The hour was early but the northern Saskatchewan sun already stood high above the endless reaches of jack pine and poplar that crowded down to the shores of the broad lake. Most of the men and boys in the village had gone out in their brightly painted fishing boats to lift their nets. A few were coming back, their boxes filled with white fish and pickerel and jacks.

Old Rabbit Skin had wanted Strong Deer to lend him his powerful young back and arms to help lift his nets and pry the wriggling 'whites' and 'yellows' from the nylon mesh. The twelve-year-old boy did not want to go, nor did he plan to. He didn't tell old Rabbit Skin his intentions, however. That might disturb the aging medicine man and he didn't want to do that. According to the way of his people he remained silent but did not go down to the dock that morning.

Rabbit Skin would understand when he learned the reason. It was not often that a boy Strong Deer's age would seek a spirit of his own. In the old days that was the age when spirit helpers were sought. Strong Deer had heard Rabbit Skin relate his own story many times. He told how he had burned a mixture of sweet grass and tobacco, sending the curling finger of smoke upward to beckon the spirit world to come to him. "Then I lay down and went to sleep," he said, "and the spirits began to come to me. One would come each time, telling me what he would do for me. Finally I picked the one I wanted, and he became my spirit helper."

At the time, Strong Deer listened so carelessly he didn't remember much of what the old man said. But that was before his mother got the sickness of the lungs. It was before the coughing stole the strength from her legs until she could no longer go to the government nurse on the other side of the village and the stern white woman had to come to see her. It was before his best friend, Two Bees, put words to his own fears, "Your mother's gonna die."

It was then that Strong Deer got old Rabbit Skin to ten him again about getting a spirit and how he summoned them with tobacco and sweet grass. Strong Deer got the tobacco from one of the older boys- half a tin in exchange for the hunting knife his mother gave him the Christmas before. The sweet grass was everywhere; he only needed to pick what he wanted.

The cabin where he lived with his mother was one of the older houses in the village. The heavy plank door sagged on its leather hinges, and half the glass in the single front window had been replaced with cardboard. The cracks between the logs had opened to the rain and mosquitoes and desperately needed to be chinked with new moss before the sun went south for the winter. And, from somewhere, they would have to get money for a new airtight heater to replace the one that had rusted out.

Strong Deer wondered if the spirits could do anything about getting a new stove. That shouldn't be any more difficult for them than healing his mother's lungs. And, if they could get a new stove, he would see that they had plenty more things to do to keep them busy.

As quietly as possible he pushed open the cabin door and slipped inside. The nurse looked up from the stove, and her face darkened with disapproval. "Where have you been? She's been calling for you."

Strong Deer looked away quickly. How could he explain to such a one as her about the spirit of the deer he hoped to make his own? She would only laugh or scold him for believing such foolishness, as she called it. And even though her tongue remained silent, she would mock him with her eyes.

The boy started toward the little bedroom where his mother was lying, but the government nurse stopped him. "I think she's asleep now."

He ' looked in at the frail figure on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was so shallow and light that it frightened him. It seemed to him that she would soon quit breathing completely. That was why it seemed so important to get his spirit helper at once- before it was too late. He went to the crude cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen and got the needed matches.

"Don't go far, Strong Deer," the nurse told him. "Your mother will be calling for you again as soon as she wakes up."

He planned only on going back in the bush a hundred yards to so--just far enough to hide from the curious. Two Bees and his friends would be even more scornful than the nurse would if they found out what he was doing.

As he picked the sweet grass he saw a deer peering curiously at him from behind a clump of brush. Excitement quickened his pulse. This was a good sign. The spirit of the deer already knew what he was doing.

Kneeling, he lit the sweet grass and tobacco, savoring the smell of the sacred smoke. This time, for sure, he ought to be able to get the deer as his spirit helper; for when old Rabbit Skin talked about getting a spirit of his own, he hadn't said anything about it being hard to summon them. "You burn a little sweet grass and tobacco to let them know you want to meet with them," the medicine man had said. "Then lie down and close your eyes. You will go to sleep just like that. And then the spirits will come."

But that wasn't the way it had been with him. He had tried. How many times he had tried, but the spirits had remained silent.

Strong Deer lay down and closed his eyes, fighting desperately to go to sleep. Rabbit Skin had said sleep would be waiting to him just behind his eyelids. He had only to close them and it would take over. If that was true, however, something had come along and chased it away. He closed his eyes tightly and wished for sleep that would not come. It was useless for him to try to fool the spirits. They knew when he was trying to deceive them.

Convinced at last that it was useless for him to lie there any longer, he opened his eyes and stood up. Suddenly his eyes caught a glimpse of flashing hair beyond the berry bushes. A wolf?

What was it his grandmother had told him when he used to climb up on her knee to listen to her stories? "I saw the wolf s eyes shining in the bush that night," she had said, an eerie whisper escaping her lips. "I knew, then, that it was a sign of evil. Windigo, the most feared and hated spirit of all, would walk that night. . . ."

He himself had seen the eyes of the wolf shining in the bush on that fateful day when he stumbled upon the sacred place where the people used to take their gifts and hang them in the bush as offerings to their spirits. He had been only four years old at the time and hadn't even known why the gifts were put out. All he knew was that the bracelet was pretty and he wanted it.

His slender fingers were just closing on the piece of cheap jewelry when a man grabbed his wrist in anger. "A curse on you!" he snarled. "And a double curse on your mother! Now get out of here and don't let me catch you on this path @n!" Strong Deer could still remember the man's hostility and the fear that squeezed the breath from him as he ran back to the village.

And now he felt that same icy fear. He knew why the spirits would not hear him. He knew why his mother was dying! He had been cursed. It was all because of him!

He stepped on the tiny pile of ashes and ground them beneath his moccasin in anger and frustration. He stopped; remaining motionless as a sudden throaty snarl of thunder shook the forest. Terrified, he looked up at the clouds that were gathering just above the treetops, blotting out the sun. Thunder was the most powerful spirit the Cree could call upon. Now he had appeared, grumbling his displeasure at Strong Deer's efforts to get a spirit helper.

Frustration overwhelmed him. Would it always be this way? Would he never, like others, be able to call upon a spirit for help? Would the curse never be broken?

He left the bush and headed for the cabin where he lived with his mother, but a strange aircraft taxiing out into the lake distracted him. It wasn't often that planes came to their village. He had to see how his mother was, but it would take only a minute or two to run down to the government dock and find out why the floatplane had come in.

Halfway down the hill he met the nurse on her way up. "Strong Deer!" she said angrily, her face hard with emotion, "where have you been? I told you your mother wanted to see you."

"I'm going home now, but I saw the plane and-and-" The look in her eyes cut off the flow of words.

"There's no use in going home to see her now. She's on the plane."

His eyes widened. But why? He could not understand it.

"I had to call for the plane to come in and take her to the hospital," the government nurse explained. "I was going to tell you about it, but she wanted to do that herself when she told you good-by. Now she's gone!"

His heart sank. She didn't say it but he knew she was thinking that his mother probably would not come back. The RCMP would probably fly in a message that she was dead. He had seen that happen often enough, even at the age of twelve.

And he hadn't even seen her before they took her away.

"She will be back soon?" He asked tremulously.

"Not for many months, I am afraid. It takes a long time to cure tuberculosis."

The nurse would have taken him home with her, but he decided it would be better to stay with old Rabbit Skin. His medicine man neighbor would be able to look into the side of the sacred axe and tell him how she was getting along. He might even be able to break the curse and make it possible for Strong Deer to get a spirit helper of his own.

He didn't think he would sleep that night but he did, restlessly, dreaming of deer scampering away from him in the bush and thunder clearing its throat or exploding just outside his window. He dreamed of his mother and strange floatplanes that came zooming in to take her away.

Now and again he awakened to hear the rattle of rain against the roof and the incessant booming of breakers, row on endless row, along the rocky shore beneath his window. Occasionally lightning split the darkened sky or traced its eerie patterns across the black of night with glowing fingers. At last morning came, and Strong Deer heard the stirring of the wrinkled medicine man in the kitchen. He got up quickly and looked out. The rain still fell, coursing down the slanted roof and cutting little rivulets in the sand and clay. And on a grassy slope outside the window a mink scampered towards a dry sanctuary under a pile of old lumber.

The mink! Maybe it was telling him it would be his spirit. Only he didn't want the mink he help him. He wanted the spirit of the deer!