It rained all day, in sharp, heavy spits, like a spray of tiny knives. High in the trees, a cluster of crows was squawking. It was as if his mother were up there, cackling out ridicule, waiting for him to give up and accept defeat. Well, he wouldn’t.
Gradually, the wigwam took shape. It took a while, as if the wood had needed time to get used to his hands. But eventually the saplings stayed where he put them, secure until he could bind them with twine he’d bought from the store.
By noon, Jonah was soaked to the bone, and the wigwam was still hours from being finished. His hands were rubbed raw from handling the wet bark. All the stooping and stretching was making his back hurt. Maybe he should take a break, just for a few minutes, go back into the cabin. It would be dry inside, warm.
No. He had to hold out. What was the matter with being wet? Nothing! The rain wasn’t cold. The air was still warm. The only thing wrong with being wet was the soaked clothes – the jeans, the shirt – acting like a heavy second skin, dragging him down.
He stopped work, dropped the knife, let go of the twine and the green sticks. He looked up, opening his mouth, tasting the rain. His face to the heavens, he took off his shirt, peeling it away from his body. He pulled off the T-shirt underneath, feeling the cool drops on his bare skin. It wasn’t enough. He loosened his leather belt, unbuttoned his jeans and shook them to the ground.
Barefoot and nearly naked, he walked down to the lake. The rain got heavier, riddling the sandy beach’s damp skin with tiny pock-marks. The lake was a white-capped sheet of grey, but to Jonah it looked as inviting as a tropical pool.
He waded in. The smooth stones and soft sand felt like velvet under the soles of his feet. As he walked deeper and deeper into the lake, the cool water covered his calves, his thighs, and strands of seaweed tickled his body. When the water came up to his chest, he stood still and listened to the raindrops on the water. Gradually, the waves calmed. The clouds broke up, forming new clusters and shapes, showing blade-thin strands of sunlight. Then, coming from behind the tall line of trees that straddled the shoreline beyond the beach, a huge bird – like a giant hawk – swooped toward the water.
Jonah watched, open-mouthed, as the bird flapped its mighty wings – once, twice – and soared in a wide arc over his head. His heart pounding, Jonah reached his arms to the sky, as if he could touch the creature, as if he could run his fingers through its soft underfeathers.
The bird made one last loop – its magnificent head white and brilliant against the dull grey sky – and flew back to land.
Tears stung Jonah’s eyes as he watched it disappear.
An eagle, he thought – the greatest symbol of the spirit world. Had it been looking for him? Had it been sent to him – a sign?
He scanned the treetops for another glimpse, but the eagle was gone. Never mind, he thought. There’d be another one. He stretched his arms again, lifted his feet from the sandy bottom and dived across the surface of the lake. The cold water numbed his body, but as he swam towards shore he felt protected, as if the lake itself were a warm cocoon.
He stepped out of the water and onto the sand. He trudged up the hill and back into the forest. He stood in the clearing, admiring the ash wigwam. Something came to him – he could feel it in the air, hear it in the swaying trees, see it in the clouds. And as he looked up to see if the eagle was perched on a branch above him, Jonah knew. . .
He’d be safe here. In this forest. On this lake.