Willow saw my tracks and looked around, but I didn’t show myself to her. Don’t want to take a chance that her dogs would see or smell me, and take off running after me.
Old times, they wouldn’t let a girl go off alone like that. I don’t like to see it. That’s why I followed her, made sure she got to her grandma’s house. (Think of it, my little grandchild someone else’s grandma now.)
Lots has changed round here since I was Willow’s age. Everyone talks that English now, kids go to school all the time, instead of being out here learning to get food. They should think about what happens when those airplanes don’t come in. They should teach the kids how to keep warm, how to feed everyone when it stays cold a long, long time. Hungry times could come again, and what will they do then if they don’t learn the old ways now?
I wasn’t too sure about that man Willow’s mother married. When he first came here, he smiled too much, lots of times for no reason—he’d start smiling when he just met someone, before he even got to know them. He’d put out his hand that way they do, smile, say his name, try to make people talk too much. But he turned out okay. He learned how to hunt and fish, made himself some pretty good snowshoes. That takes patience.
I’ve been watching him teach Willow how to run the dogs. She’s a quiet one. She knows how to listen to those dogs, so they listen to her, too. They’re patient with her. Sometimes when she does something wrong—gets their harnesses all tangled up or something—I’m pretty sure I see them barking inside, but those dogs are polite to Willow. They give her a lot of chances. After a while she always gets it right.
I see her through the window now, with her grandpa and grand-ma. They love that girl; she’s safe here. I’ll go back upriver to my den.
All
my life,
this has been
my favorite place.
Grandma’s beadwork
on the table, Grandpa’s furs
stretched out to dry, the smell of
woodsmoke mingling with the smell
of moose meat frying on the stove.
As soon as I walk in, I see that
Grandma’s made a batch of
doughnuts. It’s how she
tells me, without
saying much,
she’s happy
that I’m
here.
I
tie
the dogs,
and Grandpa
helps me feed them.
We look at Roxy’s foot.
I tell Grandpa she had a run-in
with a porcupine. Oh, he says, that nuné.
It’s one of our Indian words. Or, as we say,
Dinak’i. I know some, from bilingual class,
but not as much as Grandpa and Grandma, not
even as much as Mom. Sometimes, when we’re
dropping off to sleep out here, I hear them talking
Dinak’i, chuckling together, and I feel a little bit
left out. Not that I would like to go back to
the old times I hear the two of them talk
about—back when people didn’t have
TV, computers, telephones, or
snowmachines and airplanes.
I’d miss all those things.
But I like to listen
to their stories.
I know if I try,
I can learn to
understand
them.
Grandpa
gets up first
and makes a hot
birch fire in the stove.
When the house is warm
Grandma makes a pot of coffee
and cooks pancakes. Grandma, I ask,
can I move out here and live with you?
I give her all my reasons. Well, most of them.
She looks down at her sewing. I do know what
you mean, Willow. We’d like to have you here.
I’m surprised! I was expecting some argument
about my family, or all the friends she thinks
I have at school. Then she goes on: Could
you and your dad take care of all
those dogs if you’re here and
he’s there? Maybe you
shouldn’t split up
a dog team like
that, Willow.
Those dogs
get used
to each
other.
Early
evening,
snow starts
falling, burying my
tracks from the trail up to
the dog yard and into the house.
Snow covers all the yellow circles
the dogs have made around their houses,
and half buries the firewood stacked outside.
Grandma stands beside me; we’re looking out
the window, and she tilts her head the way she does
when she’s thinking of a riddle: Look, I see something …
She squints her eyes a little. Someone outside is wearing
a sheepskin coat. I look around and figure out what
Grandma means: Over there—I see snow piled
on top of an old stump. Inside her warm
kitchen, Grandma nods. She
smiles a little. That’s
right, Willow,
that’s
it.
Sunday
morning, the
snow is deep, but
not so much that I can’t
make it home. Grandpa and Dad
go out on snowmachines, meeting halfway
to pack the trail. It’s time to leave. If I start now, I’ll
have plenty of time to get home before dark. I feed the dogs
a little extra, and Grandma says, Here—put this in your pack.
Smoked salmon! Looks like she’s feeding me a little extra, too.
Then she gives me the mittens she just finished, beaded
flowers on her home-tanned moose skin, beaver fur
around the cuffs. She could sell them for a lot
of money, and she’s giving them to me
when it’s not even my birthday.
I put them on, put my
hands on her face.
We both
smile.
It’s
warm
today,
almost
up to zero. I
see something:
White clouds blow
across the sky. Too bad
I’m out here alone, with
no one but that spruce hen
to tell my riddle to. (It’s the dogs’
breath I see, white puffs going out behind
them as they run.) Here comes the halfway point,
where Grandpa met Dad this morning. They warned me
about this part of the trail; this will be the stretch to watch,
this bumpy part coming up. Take it easy there, Grandpa said.
Okay, slow down, Roxy. Good, we’re past that rough spot,
now we can go as fast as we want. And I love to go fast!
So does Roxy. She looks back at me and I swear
I see her grin. Let’s go! we tell each other.
Cora and Magoo perk up their ears
as if to say, Okay with us!
I knew I could do this.
Hike, Roxy!
Haw!
Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)
Oh, my land! Look at this child flying down the trail!
She comes from people who like to keep moving—my family moved across an ocean when I was about Willow’s age; her grandfather hitchhiked across Canada the summer he turned twenty; her father came north on the Alcan Highway—on a motorcycle. Now look—when Willow and Roxy get moving together, I don’t see any way to stop them.
Usually, I wouldn’t want to stop them, or even slow them down. I fly faster than that myself.
But I’ve seen what’s ahead. At the bottom of
this hill, just around the curve, a dead tree fell across the trail, not too long after Willow’s father went past this morning. Broken limbs are sticking out all over it.
If she were coming from the other direction, she’d see it in time to stop. But from this direction, at the speed she’s going, Willow won’t have time to stop her dogs.
The
dogs love
going fast as much
as I do. When we come to
the curve at the bottom of the hill
I’ll slow them down a little. But not yet—
this is too much fun! Here’s the curve. What?
Whoa! Easy, Roxy! I brake hard, the dogs stop—
but not fast enough. Roxy’s howl cuts through me.
I set the snow hook, run to her—as fast as I can
through the deep snow. I stumble; a branch
jabs into my leg. Oww! It’s my own
voice I hear, like the fault line
of an earthquake, with
everything breaking
around it. Roxy
sticks her face
in the snow.
The snow
turns
red.
Roxy,
look at me.
I hold her head
and stare at her face.
She’s bleeding from her eyes
and she won’t stop yelping. I pull the
tarp off the sled—oh, I don’t believe this!
I kept saying, Dad, I know I have everything!
But I didn’t bring the first aid kit! I don’t have
any bandages, or anything like a dog bag to carry
Roxy in the sled. I’m about two hours from home.
It’s too far to turn back. This is serious. Hush, Roxy.
I’ll think of something. My shirt. It’s clean enough.
No one’s around, and I won’t freeze to death while I
take it off and put my sweater and jacket back on.
Okay. I think I can do this. I have to. Roxy,
just let me hold this on your eyes. Please
trust me. Thank you, Roxy. Good dog.
There, I finally stopped the bleeding.
Now, I have to get her in the sled.
I can lift her. But how can I
keep her from shivering
in this bitter
wind?
I
kick the
side of the sled.
How could I be so
stupid? Dad will kill
me! Calm down, my dear.
Weird—it seemed like I heard
those words. I look around: Who
said that? All I see is a spruce hen
sitting on a low branch just ahead,
quietly preening her feathers. I watch
her for a minute, take a few long, deep
breaths, let my heart slow down a little,
and then it comes to me: Feathers—use
my down sleeping bag. I manage to get
Roxy into it and strap her to the sled.
I give the dogs some of my smoked
salmon and eat some myself.
(Thank you, Grandma!)
Cora—you’ll have to
lead us home. I’m
counting on
you.
Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)
By the time they pull into the yard, the sun has set behind the mountains. Willow’s mother and her father and her sister, Zanna, all run out to meet her. Her mother is all smiles; Zanna’s jumping up and down.
Her father looks at Roxy in the sled.
Before he has a chance to say a word, Willow’s mother takes her daughter in her arms and pulls her close.
Willow’s shoulders start to shake. Her mother makes a gesture to her father: You take care of Roxy. I’ll take care of her.
My
leg is
bruised
pretty badly.
Mom says it’s lucky
I didn’t get hurt worse.
We shouldn’t have let you go.
At least, someone should have gone out
this afternoon to be sure you were okay. It sounds
like Mom is mad at Dad or herself, but not sure which.
She fusses over me, covering me with a warm blanket,
making me hot chocolate, telling Zanna to turn
down the TV so I can rest. She doesn’t
say a word about Roxy. When Dad
comes in, they go into their
bedroom to talk. I want
to hear what Dad
has to say, but
he doesn’t
seem to
want
me
to.
Roxy’s
eyes have
always been so
beautiful—deep,
clear brown. Intelligent.
I call it dog-love, that way
she looks at us. Now her eyes
are crusted with—with what? They’re
all bandaged, and when I lift a corner of the
bandage, I see a bloody mess. When Dad took her
to the vet, he didn’t even ask me to go along! And now
he hasn’t told me what she said. He was silent when he
brought Roxy in and made her bed beside the stove.
Dad’s not exactly accusing me out loud, but
everything he does says, Willow,
how could you? I trusted you!
Roxy was our best dog.
You knew that.
Yes, Dad—
I knew
that.
I
don’t
get up early
like I usually do.
I stay in bed when Dad
gets up to feed the dogs. Mom
comes in to see how I’m doing, and
I say, Mom, I think I better stay home
from school today. I can’t walk
too well. Her face tells me
she’ll tell Dad for me,
but she’s not sure
I’m telling
the entire
truth.
Dad
changes
Roxy’s bandage and
makes sure she’s comfortable
I go in to see her. She can’t see me, of course,
but she whimpers when she hears me coming, so I
kneel down beside her. I might cry, and I don’t want her
to hear me do that. I’ll try to be as brave as she is. Oh, Roxy,
I’m sorry! I knew that blind curve was coming up.
I should have slowed down sooner.
Roxy licks my face,
sniffs my leg
where I’m
hurt,
too.
I
know
Kaylie must be
wondering where I am.
At 11:48, when we have lunch, she
calls from school. (We always eat together.)
Willow, what happened? Your dad said you got hurt!
I don’t want to hear about my dad right now. All the kids
think he’s so great—they can’t wait to get to eighth grade and have
him for science. I’m dreading that. What if he gets mad at me at home,
and then at school I have to sit through science class with him? Thanks,
Kaylie, but you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I say, What Dad meant
was, Roxy got hurt. You know—his favorite dog? He’s had her since I
was Zanna’s age! Oh, Kaylie, he’s been training her for … forever,
to be his lead dog! And now I think she’s blind! Nobody
will say so, but her eyes are all bloody and gross!
Kaylie interrupts: What about you, Willow?
What happened to your leg? Why
aren’t you here today? I don’t
have a
nyone to sit with.
She’s good at changing
the subject. Sit with
Richard, I suggest.
Make someone
happy.
Dad
comes home
right after school
and goes straight to Roxy.
I go to my room and close the door.
Willow, he calls to me, but I can’t tell if he’s
going to get mad (Willow, get out here and look
at the once-beautiful eyes of my best dog) or be nice
(Please, can we talk about this?). Probably, he’s mad.
Who wouldn’t be? Zanna comes in and sits on the
edge of her bed, looking at me like, Boy, are you
in big trouble. I start to say shut up, but at the
last second I realize she didn’t actually say it.
After a while, Mom knocks. I let her in; she
sits beside me, asks if she can see my leg.
It’s not too bad, I say. I roll up my jeans
so I can show her where the bruise has
turned some ugly shade of purple-
brown. She touches the swollen
place with her cool fingers.
Bad enough, she says.
And here’s what’s
so great about
my mom:
that is
all she
says.
I
can’t
avoid Dad
forever. We do live
in the same house together,
after all. When Mom calls me
for dinner, I take a deep breath and go
out to the kitchen. Dad’s with Roxy, and I
don’t look at either of them. Well, I try not to.
Dad calls me over. Can we talk about this, Willow?
He’s looking at Roxy’s face, not mine. Shall I tell you
what the vet said? he asks. It isn’t really a question, and
I can’t exactly say, No, Dad, don’t tell me. I just shrug.
Dad says, Roxy is blind. There’s nothing they can do.
The exact two sentences I do not want to hear. I know
I should say I’m sorry. I try, but the words get stuck.
I turn away from Dad and Roxy. Mom lays her arm
across my shoulder for a second, and I twist out
from under it, heading for the door. Sit down
and eat, now, Willow, Mom says, so I sit
down, but I can’t eat. I stare at my plate
and push some beans from one side
to the other. Nobody but Zanna
says much of anything
the whole entire
meal.
Isaac, Willow’s great-grandfather (Mouse)