by Jeff Pinkney
Text copyright © 2018 Jeff Pinkney
Illustrations copyright © 2018 Darlene Gait
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Pinkney, Jeffrey R. (Jeffrey Richard), 1962-, author
Soapstone porcupine / Jeff Pinkney ; illustrated by Darlene Gait.
(Orca echoes)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1472-1 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1473-8 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1474-5 (EPUB)
I. Gait, Darlene, 1968-, illustrator II. Title. III. Series: Orca echoes
PS8631.I535S59 2018 jC813'.6 C2017-904551-2
C2017-904552-0
First published in the United States, 2018
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017949719
Summary: In this early chapter book, a young Cree soapstone carver and his dog learn about a porcupine after an unfortunate encounter.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover artwork and interior illustrations by Darlene Gait
Author photo by Julie Gagné
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
21 20 19 18 • 4 3 2 1
Orca Book Publishers is proud of the hard work our authors do and of the important stories they create. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or did not check it out from a library provider, then the author has not received royalties for this book. The ebook you are reading is licensed for single use only and may not be copied, printed, resold or given away. If you are interested in using this book in a classroom setting, we have digital subscriptions that feature multiuser, simultaneous access to our books that are easy for your students to read. For more information, please contact [email protected].
To the dogs who wander into our lives and keep us
Contents
A Miss and a Wish: A New Way to Shoot
Sidekicks and Signs: A Quandary of Quills
Hunters, Hunger and Hopeful Hearts: A Shot In the Dark?
Carving Tools and Tourists: You Can’t Push a Porcupine!
Pronunciation Guide
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from Soapstone Signs
Soapstone Signs and Whispers: A Spring Arrival
A Miss and A Wish:
A New Way to Shoot
The dog showed up the way snow does on a winter’s day. She just drifted in and stayed.
“Half husky and half Lab, by the look of her,” Dad says.
She’s not old but not a puppy either. Her fur is so thick she does not like to be inside.
My big brother and I still haven’t come up with a name we can both agree upon. Until we do, we’ve been calling her Atim. That is the Cree word for “dog.”
When we leave for school, she dances us good morning. When we get home in the afternoon, she’s waiting for us with tail wagging. When my brother shoots pucks, she chases them and sometimes brings them back. When I take a walk along the river she is right there alongside.
“That’s the first I’ve known a stray to wander this far down the tracks from town,” Mom says.
We asked around to see if anyone was missing a dog. Mom and Dad took her to the veterinarian, got her shots and bought her a collar.
“Does that mean we can keep her?” my brother and I ask.
“I think the question is,” Mom says, “will she keep us?”
Atim and I are out on the front porch thinking things over. It’s my birthday and I’m excited that Stan is on his way for a visit. Stan is my mom’s cousin. They grew up together like brother and sister. Stan and my dad are buddies too. They like to do all kinds of things, especially fish and hunt.
But for me, there is a nervous feeling mixed in with all this springtime excitement. Last fall I went hunting for the first time with a real shotgun. I wasn’t sure if Stan and Dad noticed that I missed a snow goose on purpose. The snow goose was in my sights. I’m a really good shot, but something inside me made me move the barrel and miss. Hunting is such a big part of my family’s life. I am feeling scared about going hunting again. It is all sitting on me like a big fat goose on an egg.
Here on the porch, Atim doesn’t seem to have any worries, but she seems to know that I do. She has pressed her muddy self beside me and won’t leave me alone. I guess Atim is becoming a real best friend.
Stan arrives with a big package under his arm.
“Package? What package?” Stan says. “I’m just here for a piece of cake.”
Dad cooked my favorite meal. It’s his famous Irish stew. Everyone starts singing “Happy Birthday.” To me, of course. On the last line, when folks sing the words to you, Stan breaks into a great wolf howl, and we all join in. When it goes quiet we hear Atim outside the door, howling along, and everyone laughs. Mom sets down a vanilla-and-caramel cake with ten candles ablaze.
I close my eyes and wish that Atim will decide to keep us. Then I huff and puff and blow out all the candles with one mighty breath.
“Mahkitonew,” jokes my brother.
He has just called me a bigmouth in Cree.
“I guess that means there won’t be any left for you,” I say to him with a smirk.
“Ha-ha,” he says, but he does look worried that I might just mean it.
I get cards and presents. Even from my brother. He gives me a heavy package wrapped in crumpled newspaper with a sedge-grass ribbon. It’s a piece of raw soapstone, the biggest chunk I’ve ever had!
“I found it by the riverbank after hours and hours of looking. I tested it for softness with my knife just like you showed me.”
“Thank you. It’s totally awesome. It will be my next carving.”
In that package from Stan there is a new gun for me. Except it doesn’t shoot ammunition. It shoots pictures! Stan got a special camera for me and mounted it on a gunstock. A gunstock is the wooden handle of a shotgun or a rifle. The shutter button on this camera is wired to where your trigger finger goes. When you pull the trigger a picture is taken. I can unhook the camera from the gunstock if I want and wear it around my neck.
“Great hunters don’t just shoot guns,” Stan says. “You have such a good aim. I want you to keep coming out to shoot with us.” Then he leans over and whispers, “You won’t miss on purpose with this.” He winks and smiles, and Dad smiles too.
After supper Stan and Dad show me how to use the camera gun. Mom says I can use her computer to store all my pictures.
“Now get out and practice,” Stan says. “It’s just a few weeks till the hunt, and your new job is to take lots of pictures for the history books.”
As I hold my new camera, my worries hatch and fly away. Now I can’t wait to go hunting again with Dad, Stan and my brother. But instead of being a gun shooter, I’m going to be a camera shooter.
Sidekicks and Signs:
A Quandary of Quills
A gray jay dive-bombs and lands on Atim’s back. The bird picks a loose thread from Atim’s collar and pulls. Aim, zoom, click—I photograph the camp robber in the act. Atim does not seem to mind. Off the gray jay flies with the thread in its beak. Maybe
it will knit a scarf for its fledglings.
We are out on the trails around our tourist lodge. Folks come here by train. They bring binoculars and telescopes and cameras. Mom and Dad take them out on the river and into the marshlands.
“Our guests are for the birds,” my joking dad says.
At the river crossing I practice focusing my camera where the bridge trestles meet the water. I pretend that the trestles are the legs of a great bridge monster who sees Atim and wants to play. The bridge monster shakes like a wet dog. A million birds swoop from under his belly while I get pictures of it all. Soon the herons and the sandhill cranes will come back to the river. I will take lots of pictures of them too.
Next we walk through the grassy meadow where an osprey aerie sits atop a high pole. Mother and Father Osprey are sprucing up their nest. I pretend we are mice hiding in the dry grasses. I shoot some pictures from a mouse’s-eye view.
The path takes us across the train tracks. I pause and look for Lindy the way I always do when spring is in the air. Lindy is a good friend of our family. When he visits, he makes carvings to sell to our guests. I have watched Lindy make carvings for my whole life. He is an elder, and he tells stories about all the birds and animals.
Last year Lindy gave me my very first piece of soapstone and showed me how to carve. I carved a bear cub. Before Lindy left our lodge for his yearly travels, he gave me three more pieces of soapstone. My carvings are of a beluga whale, a snow goose and an otter. When I tried carving soapstone I more than just liked it. Carving soapstone felt like something I’ve always been meant to do. My brother says I’m obsessed, but it’s not like that. Besides, I could say the same for him about hockey.
I use the zoom on my camera to see far up the tracks, but no Lindy. Winter is over, and that means he will visit soon. I can’t wait to see him and show him my carvings.
The new piece of soapstone from my brother stays on my mind. I wonder what carving is inside. Lindy says that whatever the carving is going to be is already there inside the stone. He says that sometimes you might be given a sign and then you will know what to carve. A sign can be any way that the world gives you a message. Signs come to you when your thoughts mix with your senses. I keep myself open to the signs and whispers all around, just like Lindy taught me.
Way into the marshlands the beaver pond is quiet. I imagine that Atim and I are beavers inside the great lodge of sticks and mud. We relax in front of a big-screen television with a bowl of popcorn.
Into the forest we go, all senses alert. I pretend that I am the greatest hunter of all time. My sidekick, the wild winter wolf, walks with me. Sunlight streams through the new leaves of spring. A sign reaches the great hunter. It is a scent carried on the breeze. The hunter stops, crouches. The scent becomes a stench. The hunter’s nostrils flare. Only one creature has a smell like that. The hunter spots a slight movement. He sees the outline of his prey. It is on the trunk of an aspen tree, a few feet off the ground.
There, in all its magnificence, is the wild Canadian porcupine. A coat of quills stands on guard. A tail full of sharp needles hangs ready to strike should the hunter make the mistake of getting too close.
The hunter calls to his sidekick in Cree. “štam,” he says quietly. “Now sit, stay, good girl.” The loyal wolf obeys the soft commands.
The porcupine comes into the hunter’s crosshairs and into focus. When in shooting range there is no time to waste. The great hunter takes aim. But wait. The animal turns its head. White quills make a strange wiggly stripe along one side of its face. The hunter can see the glimmer of a porcupine eye opening wide. Eyes of hunter and prey meet and hold fast to each other, but who is the more curious?
The hunter breaks the staring contest and gets in three rapid shots. Click, click, click. Then the hunter moves in closer. The porcupine stiffens. The animal sounds a high-pitched growl and lashes its tail.
All of a sudden the winter wolf flies by the great hunter, lips pulled back in a snarl. There is another lash of the porcupine’s tail, followed by a great yelp of pain.
Oh no! This isn’t pretend anymore.
Atim rolls on her back with paws to her muzzle and yelps. The porcupine climbs higher in the tree. Atim thrashes her head from side to side. I see porcupine quills sticking out from her snout. Atim digs at her snout with her paws. She yelps even louder at the pain this causes.
Atim is hurt. She thought the porcupine was going to hurt me. She was just trying to protect me. It’s my fault. I want to run, and I want to hide, and I want to stop Atim’s pain. And I just want to turn the clocks of the world back to before this happened.
Then I remember what Stan and Dad have taught me about hunting. When there is an emergency, always try to control your own panic first. So that is what I try to do.
I set down my camera. I kneel down beside Atim. I try to keep her paws away from her muzzle and her muzzle away from me. I notice that she cannot close her mouth because some quills are stuck inside.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s just some silly porcupine quills. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for being so brave.” My heart is racing. I try to speak calmly and it seems to help both of us.
I look up high in the tree, and there is the porcupine, looking down at us. Its quills have relaxed and lie flat. The strong scent is also calming down. I can see the wiggly stripe on the animal’s face. I know I will recognize this porcupine if I ever see it again.
I hold Atim’s collar in one hand and pick up my camera with the other.
“štam,” I say. “I will take you home now, Atim. Mom and Dad will know what to do.”
As Atim runs along beside me, she whimpers and yelps in confusion and pain. I feel the salty sting of tears in my eyes. I am crying too.
As we get close to home Atim’s yelping brings Mom, Dad and my brother out to the porch. Dad runs to us. He takes Atim by the collar and leads her to the porch.
Mom looks at Atim’s snout. “She must have forty quills in her face. This will be very painful for Atim. You must keep talking gently to the dog and hold her tightly.”
Mom gets on the phone with the veterinarian. She comes back outside with some written notes and her first-aid kit. “Atim would have to wait too long to get to the veterinarian. We are going to help her.”
Dad gets Atim to lie down on her side. He straddles the dog to hold her in place. Mom makes Atim swallow some medicine. My brother is sent to get Dad’s needle-nose pliers and work gloves. I am sent to get an old pillow to place under Atim’s neck.
Dad keeps holding Atim. My brother and I hold her paws so she does not swipe her face. Mom soaks the needle-nose pliers in hydrogen peroxide and pats them dry with a cotton ball. The medicine starts to make Atim groggy. Dad puts on his thick leather gloves to hold Atim’s mouth open.
Even when groggy, Atim is very strong. She yelps and struggles each time Mom grabs a quill with the pliers. One by one the quills come out of Atim’s mouth and snout. When each quill is pulled, drops of blood stain her furry muzzle.
When about a dozen quills are left sticking out of Atim’s muzzle, Mom says it’s time to switch. She takes my place holding Atim’s paws, and I take the pliers. Dad gives me a nod.
“Grip the quill like you saw me do,” Mom says. “Pull it straight back. Pull it like you mean it. Check to make sure you get the whole quill. Then get going on the next one.”
Mom sure makes it look easy. You have to pull hard because each quill has barbs like a fish hook. Each time I reach with the pliers I feel Atim flinch. She knows it’s going to hurt, and I can almost feel it with her. I’m crying too, but I don’t let my feelings stop me from doing a good job for Atim.
My brother takes a turn as well. Dad and Mom and I hold Atim for him. He is scared like I was. I can tell by his eyes that he can feel Atim’s pain too, but there is also anger in his eyes.
Mom uses a cloth to pat Atim’s snout and gently wash her muzzle.
We do a final check to make sure all the quills are out. Atim is calmer now but still whimpers and tries to bury her nose between her paws.
When I had my worries Atim would not leave my side. So today I stay with her to make her feel calm and make sure she does not paw at her swollen face. I keep telling her how brave she is and I thank her for protecting me in the forest.
Supper is late. Everyone is upset for the poor dog. My brother is still upset after we are tucked into our room for the night.
“A lot of good your camera gun did for Atim,” my brother says through the darkness. “I’ll find the porcupine who hurt her. And my gun doesn’t shoot pictures!”
I don’t know what to say back to him, so I don’t say anything. The silence in our room becomes very loud. I lay awake long after my brother’s breathing turns to sleep.
Hunters, Hunger and Hopeful Hearts:
A Shot in the Dark?
Mom points with her face to the north. The tracks stretch out like a giant ladder that leans against the horizon. What Mom points at is only a little dot at first. The little dot grows slowly into the shape of a man walking. He is bent under the weight of a sack slung over his shoulder.
“He’s here, he’s here!” I yell and take off up the tracks.
Lindy sees me running. He puts down his sack and bows to greet me. I give him a big hug. My nose fills with outdoor adventures I can’t wait to hear about.
“I have my carvings to show you,” I say. I tell him what they are, and I ask him how his winter was. Then I ask him what sort of things he is carving. I ask him how long he will stay. I ask him how things are to the north and if he has ever carved a porcupine. And then I realize I am talking so fast that he hardly has time to listen, let alone give me answers.
He just laughs his happy laugh and says, “I think you could be an auctioneer if you ever have enough of stone carving.”
