My Name Is Not Easy (12 page)

e trees look soft from up here, like

tundra grass, billowing in the morning breeze like low-lying clouds. A rocky river rushes along the valley fl oor, shining silver green in the morning light. Looking way far down at that river makes you feel strong and dizzy, both at the same time.

But you can still smell the water, even this far up you can smell it, sharp as gunmetal.

“Wow,” I whisper.

At fi rst we don’t even hear the sound of the car behind us, but when we fi nally do, it don’t matter. Th

e only place to go is

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down, straight down, which would take wings. We’re trapped.

It’s a priest, driving that long, skinny car. Th

e same car

that took Isaac away—same priest, too, I bet. He’s driving slow, like he’s hunting.

“Shoot,” I say, looking down the mountainside.

Shoot
. Breathing it out quick, like a bullet.

Th

ey got us now.

Th

e priest pulls up alongside us, but it’s a diff erent priest, a younger one. He pushes the car door wide open and leans over across the seat, chatting like there’s nothing strange about two Eskimo kids trapped on the side of a road in the middle of Indian country. His eyes are empty, blue like the sky. I never seen eyes like that before.

“Enjoying a little walk, boys?” he says.

Bunna nods fast, like guilty people do. Th

e priest smiles.

“Nice day for it,” he says, patting the seat next to him.

Bunna hops right in without a second thought.

“Only one problem”—now he’s frowning—“you boys

missed breakfast, and now you’re about to miss class as well.”

Bunna glances back at me like a trapped animal. I slide into the car next to him and ease the door shut, trying not to look at that priest and his ice-blue eyes.

“I’m sure you just lost track of the time,” he says.

Bunna lets out a small sigh of relief and nods.

We sit there while the car winds its way back down the road, none of us saying a thing. We don’t know how to talk to priests, and this one is humming like it don’t much matter if we even talk or not. I stare out the window, watching the trees
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H O W H U N T E R S S U R V I V E / L u k e
whip past us like a wall of green and black stone.

“You boys are from the North, aren’t you?” he says, fi nally, tapping the steering wheel with one fi nger.

Neither of us says a word. Bunna looks at him and raises his eyebrows real quick.
Yes. We’re from the North,
his eyebrows say.

I frown.

“And I bet you’re both seasoned hunters.”

Now he’s looking directly at me, his eyes like chips of pale blue ice.

I turn away, staring at the wall of trees. “Yes,” I say, soft as leaves.

“Good,” he says, his fi nger still tapping the steering wheel.

“You see, the way this works is Sacred Heart School is run largely through volunteer eff ort.” He peers down at Bunna.

Suddenly all I want to do is pull Bunna away fast and say,

“
Listen: we’re not even Catholic.”

But I don’t.

“Do you know what
volunteer
means?” the priest asks.

Bunna shakes his head. I stare out the window.

Th

e priest’s boney white hand grips that steering wheel, one fi nger still tapping—a long, sharp pointer fi nger.

“Well, it’s like this,” he says. “Th

e Lord gives each of us

talents—each special skills—and he expects us each to use them for others. Th

at’s what we’re doing here—volunteering

our talents for the sake of the school. It’s our way of giving back to God what he has given to us.”

He frowns down into the valley. “Now, me, I’m not much
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of a hunter, but I do know a thing or two about carpentry. And Father Mullen—you and your brothers met him last night, I believe? Well, he’s a boxer. Would’ve gone professional if he hadn’t been promised to the priesthood.”

I think of that old priest with the mashed-up face and feel the sting of his ruler running up my arm. So our brother Isaac was kidnapped by a boxer. A boxer priest. I look over at Bunna, nervous, but Bunna is not thinking about these things. I can tell.

“And old Sister Sarah, why she can make anything grow—

even up here in the frozen north land,” the priest continues.

“What about the other one?” Bunna says.

Th

e priest looks down at Bunna, surprised.

“Th

e other one?” he says.

Bunna rolls his eyes upward. His eyes say
iñukpasuk
loud and clear, so clear even the priest understands.

“Oh,” he laughs. “Th

e tall one—that’s Sister Mary Kate.”

Bunna looks up, curious, like he really really wants to know about Sister Mary Kate’s special talent.

“Well, let me see. Sister Mary Kate is very”—he taps the wheel—“she’s so very eager and so very . . . ah, big,” he says.

“And I’m sure that must be useful, don’t you think?”

He’s still smiling. I swallow a smile, too.

“So what about the hunting?” I ask, surprised to hear myself talking so easy all of a sudden.

“Ah. I was just coming to that. You see the thing is, we want to eat, now don’t we?”

Bunna nods.

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“Well, so that’s where the hunting comes in. Everything we get here comes through donation or hard work. We need you boys to work for us by hunting.”

Bunna looks down at his lap. He’s still holding that dumb toy gun, fi ngering it nervously, like he’s forgotten he has it.

“Do you hunt horses?” he says, his voice doubtful.

Th

e priest looks puzzled. “Hunt horses?”

Th

en he looks down at Bunna’s gun. Bunna shoves it into his pocket, embarrassed, but it’s too late. Th