Born with a Tooth by Joseph Boyden

talking around him. A group of boys in baseball caps gathered near and talked loudly about Painted Tongue. The one with bright eyes looked down at him.
    Are you an Algonquin? he asked. Painted Tongue looked away. Are you Cree? the boy continued. Painted Tongue pretended not to notice him. The boy’s friends stopped talking and looked down at Painted Tongue.
    Do you want a beer? another asked.
    Of course he does, another said, and they all laughed.
    Are you Iroquois? the one with bright eyes asked. Painted Tongue stood up angrily. His head was spinning, and now off the sidewalk he felt unprotected. He pulled his bottle from his belt and drained the rest.
    I will count coup on you, baseball cap motherfucker, Painted Tongue hummed. The tones of his war chant came to him. I will take a knife and cut your scalp from your skull for calling me Iroquois. I will rip your ears from your head and eat them in front of you. He let his hand drop, dangling the bottle. The boys backed away a little.
    Lookit that! He’s got attitude, one of them shouted as they formed a circle on the sidewalk around him.
    Painted Tongue began to pace slowly around the inside of the circle. He felt a warrior’s control suddenly, all eyes upon him, watching closely his every move. When Painted Tongue walked by one of the boys, he’d stare at the boy’s eyes until he recognized the wolf spider of fear in them. He walked carefully, slowly by their feet, watching their faces pass his. The boys widened the ring. Painted Tongue concentrated on his own feet moving. He picked up the pace. He could hear the pound of the drum in his head. The boys began clapping in time. Check it out, one said. He’s on the warpath.
    Painted Tongue reached out and touched each boy as he passed. He counted coup upon every single one in the group and watched the look of shame and disgust on their faces as they shrank away from his outstretched hand. He was happy. He was a warrior. He moved faster, bent far forward, lifting his knees high. He closed his eyes and danced the circle. It was effortless, like a strong wind picking him up and carrying him. He saw red behind his eyelids, then yellow and blue. In his mind it was he and Kyle running fast, chasing their shadows on a bright day in the tall grass, their shadows stretching in front of them and trying to get away.
    They ran across the field that turned into a hill that got steeper and steeper. Kyle caught his own shadow and PaintedTongue could see Kyle’s body now, his thin brown back, his red shorts, his skinny legs pumping. Kyle was always the faster one. The circle of boys sped up their clapping in time with Painted Tongue. The hill grew steeper and the grass thinned out to smooth grey stone. Kyle was getting away. He was near the top where the hill curved round. Painted Tongue’s chest heaved with the effort of catching up. He looked behind him for a second and could see the field far below. He was so high up it made his head spin. Painted Tongue reached the top and it was the stadium, a colourless turtle shell he was running upon. Kyle was gone.
    Just when Painted Tongue knew he could dance no longer, he felt one of the boy’s boots catch his foot. Painted Tongue was happy for it. His dance was over. He stumbled over the boot and the momentum carried him forward with arms outstretched, one hand still clutching the empty bottle. He really was flying into the air now, off the stadium roof, off the turtle’s back. I am flying, he tried to hum. Oh shit, I am flying high.
    His hands hit the pavement first and the bottle shattered. The long broken neck of it pointed up to him like a skinning knife. He wanted to keep flying but the earth was pulling him down, wanted to say that the circle had not been completed yet but there wasn’t enough time.

BEARWALKER
    I don’t know whose story this is. All I know is that my oldest friend — the one I first rode bicycles around Annunciation House