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 45
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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 e priest is laughing.
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten. Cowboys, eh?” Bunna scowls. He don’t like to be laughed at.
“Well, I’m sorry, boys, but we haven’t any horses.” He pats the steering wheel like it’s a dog.
“Guess we’ll just have to make do with this old buggy.” Th
en he leans down toward Bunna like he’s sharing a big secret. “And you know, I don’t think cowboys hunt horses as a rule. Th
ink about it. How would they get around if they started eating all their horses?”
Bunna glares at me real quick.
“Yeah,” he says. “How would they?”
We drive on in silence, the priest smiling and still tapping the steering wheel real soft, like maybe it helps him think to tap it that way.
“So you’re the Aaluk boys,” he says at last.
Th
e way he says it is like he already knows, so we don’t say anything.
“And which one are you?” he asks Bunna.
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“Bunna,” Bunna says.
Th
en he looks at me. “And?”
“Luke,” Bunna says.
“You’re the oldest, aren’t you?” Still looking at me.
I raise my eyebrows. Yes.
“Well, there’s no point in trying to run off , you know. It’s about 300 miles to Fairbanks, and I doubt you boys could make it that far.