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through the forest with an ax or a knife. His trail was overgrown with salal bushes, and I had to force my way through. I passed huge trees that must have been centuries old, and came to a small cabin in a clearing—a tiny house in the woods.
    Held down with ragged bits of fishing net, a sheet of clear plastic covered the driftwood-shingle roof. Another square of plastic made a pane for a small window, but it was boarded over with scraps of wood. The cabin felt empty and forgotten. It felt haunted.
    “Hello?” I called. “Hello?”
    There was no sound from the surf, no sound from the wind, but breathy puffs of air made the plastic ripple on the roof like the skin of a breathing creature.
    As I rounded the cabin’s corner I saw the door was partly open. It had hung on hinges made of rope, but two were ripped apart, and the door sagged like a broken arm, swinging in the wind as though trying to close itself.
    I held my shoes and water bottles in one hand, I put my head around the door and staggered back in surprise.
    A huge black raven hung upside down in the doorway, bound in loops of red wire. It swung in front of me, turning slowly.
    I had never been so close to a raven. Nearly as big as a Thanksgiving turkey, it must have stood almost two feet high. But its feathers were tattered, and the poor bird looked as ancient as a mummy. As it turned I saw the back of its head, where the feathers were ruffled and matted. I saw its beak. I saw its face.
    It had no eyes. I gazed right into empty holes. But in a ring around each gaping socket, where the feathers were tiny and sparse, the skull showed in a white line that made it seem as though the raven was staring at me.
    I heard Frank coming up the trail, thrashing his way through the bushes. He came in a huge rush, eager to see what I’d found. With his jacket fluttering behind him, he sprinted across the clearing. He ran right up to the cabin, pushed me aside, and wrenched the door wide open.
    The dead raven whirled on its wire.
    To Frank, it must have seemed that something had leapt from the cabin to get him. He nearly screamed as he raised an arm to shield himself. Black and ragged, the raven hurtled toward him, then turned away and swooped again.
    Behind us, another raven appeared. With a whistle of wings, it came flying through the trees, like a small shadow broken loose from the larger ones. It settled onto a branch that bent with its weight, then carefully folded its wings and tilted its head to look down.
    Clearly embarrassed by his fright, Frank swore at the dead raven. He snatched a stick from the ground and hit it. The bird reeled across the doorway, spinning on the end of the wire. It swung into the cabin and out again, and above us the watching raven began to clamor and shout.
    Frank grunted as he raised the stick and brought it down. Little feathers fluttered all around, and the dead bird spun faster while the living one screamed in the treetops. Then the wire broke, and that black corpse tumbled to the ground. Instantly, the screaming stopped.
    It was brutal and quick, and in silence Frank poked the dead bird off to the side. He rolled it through the dirt and booted it into the bushes. Then he wiped his hands and went inside. I followed him.
    The cabin was small and dark, with a rickety table and a rickety chair that had both fallen on their sides. A bed was built along one wall, its foam mattress pulled down to the floor at one corner. In the middle of the room was a fire circle made of stones. There were still ashes inside it, and the blackened ends of burnt sticks. Some of the stones had been rolled out of place, and someone had raked his fingers through the ashes, leaving long gouges that stretched toward the door.
    Whoever had the built the cabin had meant to stay a long time. It was roofed for winter and shaded for summer. But in the end he had left in a hurry. I felt like a grave robber as we rummaged through the things left behind. We claimed them for