foggy earth pass beneath them.
Earl’s voice suddenly crackled over the headset, causing Cutter to glance toward the cockpit.
“A couple of nice moose in the water off the left wing at about eight o’clock.” He flipped the switch isolating him and Grinder again, leaving everyone else to look at scenery worthy of a National Geographic cover.
Less than a thousand feet below, Cutter could just make out the sweeping oxbows of the Kuskokwim, one of the two mighty rivers, along with the Yukon, that formed the southern and northern reaches of the YK Delta in Western Alaska. There were a few trees right out of Bethel, but not enough to call any one spot a forest. Tall cottonwoods grew along the banks of the river and its many smaller tributaries, towering over clumps of more stunted willow, alder, and birch. Gnarled spruce stuck up here and there, out of place, like patches someone had missed when shaving.
Thousands of lakes and ponds pocked the flat tundra below, some frozen enough to be covered with ice, others gaping black holes of open water against a background of patchy snow. They flew over several villages on the river north of Bethel, handfuls of weathered houses, short gravel airstrips, boats along the bank.
Lola’s voice squelched in the headset. “Even the smallest villages look like they have a school.”
“Yep,” Natalie Beck said. “I think the minimum is something like fifteen kids. The school serves as the community center, library, gym, theater on movie night, art center, wood shop. Ours is the only building in Stone Cross big enough to hold everyone for a funeral.”
“A lot of funerals?” Ms. Paisley asked.
“Too many,” Natalie said, so quiet her voice cut out a little on the intercom. “We had one for a student right before I flew out.”
“Are you from Alaska?” Lola asked, obviously trying to lighten the mood.
“Michigan,” Natalie said. “Ann Arbor.”
Ewing cleared his throat. “I’m a Buckeyes fan.”
“Go Blue,” Natalie said out of habit, still subdued.
Paisley laughed. “Ann Arbor is beautiful. Surprised you left it for bush Alaska.”
“This place has its charms,” Natalie said. “You fall in love with the people.”
Lola spoke next. “New Zealand Maori have a saying: It’s the people, it’s the people, it’s the people.”
“I like that,” Natalie said.
Ms. Paisley half turned in her seat. “My boss told me we shouldn’t use the term Eskimo, but I’ve heard them call themselves that.”
“They do indeed,” Ewing said, one of his usual pronouncements of wisdom.
“The Canadians I’ve met don’t like it much,” Natalie said. “They seem to prefer Inuit. I just follow the lead of whoever I’m speaking with. The people I know in Stone Cross don’t seem to mind Eskimo. If you’re unsure, just call them Yup’ik . . . or, better yet, don’t give them a label.”
Cutter didn’t know if this teacher was wise before she came to the bush, or if the bush made her so. Either way, she spoke with the maturity of someone with a lifetime of experience.
“Stone Cross is supposed to be a fairly grim place,” Markham said. “At least according to Lieutenant Warr. Is that how you would describe it?”
Natalie continued to look out the window.
The mic picked up her soft groan. “I might not be the one to talk about those details. I’m still an outsider.”
“You appear to be a bright woman,” Mr. Ewing said from the back of the plane. “There must be some positive things if you return for what, your fourth year?”
“Oh,” the teacher said, turning, though she was talking over the intercom. “There are plenty of upsides. I’ve never seen anyone with more respect for their elders. And they have this intense relationship with the land and water . . . But honestly, I would be dishonest if I didn’t tell you about the domestic violence, sexual assault, and the rampant poverty. More than a couple of the children in our school have been sexually abused, and it’s not a very big school. The people voted in the local election to make it a dry village. Sale and even possession of alcohol is a crime. Some people bootleg—an eight-dollar plastic bottle of R&R whiskey can bring a couple of hundred bucks—but most don’t have that kind of money. They get around that by making this nasty home brew in five-gallon paint buckets. Baker’s yeast, sugar, and some kind of fruit juice.”
“Like the pruno inmates make in prison,” Lola offered.
“If pruno smells like old bread dough and an orange-juice can you dug out of the garbage.”
Lola