William came to the top of the hill where Iris had felt the eagle. There were rabbit paths here. He cut four bits of wire with his knife. He put a loop in each end, and circled the wire through the loops. You put snares four fingers above the snow crust.

He liked to hang his snares from a growing twig. His brother Jack laughed at that. Jack cut his own sticks and drove them into the snow and peat. He said William did it the lazy way. William would cut his own sticks if he thought that would make better snares. But he had stopped trying to explain that long ago.

He wanted to go over the hill away from the city. He looked at factory chimneys across the harbour. Below he could see his house, and Norman Healy's, and John Moore's. Coal smoke rose. Lace curtains veiled dim rooms where he knew it was warm.

Iris would have a rabbit or a grouse in the iron pot, with a paste over it. He looked at the heavy sky. Snow had not let up for weeks. He would not get far without his snow-shoes. But he had a trail to the tall stones near the pond.

The tall stones stood over a pool and stream that ran so slow they were smooth as glass. The biggest stone stood six times his height. It had a natural fireplace at its base.

Many summer nights he had curled near his fire of var and tamarack sticks after a supper of roast grouse. Black tea scalded his throat. In summer the earth smelled of peat and needles.

Now the pool glinted. He scraped snow from the fireplace. There was charred wood. He found dry twigs and made a fire. The fragrant smoke took worries away. He broke young var boughs and made a seat in the snow. He began to think on stories he had heard about this place.