THREE
FIVE HOURS PASSED GREENLY. GIDEON watched the rush of conifer out the window until the train’s tottering, heavy-hipped sway lulled him to sleep. He woke with a jolt in Moosonee, end of the line, as far over the muskeg as rails would carry him. He tucked the photograph that had fallen from his hand inside the front cover of Birds over America and stowed the book in his pack. Then he followed the others from the train to the water’s edge and climbed into a freight canoe to cross the water to the big island in the middle of the channel.
So this was Moose Factory. He laid his hands on the soil and closed his eyes. This stop was only temporary, but each decision must be deliberate. He’d been making plans for months.
He picked up an elbow of driftwood from the beach, sat at the base of
