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- Стр. 136/409
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"
For
your
cairn
,
"
he
said
when
he
saw
Louis
looking
.
"
Oh
,
"
Louis
said
and
went
back
to
work
.
He
made
the
grave
about
two
feet
wide
and
three
feet
long
--
a
Cadillac
of
a
grave
for
a
damn
cat
,
he
thought
--
and
when
it
was
perhaps
thirty
inches
deep
and
the
pick
was
flashing
sparks
up
from
almost
every
stroke
,
he
tossed
it
and
the
shovel
aside
and
asked
Jud
if
it
was
okay
.
Jud
got
up
and
took
a
cursory
look
.
"
Seems
fine
to
me
,
"
he
said
.
"
Anyway
,
it
's
what
you
think
that
counts
.
"
"
Will
you
tell
me
now
what
this
is
about
?
"
Jud
smiled
a
little
.
"
The
Micmacs
believed
this
hill
was
a
magic
place
,
"
he
said
.
"
Believed
this
whole
forest
,
from
the
swamp
on
north
and
east
was
magic
.
They
made
this
place
,
and
they
buried
their
dead
here
,
away
from
everything
else
.
Other
tribes
steered
clear
of
it
--
the
Penobscots
said
these
woods
were
full
of
ghosts
.
Later
on
,
the
fur
trappers
started
saying
pretty
much
the
same
thing
.
I
suppose
some
of
them
saw
the
foo-fire
in
Little
God
Swamp
and
thought
they
were
seeing
ghosts
.
"
Jud
smiled
,
and
Louis
thought
:
That
is
n't
what
you
think
at
all
.
"
Later
on
,
not
even
the
Micmacs
themselves
would
come
here
.
One
of
them
claimed
he
saw
a
Wendigo
here
and
that
the
ground
had
gone
sour
.
They
had
a
big
powwow
about
it
...
or
so
I
heard
the
tale
in
my
green
years
,
Louis
,
but
I
heard
it
from
that
old
tosspot
Stanny
B.
--
which
is
what
we
all
called
Stanley
Bouchard
--
and
what
Stanny
B.
did
n't
know
,
he
'd
make
up
.
"
Louis
,
who
knew
only
that
the
Wendigo
was
supposed
to
be
a
spirit
of
the
north
country
,
said
,
"
Do
you
think
the
ground
's
gone
sour
?
"
