"Well, I just don't know."

That seemed to pretty much sum up the situation, for the moment anyhow, and the jug found its way around the table. Ten eyes stared morosely into five glasses, and conversation waned. The participants sat at a round table in the corner of a small, crowded pub. Behind them the regulars, seated along the bar on high stools, discoursed on a variety of topics ranging from a recent political happening to the deleterious affects of alcohol on the human body. Each topic was addressed with equal candour and expertise.

"It must be intrusive." Coe spoke without conviction, and didn't raise his eyes to his companions. The comment drew an immediate response from across the table and Kurt, shaking his head, leaned forward to speak.

"It can't be -- it's right there with the rest, buried the same way, and there's no indication of any disturbance. Besides, those grave goods aren't Dorset."

"But the skeleton is Dorset, or certainly Eskimo." Maggie's response voiced the problem puzzling the group.

"Yes, I know," mumbled Kurt. The facts had been repeatedly raised, discussed and debated. No further comments were forthcoming, and the eyes returned to the glasses on the table.

The five beer drinkers were members of an archaeological expedition recently returned from Great Caribou Lake in the western interior of Newfoundland. Kurt Bentley, leader of the expedition and prehistoric archaeologist at the Archaeological Research Foundation, had initiated the project the previous year, after exploration disclosed the presence of a large prehistoric site on the shores of the lake. A brief week-long stay the preceding summer had been sufficient to show that the site had been occupied by Indian people some 1,200 years ago. Faint indications of house structures were discernable, untouched by recent settlement, and Bentley had decided that the find warranted a full-scale investigation. Accordingly, he had assembled a crew of ten persons and, after dealing with the seemingly endless logistical details, returned to Great Caribou Lake the following spring. Their stay was to last three months.

The first ten weeks had proved highly satisfactory. Bentley had divided his assistants into two groups, each group being responsible for the excavation of two of the many ancient Indian houses. The clean, sandy soil of the lakeshore had lent itself admirably to the techniques of archaeology, and now Bentley observed with satisfaction the completed excavations. A wealth of data concerning the construction and internal organization of the Indian houses had been amassed. Over a thousand artifacts -- stone and bone tools, weapons, household items and decorative pieces -- had been collected. Now that the primary objectives for the current year were reached, Bentley's thought turned to the next season. Follow-up work would require some planning: returning and excavating additional houses would not be sufficient, as it was unlikely that much new information would be produced.

Watching the crew add the final touches to their work in preparation for the taking of photographs, he again thought of an idea that had been in the back of his mind all summer. The site gave all indications of having been a year-round, permanent settlement, and somewhere nearby there ought to be a cemetery where some of its former occupants were buried. The discovery of a burial ground would add significant information regarding the physical appearance of these people, and also be informative as to their religious practices. Bone preservation would be excellent in the well-drained, sandy soil. With great expectations he had arranged a methodical testing of the terrain around the village site.

Despite these expectations, however, he could scarcely believe their fortune when, three days later, the discovery was made. On a terrace above the village site, at the junction of Great Caribou Lake and the inflowing Fishers River, a shovel test pit disclosed human bone. The following day the skeleton lay exposed. A close examination showed it to be an adult male, of Indian physical type. Stone tools and delicately-carved bone ornaments lay with the deceased in the ancient grave.

The following two weeks witnessed a frenzy of activity as burial after burial was located and exposed. With time running short, Bentley decided to wind up the season's works, cover the site for the winter months, and see to the packing of artifacts and human bones for transportation. Yet another burial was located. Despairingly almost, he resolved that once this one was exposed and removed, it would be the last for the year. Squatting by the pit, he watched two crew members meticulously brush the sand from the skeleton. Slowly the form emerged from the soil: femora, pelvic girdle, ribs and vertebral column, clavicles, facial bones, mandible . . . Somewhat puzzled, he stared at the skull: its shape, the pronounced malar bones. It appeared rather different from the other specimens; it looked, in fact, Eskimo?

Ahead barrenground stretched to the horizon; to the right was the ocean. Shanta stopped by a grove of stunted firs where a stream flowed down to the sea. His heart raced unnaturally as he crawled into the thickest part of the tangled undergrowth. As the sound of his pumping heart and rasping breath gradually subsided, he heard them, as he knew he would. Since morning, the time of the first encounter, he had eluded them, always staying a distance ahead. Yet this time he feared it would be different. His pursuers were encircling him, driving him towards the sea, and this time there was nowhere to turn.

Daybreak of the last day had found Shanta and six other T'nit on the river, waiting. His companions were all men, older than he, strong and experienced. This was the first time he had accompanied the hunters up the river, yet he had lived it many times before during the long winter months encamped by the sea, when the hunters discussed the successes and failures of past seasons. The seven men waited for the caribou. They would come, the older hunters knew, before the sun was much higher, for they had been seen the previous day not far to the east. The unwavering instincts of the herd would bring them here to cross the river, on their single minded trek to their western wintering grounds. As Shanta and the other T'nit sat quietly by the river, they felt confident that some of those animals would never complete their westward excursion. The experienced hunters were familiar with the scene soon to occur: the swimming animals; a sudden attack; the confused floundering of the herd; the blackening of the water with blood; the dead or dying animals floating downstream. They had seen it many times before, and waited silently. Shanta, in youth and inexperience, was excited and impatient; for him the waiting seemed interminable.

Perhaps it was a gentle breeze from the east, or the hunter's concentrated watch, or maybe even Shanta's occasional whispered question, but the band of seven was surprised -- completely and utterly. Their attackers seemed to rise from within the very earth; fierce, strange warriors who gave no quarter. Unprepared as the T'nit were, the struggle ended quickly. The carcasses carried downstream towards the sea were those of men, not caribou.

The shock of the cold water revived Shanta. For an instant he was lost, then recollection came. With his returning memory there also came the realization that he was drowning, and he struck out weakly, desperately, with his arms. His feet touched bottom as his head broke the surface, and he dragged himself onto the rough stony riverbank, oblivious to the cries that sounded after him. The river current had carried him some distance, and deposited him on the far bank before taking a sharp bend to pursue its course. Shanta's escape had not gone unnoticed by his attackers. A few saw his reappearance, and excitedly called the others' attention. For a moment they remained indecisive, and then began moving down the riverbank to a place opposite Shanta's position. Shanta's strength returned with each passing instant, as he choked out the river water he had swallowed, and seeing his pursuers approaching, he rose to his feet and fled.

Huddled in the thicket, an involuntary shudder of cold or fear took momentary control of Shanta's body. The sounds of pursuit could be heard more clearly now, above the soft tinkling of the stream: the swish of a moving body against the undergrowth, a faint, brief, guttural communication. As the shaking of his body gradually diminished, his numbed mind returned to the terrifying scenes of midday.

The river had saved him from immediate capture. Before the Betuk -- as Shanta, in horror, had come to think of his violent pursuers -- had crossed the water, Shanta had gained a good lead. As he fell into a steady trot, he felt more at ease, for he knew that once he gained the coast, and the main camp of his people, he would be safe. His hunting party had left camp on the previous morning, and had travelled to the river crossing in a day's journey. They had been burdened then, with their weapons and knives, firestones and food, and had travelled slowly. Alone now, unencumbered and with fear speeding him, Shanta knew he could reach his camp before the sun passed its peak.

With elation and relief Shanta topped the familiar hill above the small cove where his camp was situated. As he looked down on the place that had been his home for many months, a wave of wretched, inconsolable despair overwhelmed him. With legs that seemed not his own, he stumbled into camp. The skin-covered houses lay in heaped ruin, or fluttered raggedly in the breeze. Angry wisps of pale smoke rose from among the scattered hearthstones. No living thing moved. His people were there though, laying on the blood-darkened ground, eyes watching unseeingly the static scene about them. With a mind only beginning to comprehend, Shanta went to his own home. The house still stood, although one of its beams was broken, and the covering flapped loosely. Shant's old body lay near the entrance, twisted obscenely, a lifeless hand clutching the slim shaft protruding from his belly.

The crackling of brush sounded very close. As he listened and thought, Shanta's head ached from his fears and memories, and from the blow it had received that morning. The Betuk club would have proved fatal he knew, if the force of the blow had not been partially absorbed by his high collar.

A coarse shout cut short his rambling thoughts. From its direction Shanta knew what the shout signified: one of his pursuers had discovered the trail of broken twigs and trampled brush where he had entered the thicket. Flushed like an animal, Shanta burst from the thicket in a sudden blind and overwhelming panic. More shouts sounded immediately beside him, and hands tore at his arms and clothing. His eyes saw an upraised arm, and as his glance travelled down to the exulting countenance of the Betuk, it was held, for an instant before unconsciousness came, by the shiny green tips of the arrows slung over the hunter's shoulder.

The movement of his body was inexplicable. It swayed with a constant rhythmic motion, centring about his hands and feet, and his head seemed never to stop its to and fro, back and forth nodding -- punctuated occasionally by a more than usually violent lurch. At first there was no pain. He strained to open his eyes against the blinding white light, and as he peered though heavy-lidded, half- opened eyes, realization filtered slowly into his numbed brain. As feelings returned to his extremities, he experienced the most intense agony of his young life. His legs, and especially his arms, felt as though they were being torn from his torso. The sheer weight of his head seemed capable at any moment of separating it from his shoulders. The utter helplessness and agony of his position brought forth the only reaction possible: with the little strength he had, he screamed . . .

Shanta's piercing cries caused surprise amongst the Betuks, lulled as they were by their constant plodding across the barrens in the bright, warm sunlight. Two burly young men, clad in greasy dirt-stained skins, exchanged brief words and dropped their end of the travois on which Shanta was suspended. The members of the band crowded around, as Shanta's return to consciousness provided a break from the monotony of the cross-country trek. One of the travois-bearers spoke.

"Finally he's waking, Brok!"

Tall and powerful despite his advancing years, Brok held authority over the small Betuk band. He stood and stared at the recumbent form of the young T'nit. After a moment of this silent consideration he motioned with one hand, and said curtly, "Free him."

A young brave immediately stepped forward, unknotted the thongs binding Shanta to the pole, and then carefully coiled the straps and placed them in a bag suspended from his shoulder. Shanta moved slowly, stretching his arms and legs and working his numbed fingers. For hours the bonds had worked against his body weight, and now livid red welts were visible on his wrists. His fingers were swollen grotesquely from the lack of circulation, and his neck, stretched by his dangling head, ached unmercifully. He lay silently on the carpet of tundra, as strength slowly -- very slowly -- returned to his tortured body, and terror filled his mind. The fierce, disheveled group of men standing about him were utterly strange. Never in his twelve years of life had he seen such people. Their vehement attacks upon the T'nit, and his own callous treatment after capture, seemed to portend great evil.

The Betuk Brok addressed young Shanta.

"Flegsuk! You're shaking with fear! Get up if you can -- or perhaps you'd rather crouch in the bushes over there!" With a grunt, perhaps a laugh, Brok turned to one of his companions.

"Tarfrik, what about this prize of yours? You caught him, and insisted we drag him with us until he awoke, and its time you decided what to do. I think we should have killed him long ago! But he's yours, so decide now."

Shanta, lying still half-dazed on the ground, listened to the exclamations of the Betuk leader. His utterances were as strange as his garments, his weapons, his features, but glancing around at the ring of solemn faces, Shanta sensed the extreme gravity of the situation.

The one addressed, Tarfrik, stepped up to Shanta, and with his foot gently prodded the boy. After a minute's scrutiny he shrugged, shook his head and said, "No, let's take him back with us."

Brok made a motion of dismissal with his hands. "It's up to you," he said, "but he better not slow us down". Tarfrik and a companion bent over Shanta and pulled him to his feet. "Come on little Thicket-Boy, get up and walk. You've had a good rest! Perhaps you'll get a drink in the stream up ahead". And with the assistance of the two Shanta, the Thicket-Boy, moved on with the Betuks. Realizing that the immediate dangers had passed his terror subsided somewhat, although he could not imagine what he would face in the coming days.

That evening, as the day's bright sun slid behind the distant hills, Shanta and the Betuks made camp near where a river flowed into a lake. They met no other people, and, as the Betuks constructed only flimsy brush shelters Shanta realized that their stay here would be only temporary. After these rough shelters were completed, two small fires were made, over which the savages thrust chunks of caribou meat which they had carried with them. Brok, Tarfrik and two others gathered around one fire, while the six other Betuks -- the youngest of the group -- crowded about the other. Shanta sat on a smooth rock, warm from the day's sun, a short distance away from the camp. The press of hunger was strong in his belly, as he had travelled far that day, and had not eaten since dawn. The odour of cooking meat emanating from the cheery red glow of the fires was compelling, yet he feared still to approach the men. All day he had struggled to keep pace with the group. The aching of his limbs, combined with the nausea from the blows his head had received, had made the afternoon's march nearly unbearable. Once the trek was resumed the Betuks had made no effort to converse with him.

Shanta got up from the rock and walked towards the river, to drink and refresh himself. A few of the Betuks looked up, but seeing his direction returned to their meal. Approaching a small, quiet pool which flowed from the mainstream of the river, he knelt by the water's edge and thrust his head below the calm surface. The chilly water felt invigorating, and he forgot his immediate troubles in the rush of frigid sensation. His lifting spirits were dashed somewhat however, when he saw the spreading brown stain across the rippled surface of the pool. Feeling his skull, he found the dual bumps from the blows he had received that day. One, at least, had broken the skin. As the water of the pool cleared he looked down at his reflection -- and saw his long black hair, matted in places with dried blood, framing his stained and streaked face. Again, but more slowly this time, he immersed his head, and carefully washed the wound. Splashing water on his face, he rinsed away the bloodstains. Refreshed, yet curiously weakened now that the climax of the day had passed, he lay back against a sandy embankment by the river and closed his eyes. Sleep came more easily than he could have imagined.

How long he lay there he didn't know, but suddenly he realized that someone was waking him. Opening his eyes and starting up he saw Tarfrik. The Betuk was clutching his arm and shaking him, but not violently. As Shanta came fully awake, his eyes and nose focused on the chunk of meat which the Betuk held out to him. Eagerly he took the offering, and ate ravenously. Tarfrik moved to sit next to Shanta on the sand by the pool. As both sat in the semi-darkness, comfortable in the cool, clear evening after the day's sun, the Betuk studied the young T'nit. His features softened as he watched the young boy tear at the still warm meat, and he spoke quietly, to no-one, "You're a tough one, I think, little Thicket-Boy," he whispered, "you'll do well."

Hearing the Betuk's words Shanta looked up, but when Tarfrik lay back, nearly disappearing in the deepening darkness, he returned to his supper. Tarfrik spoke no more, but when Shanta had finished he stood and motioned for the boy to follow. Proceeding to one of the shelters he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside, and Shanta followed. The darkness of the interior was nearly impenetrable. Only a few stray beams of pale moonlight filtered through the brush covering, and the atmosphere was thick with the odour of bodies. A slight rustling in the darkness greeted Tarfrik's and Shanta's arrival, and the T'nit squatted uneasily, but soon his weariness triumphed and he curled on the ground amongst his captors.

He awoke at dawn the next morning with the first stirrings of the Betuks. With little ceremony they exited the shelter and ate again of the caribou flesh, cold this time, for Brok appeared impatient to resume the journey.

Five days Shanta and the Betuks marched through the strange hinterland, on the fringe of the T'nit world. Four nights they stopped at convenient places near streams or lakes, and made their rude brush shelters. The Betuks marched as do men with a fixed destination in mind: they never wandered or were indecisive about their route, they never paused to hunt or fish. Shanta puzzled about their goal as he trailed along with his captors deeper and deeper into unknown country. Fortified with food and rest, he took an increasing interest in the strange lands through which they passed -- immense stretches of barrenground interspersed with boglands (which were carefully skirted), forests through which the Betuks miraculously found their way without hesitation, and a myriad of large and small lakes connected through a lattice-work of slow-flowing streams. Their march always carried them towards where the sun set and, especially towards evening, Shanta's gaze often lingered on the blue mountains in the distance.

Late each evening camp was made, the fires were lit, and the scene of the first night was repeated. Now Shanta sat with the Betuks near the flames and ate what was offered him. He watched with interest each evening as the meat was removed from the carrying sacks and seared over the fires, for he was invariably ravenous: eating stops were never made during the day's march. After the meal was consumed the Betuks would sit awhile around the fires, speaking occasionally in low tones, but more often silently staring into the flames. When the fires had reduced themselves to piles of glowing embers they would rise and, without ado, retire to their shelters.

On the fourth night all seemed as usual. Shanta eyes drooped, as he lay by the fire letting the pleasure of sleep and the warmth of the waning flames and the hot food slowly envelop him. Dimly he was aware that nearby Brok, Tarfrik and others were engaged in conversation. The firetalk, he thought vaguely, seemed more animated than usual tonight. Suddenly Shanta was jolted from his dozing by a burst of flame and loud Betuk words. Starting up he was surprised to see that more sticks had been heaped on the small cooking fire, which was fast becoming a towering blaze, and that all the Betuks had gathered about. He watched as the carrying sacks were again brought forth, and the remaining meat thrust into the flames. The usually solemn and taciturn Betuks laughed and shouted and jumped about the leaping flames, excited by the conflagration and, seemingly, experiencing a burst of goodwill. Shanta watched in astonishment as no efforts were made to salvage the meat from the fire. The Betuks laughed and jostled one another and talked rapidly -- a torrent of words unfamiliar to Shanta. One word which was repeated over and over, and which Shanta had heard on previous evenings, appeared to hold great significance.

"Bukkana!" The laughing and shouting resolved itself into a chant. Wide-eyed, Shanta stared at the ring of wild, boisterous men. He realized that this celebration, together with the destruction of the last of their food, must signify the end of the journey. Again and again the fire was rebuilt, and the talk of Bukkana continued late into the night. The excitement infected Shanta, and his thoughts raced ahead to the next day, and Bukkana.

In front of each of the numerous houses laying below them figures were engaged in activities indiscernible at a distance. Smoke curled from a few of the dwellings and was wafted away by the gentle westerly breeze. No sound carried to the watchers above. The Betuks stood atop a hill, savouring the view before them. Immediately below, a large river flowed into a lake which seemed immense -- the far bank to the west was just barely visible, but to the south the water stretched to the horizon. The countryside around the lake was wooded with fine, straight birch trees. The village which Shanta now observed with interest was situated on the sandy shore of the lake, on the same side as he now stood with the Betuks. As he stood gazing, Brok stepped forward to the edge of the hill, raised his arms and gave a long, lingering call. Shanta saw faces turn upward and heard answering shouts from below. More figures emerged from dwellings, and as the crowd gathered, the Betuks plunged down the hill.

As men long from home, the Betuks were welcomed at Bukkana. Brok and his band members were met at the base of the hill by an assortment of men, women and children of all ages, who singled out their long-absent relatives, and wept, laughed and shouted at their safe return. Mothers, fathers, wives, children -- all rejoiced, for Brok's band had been absent for many weeks, on a daring excursion which many feared would prove disastrous. Shanta watched this reunion from an inconspicuous position on the fringe of the woods, forgotten by his captors in this moment of high excitement. He thought momentarily of slipping into the woods and making his escape while the Betuks were distracted. He hesitated, however. Could he survive on his own, without weapons or food? Could he find his way home, across the trackless wilderness they had crossed in the past five days? The thought of home brought a sudden pang, as he realized he had no home, no family. A dreadful, sickening weakness overcame him, and he slumped to the ground on the edge of the woods, succumbing to the emotions that had been shut within him during the past few days.

Tarfrik took Shanta by the arm and pulled him to his feet. He stared for a moment at the distraught face of the boy and then, motioning with his head, led him forward. The gathering fell silent at the sight of the foreigner. Inquisitive eyes took in every detail of his dress and features, and then turned questioningly to Tarfrik who stood at his side and appeared ready to speak.

"This is a little Flegsuk," he announced with a broad grin, savouring the attention he received, "that we took far to the east. We burnt his village, and tracked the men hunting upriver, and killed them all, except this little one, who was lucky." He hesitated, and lowered his gaze to Shanta.

"This one we didn't kill," he said softly. "He can learn our ways. I'm going to keep him and teach him". Looking up again, his expression hardened and his eyes challenged anyone to argue, but there was no response.

The first few months at Bukkana were difficult for Shanta, as everything was so strange to him. Fall advanced into winter, when the Betuks relied mostly upon their stores of food, or fished a little through the ice on the lake, and Shanta found the short days and long nights of inactivity monotonous and irksome. The Betuks, except for Tarfrik, ignored him. At first some of the children gathered and stared, and then, growing braver, taunted him. Tarfrik quickly halted this. He lived in Tarfrik's house, and during the long evenings would sit with Tarfrik and his wife, gradually learning the words of the Betuk language. He progressed well and by mid-winter halting conversations were possible. In the daytime he would wander the shores of the lake, idly surveying the frozen landscape, and acquainting himself with his new home. More than once his thoughts returned to the past. The hurt of the wound was gone, but a scar remained.

One day spring arrived. Snow still lay deep among the leafless trees and a shimmering blue and white surface of ice- covered the lake, but life, it seemed, suddenly awoke all around. The Betuks sensed the change, roused themselves from the winter hibernation, and began preparations for the coming season. One evening Tarfrik spoke to Shanta about the spring.

"Soon," he said, "we will leave here for a while, to hunt fresh game. It will be several weeks before we return."

Shanta received this news with pleasure, as he was impatient to shake off the boredom of winter. He didn't speak however, for he sensed that Tarfrik was not yet finished. From an inside pocket the Betuk removed a small object and held it out for Shanta to see.

"This is for you," he said. The object was a piece of caribou bone, cut to a long and narrow shape, and carefully smoothed and polished. No marks marred its surfaces. At one end a neat, circular hole had been bored through it.

"This is our lake." Shanta thought that the piece did bear a resemblance to the shape of Lake Bukkana. From another pocket Tarfrik withdrew a small stone with a sharp, pointed corner. Carefully, with Shanta watching, he cut a straight line down the length of the bone piece.

"This is your life at Bukkana. It means that you are one of our people. Soon, however, you and I and others will leave. That is shown like this." With the sharp flint he cut a small notch in the side of the piece, removing a little of the bone.

"If all goes well and you return safely to Bukkana, you must then draw another line, connecting the central line of life with the notch of your absence. Then all will be well. Now take this, attach a good thong to it, and never lose it. The thong has no importance -- when it is frayed replace it with another."

Shanta took the pendant and examined it closely. While he was doing so Tarfrik reached inside his own shirt and produced another similar one. Looking at Tarfrik's pendant, he saw many notches, and counted fifteen absences from Bukkana. An equal number of connecting lines told that all trips had come to successful ends. Handing back Tarfrik's charm, Shanta spoke a few words of promise, and left to search for a thong.