When morning came, Ajijaak, ate dried fish and drank some mint tea. He hid his canoe in the brush, slung his bag over his shoulder and headed into the forest. By midday he found the ancient cedar that marked the place where the record would be reburied. It had taken him nearly two days to reach this spot when he had followed Misko-amik. On his own young feet he had moved almost as swiftly as the deer, much more swiftly than he realized he could move. Unsure he had arrived in the right place so quickly, he looked around him. There was nothing about this tree or this spot that made it unusual, and yet he sensed he was on holy ground. Beneath his feet were cedar trees sunk fifteen feet beneath the soil. In their center was a hollowed out log. This log, held the sacred record, a record he was now guardian of. The immensity of this honor filled him. He who had no voice, had recorded the stories of those long dead, and he had added the stories Misko-amik had collected. This was a divine moment in his life, a moment that would echo into his future. To his right was the ancient cedar that bore witness to the secret hiding place. It held its branches out like the arms of a woman waiting to embrace her child. Its mid section was lightening scarred. The scar looked like a bird in flight. It was not an obvious mark, but it was noticeable to the informed eye.

With his ax he tapped the ground listening for the sound of hollowness. When he found it he set to work with ax and wooden scoop to unearth the opening of the chamber. Soon he hit the stone that covered the hollowed log. The stone was flat and lined, it was made of the same stone that the caverns beneath the island were made of. He pried the stone up with his ax. In the hollow were the remains of rotting swan and geese feathers. These should have been cleaned out when he first retrieved the sacred record. It was not a mistake he would make again. Quickly he cleaned out the debris, wiped it with a soft goose skin and then tested it for dampness. It was dry enough. From his bag he poured in the fresh geese feathers that Wiinizik had collected for him. With trembling hands he put the sacred record into the nest of feathers. He would be a much older man, when he next looked upon this record. He offered a prayer of protection. When he finished he dumped the rest of the feathers onto of the record covering it entirely. Once he replaced the stone, he spent a great deal of time carefully tamping down the dirt over the place. It must not look fresh. It must look like the rest of the forest floor. All around him were needles and branches. He took some and tossed them over the hiding place to further camouflage it. When he was satisfied with his work, he turned to go back to his campsite. The sun had sunk low in the sky. The days were shorter now and he would not make it home before dark. He did not like the idea of being in the forest at nightfall. He set off at a quick pace. He would run as fast as he could while the light lasted.

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As he ran, his spirit danced. By burying the sacred record he had touched the future and the past. He had held eternity in his hands, and he now possessed it in his spirit. Here alone in the forest he released the sound his vocal cords could make. It was a piercing growl of a cry. High above him, beyond his vision a group of migrating Sand hill cranes heard his cry, but they did not answer him. He continued on.