SANCTUARY 191 



He was dressed as a trapper, but once again saw 

 himself in a thick blue-knitted jersey, with trousers 

 of homespun, and big, well-greased sea-boots reach- 

 ing to his knees. The smell of the ocean, and the 

 scent of the gorse blew through the ice-bound woods. 



He moved silently, like the fur-bearing creatures 

 he hunted. One by one he gathered up the pelts 

 on the cases and stretchers, upon which they were 

 retained in positions which would prevent shrink- 

 age as the moisture evaporated, and took them into 

 the shack. 



Coming out again, he threw an armful of inflam- 

 mable pine-needles on to the embers for the sheer 

 pleasure of seeing the sparks dancing upwards in a 

 flame of gold. He did this religiously every night. 

 It had come to be a solemn rite, a tender memor- 

 izing of a long-gone day when prisoned wood-fairies 

 clamoured for release and childish hands brought 

 succour. 



And the moose was travelling to the light. He 

 knew now that it was no forest fire, but something 

 to do with the two legged creatures who thinned 

 the bush of its people. Whatever it might be, it 

 seemed to him less cruel, less to be feared, than the 

 Fate which crept on from behind. 



