My Name Is Not Easy by Edwardson, Dahl (the reading list TXT) 📗

lying alongside the road, looking more like a brown gunnysack full of meat than something that used to run around. It’s not as big as I thought, just long, spindly legs and a ribbed body.

“Why, it’s just a baby!” one of the teachers cries.

“Man, they sure smashed it up,” Bunna says.

But you can see it’s mostly just the head that’s smashed.

Th

e meat part looks okay. I take a deep breath as Father pulls off the road and wonder how I’m going to do this thing I never done before.

When we step down off the bus, the sun is shining cold, and the air smells cold, too, with little fl ecks of snow in it. Th e

last of the leaves on the trees are yellow and browning, fl oating down from the branches like fur shedding, which is what trees do in the winter, I guess.

I’m glad to feel that wind, all right. We’re higher up in the valley than the school, way up by the mountains. Up here you can feel the wind and see farther, too. You can even hear the sound of ravens, cawing way off in the distance, which makes me think of home. Tulugaq, that’s what we call ravens.

Bunna and I stand together on the side of the road, looking down at the moose. Everybody is watching. Waiting. I shift 92

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B U R N T O F F E R I N G S / L u k e

from one foot to another, staring down at the dusty moose, wishing it had instructions stamped on its skin.

“All right, Luke, you’re in charge,” Father says.

I look up, eyeing a little patch of tundra on the other side of the road.

“First we better drag it over there, where we can work on it,” I say, nodding at the spot of high tundra, just like Uncle Joe would. Cleaner than the dirt road.

Father takes one of the front legs and I take the other.

Sister Mary Kate steps forward with a determined little smile and grabs a back leg, looking over at the volunteer teachers, who stand off to the side of the road with pale faces. Some of them look like they might get sick.

“Come on, girls,” Sister calls. “Let’s not shun Providence.”

I’m not exactly sure what she means by that, but before any of the teachers can worry about shunning Providence, Donna steps up and grabs a leg, which really surprises me.

Donna doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would want to get her hands dirty with a dead moose.

Together we pull that moose up onto the tundra. Th

en

everyone stands back, waiting. I swallow a little lump of fear, running my fi nger along the blade of the knife Father gave me. Th

en I lean down and slit that moose open right up the belly, end to end, easy as unzipping a jacket. I breathe deep and smile.

Th

e teachers all step backward with one movement. But the kids all step closer.

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“My,” says one of the teachers in a whispery voice.

Bunna moves in right next to me, squatting down with a grin.

See? I tell him with my eyes. Th

en I reach up inside the

belly like I seen Uncle Joe do with caribou. But you have to reach a lot farther in to get inside a moose than you do with a caribou, even a baby moose. I’m in up to my shoulder before my hand fi nds the top edge of the guts. I pull hard, and the insides come sliding out just like water. One of the teachers behind me gasps.

“All right then, here’s the heart,” Father says, stepping forward and nodding down at my hand. I look at my hand and realize that I’m clutching that baby moose heart like it might save my life.

“Where’s that sack, Sister?” Father calls.

Sister grabs one of the burlap sacks they brought, and Bunna reaches into the mess of guts and pulls out the taqtuk like he’s done it a hundred times. Amiq winks at him.

“Here’s the taqtuk, ” Bunna says. Taqtuk is Bunna’s favor-ite. “What do Catholics call taqtuk, Luke?” Bunna whispers.

I don’t know what Catholics call taqtuk, so I pretend I’m too busy to talk.

“Taqtuk is kidneys,” Amiq says, tipping his head at Sister with a smile.

I know I’m supposed to take the skin off next, and I’m pulling with one hand and punching with the other, trying to separate the skin from the meat like I seen Joe do before with 94

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caribou, seen Mom do with fox, but the skin won’t separate.

It’s stuck hard, like it’s frozen onto the meat.

“You can’t pull the skin off like it’s a parka,” Sonny says, laughing sharply, like the sound a tulugaq makes. He even looks like a raven. Bunna glares at him.

“I seen them pull the skins off caribous,” Bunna mutters.

“Lots of times.”

“Th

at look like a caribou to you?” Sonny says.

Amiq moves over and squats down next to us.

“Naw,” he says, watching Sonny with a sharp eye. “Th at

ain’t no caribou. Stinks like a wet dog.”

Sonny glares at Amiq like he’s just insulted his mother.

Th

is makes me laugh, which makes Sonny glare even

harder.

“Of course it’s diff erent with moose,” I say smoothly.

“With moose you got to cut it up into pieces fi rst,