Denahi finally spoke. “When we were boys, Sitka taught me to track. He said, ‘The prey always leaves a mark. You just have to learn to see what others ignore.’” He looked up at the eagle carved in stone. “He left a mark, Kenai. Not in the ice. In us.”
The shaman, Tanana, stepped forward. Her voice was old and thin as winter ice, but it carried across the clearing. “A hunter does not flee the shadow. He walks into it and brings back light.” She raised a caribou antler, carved with spirals of stars and salmon. “Sitka walked into the shadow for you, Kenai. For all of us.” brother bear sitka's funeral
“It should have been me,” Kenai whispered. Denahi finally spoke
Kenai finally looked up. The stone eagle seemed to shimmer. For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw Sitka’s face in the rock—not stern or warrior-like, but calm. Almost smiling. You just have to learn to see what others ignore