Mattie Mitchell by Gary Collins Read Free Book Online

above the floor and sat back again. Watching
the pan, he waited.
    From the upended pan, dark drops of grease fell onto a flat
piece of wood. The drops slowed as the pan cooled and the heavy
fat congealed on the wood. Before long a small, furry form
appeared from the shadows. The tiny creature was below the
light from the fire and created no shadow.
    But when it stood on its hind legs and reached up to catch the
grease dropping from the edge of the pan, the shadow of its head
appeared on the birch wall. The Indian smiled, his even teeth
showing white against his dark face. The grey field mouse looked
plump and short on the ground, its bosom full and proud. It thinned
and lengthened as it stretched upward for the tasty treat. The fat
dripped, slowed, and then stopped. The tiny, patient mouse licked
them all, while the quiet man watched. The fire crackled. A flaw
of wind rustled a loose flap of bark on the outside wall. The owlhooted in the distance. The sounds of the running brook rose
and fell with the wet night wind. Mattie Mitchell dozed in pure
comfort, his head nodding.
    The mouse started gnawing at the pungent fat that had
collected on the piece of wood. The sound of its chewing brought
Mattie fully awake. The sudden motion from the still human
startled the mouse from its meal, but it didn’t run away. It just
hunched itself into a ball and, satisfied that it had made itself look
impressively big and threatening, squeaked once. Soon the night
visitor finished its treat and simply disappeared into the shadows
at the base of the wigwam.
    Rising now that his entertainment was over, Mattie stepped
outside, yawning as he went. The misty rain had stopped and the
woods dripped. He could hear the rustle of wet snow settling.
The pond ice boomed and cracked as before. A wisp of grey-blue
smoke with a few trailing yellow flankers rose soundlessly from
the wigwam.
    The wind from the southwest felt warm and soft on his skin.
He walked behind his shelter, breaking through the snow in
several places as he went. He stopped, looked up at the dark sky,
and urinated. All the signs told him it was nearly time to leave.
Mattie made up his mind quickly. After the next night frost,
which was sure to come, he would leave the hills and make his
way homeward, pulling his winter-caught furs behind him.
    Returning to the wigwam, Mattie loosed the thong that held
the door in place. The leather door fell and covered the hole
completely behind him as he entered. He added a few more
pieces of seasoned birch wood to his fire, then removed his damp
coat and hung it to one of the rafters. Without removing any other
article of clothing, not even his long leather boots, he lay down
on his bunk.
    The thick caribou blanket crackled as he pulled it up over hisbody. Mattie turned his back to the smouldering fire and settled
his head into the fragrant pillow of fir boughs. Almost as soon
as he had lain down, the long, blanket-covered figure was still.
The fire flickered, casting unmoving shadows, and for a second a
small flare from the fire glinted across the shiny black hair of the
sleeping Indian.
    Outside, the night aged; the wind died away; the clouds
opened, revealing a profusion of twinkling stars; the sound of
a single, lonely howl from a faraway prowling wolf came on
the fading night wind. But aside from the sleeping meadow, its
solitary plea was heard by no one.

    EARLY IN THE CHRISTMAS MONTH of the year past, heavy frost
and snow had finally come. It was the last few days of the year
1899. A new century was about to begin, an event that appeared
to be of great consequence to the white people of Mattie’s small
village in the Bay of Islands. It was the start of a new modern era.
Some of them were afraid. It would be the end of the world, they
said. Many of the self-righteous religious ones spent their “last
days” quoting Bible verses that supposedly verified their alarmist
thinking.
    To Mattie, who didn’t own a calendar but