it on over his head.
    â€œI have the good parka,” Russel said. “Let me give it to you.”
    Oogruk shook his head. “Not this time. You keep it. You will need it and I won’t. Go now and harness the dogs.”
    Russel finished dressing and went out for the team. They knew him now, knew him well, and greeted him with tails and barks when they saw him take the harness off the pegs. He laid the gangline out onto the snow and harnessed the team quickly, wondering why the old man wanted to go.
    When the dogs were harnessed he took the weapons—two harpoons and one killing lance with a plain sharpened point—and tied them into the sled. When he turned back to the house Oogruk had come out of the door and was looking across the ice.
    His milk-white eyes stared across the ice. But he was seeing nothing. Or, Russel thought, maybe he was seeing everything.
    â€œI smell the sea out there,” Oogruk said. “It