“It don’t happen all the time. Not like that.” Thompson stood a few feet away from his own tent, gazing upwards. “Appears to be putting on a show for us.”
“That’s quite a show,” Ben said.
“Yeah, well, this is quite a place, and you ain’t seen half of it.” Thompson paused. “Just wait until winter really hits and brings seventy feet of snow with it. I bet you’ll wish you’d never come.”
Thompson’s words of warning hung in the air like the frost on his breath, but they didn’t frighten Ben. He wasn’t afraid of what might lie in his future. The only thing that ever scared him was his past. Whenever Ben grew even slightly apprehensive about anything, he focused on what he’d already survived. After saying good night to Thompson, he ducked back into his tent and thought about that cold autumn night his mother had died, and the panic he had felt when he’d fled the empty farm. Young and alone, with no idea what he would do next, he had chosen to sleep on the hard prairie grass under the endless stars rather than return to his parents’ farm.
Tonight he slept under the same sky, but everything was different. He was no longer alone, and he was no longer a boy. His future stretched before him, its boundaries undefined, rich with promise and adventure.
Liza
SEVEN
“Come on, Larry.” Liza curled her fingers through the horse’s halter, urging him forward. “I’ll pull if you pull.”
It was Liza’s turn to lead the wagon, which wasn’t a difficult job, but it was slow. The poor old nag was so worn down that his preference was to sleep, not walk. She’d been struggling with the lazy horse for an hour, and she’d ended up naming Larry after a friend of her father’s who rarely got out of his chair.
“Straight on, Liza!” her father called cheerily from behind. “Follow the road.”
Despite the hundreds of feet and hooves that had already passed this way, Liza had a lot of trouble calling this path a road. Each step was a lesson in trust. Snow camouflaged uneven rocks, and firm-looking dirt patches often gave way to mud. Just now her right foot sank into a mushy spot.
“At least the sun is out,” Stan said, catching up to her.
“True,” she replied. “Instead of wretched, I only feel miserable.”
“It’s not that bad.” He chuckled. “You said you wanted off the boat, and you said you hated Dyea. Now you’re done with both.”
He was right. It did no one any good to gripe. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a grouch. I’m just so hungry. I hope there’s food in the next town.”
“Me too. I could eat a horse.”
“You needn’t bother with this one,” she replied, tilting her head towards Larry. “He doesn’t have enough meat on him to feed a barn cat.”
Stan leaned towards her. “Father had to pay six hundred dollars for him back at the beach, so try not to complain too loudly.”
“Highway robbery,” she muttered back. “He’s not worth five dollars at home.”
“I know. And once we get to the bottom of the steepest part of the mountain we’ll have to let him go. Father will sell him off to someone who will take him back to the bottom, where he’ll make this trek over and over again.”
Liza suddenly found fresh appreciation for Larry. He might not be full of life, but at least he was pulling their things. She patted the horse’s dirty brown neck. “I’ll miss you when that time comes,” she whispered to him.
The string of travellers stretched as far as she could see, both in front and behind them. Not surprisingly, most were men, though once in a while she spotted a skirt. She was intrigued by some of the travellers’ unusual luggage, and it made her wonder how much these people knew about living rough. Her family were novices, but at least they hadn’t brought along heavy furniture and musical instruments like others she saw. Their obvious poor planning concerned her. How would these people fare when the temperature dropped and endless heaps of snow fell along with it? Who would turn back, and who would stay the entire five-hundred-mile course?
“Look at that.” Stan pointed towards the meadow. “Someone left their trunk.”
“The owner probably didn’t have a wagon,” her father said. “Trunks are too awkward to carry. Bags are easier.”
Curiosity got the better of Liza and she handed Larry’s reins to Stan. “I’m going to see what’s in there.”
Holding up the hem of her skirt, she crunched through the small drifts of snow dotting the meadow and knelt by the trunk, but when her fingers touched the locks she hesitated. Someone before her had made the difficult decision to abandon their things right here, and she wasn’t sure it was her right to pry. Then again, by abandoning his possessions the prospector had made it clear he no longer wanted or valued them. Which meant, Liza decided as she unclasped the locks and opened the lid, that the things in this trunk were now available to the public and she had every right.
A tintype photograph in a tarnished silver frame was the first item to catch her eye. The photograph was of a young woman with dark hair, and a frothy collar bubbled to her chin. It was the frame that interested Liza, because it occurred to her that an item like that would sell well at the new shop. Eager to find more, Liza rummaged further, and half-buried in the folds of a man’s smart white shirt she discovered a silver locket on a chain. When she undid the tiny clasp, she recognized the same woman’s photo within, and a kind of indignation rose in Liza’s chest. Had he not cared for the woman? He must have, since her likeness was in a locket that should be hanging near his heart. And yet here she now lay, abandoned. How difficult had it been for him to exchange the love of his life for the uncertain dream of a fortune? What kind of man chose gold over love?
Liza absently weighed the locket in the palm of her hand as she looked around. The meadow was dotted by similar trunks. So many, she thought, struck by the bitter realization that every trunk was filled with personal things so many men had chosen to discard.
Her mother walked carefully through the field towards her. “The owner won’t be coming back,” she said, practical as ever. She dug Blue out of her coat and set the puppy on the ground to do her business. “If you don’t take it, someone else will.”
That was all the encouragement Liza needed. She pocketed the necklace then dug through the trunk for more treasures. Like I’m mining for gold, she thought wryly, except most of this is silver. She unearthed a few more things she could easily manage: a pair of beautiful fountain pens, a Meerschaum pipe in its case—almost brand new—and another, smaller silver picture frame. She decided to remove the photograph and leave it in the trunk, just in case. If the owner ever did come back, the photo would be here, waiting for him.
“Agatha, dear!” Liza’s father called from the wagon. He’d stopped on the trail to wait for them, blocking other travellers. “We don’t want to fall behind.”
“It’s time to go,” her mother said, reaching for Blue, who had wandered closer to Liza.
“I’ll carry her for a while,” Liza said, scooping the puppy up and tucking her into her coat. “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Liza swept her hand along the bottom of the trunk one last time, and a heavy wool garment brushed her fingers. Who on earth would leave warm clothes behind when they were in this place? She pulled the material out from under but was disappointed to see it was only a pair of trousers. She started to fold them back into the trunk, then stopped and held them up again, a scandalous thought crossing her mind. The trousers weren’t overly large, and if the gentleman had also packed suspenders . . . She rummaged further. Aha!
“Liza!” her father called again. “We want to make it to Sheep Camp by nightfall!”
“Coming!” Quickly, Liza rolled the little treasures into the trouser pockets, then grabbed a sweater that had been folded underneath. Back at the wagon, it took only a moment for her to covertly pack the new acquisitions into her bag.
“All done,” she whispered to Blue as the family set off again.
The rocky path began
to slant upwards, and the air grew consistently sharper the higher they went. As her muscles cramped and her lungs burned from exertion, Liza walked closer to the wagon and held on to its side for support. Her family’s earlier chatter slowed, and the trail fell quiet until an eclectic mix of tents, huts, and small log buildings appeared in the distance.
Liza grabbed her father’s arm. “Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s Sheep Camp, then I believe so,” he replied, walking with renewed vigour.
Liza’s mother was keeping up, but she was breathing hard. “Let’s find accommodations right away,” she said to her husband, and he nodded and took her arm.
As they entered Sheep Camp, Liza observed her surroundings with disappointment. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this place was no more than a miniature, even grubbier version of Dyea. The family eyed the dozen or so hotels skeptically, then decided to spend some of their valuable money so they could stay in one for a night. Even though they were no more than one-room buildings, at least they promised more warmth than a tent.
That night, Liza lay beside her mother, between Stan and their father, in an oppressively hot room bursting at the seams with three dozen strange men. The stink of unwashed bodies and wet fur coats was so stifling that Liza had to cover her nose with a scarf, and even with Blue snuggled next to her, she still couldn’t fall asleep. She had known it would be rough in the North, but this was different. This was repulsive.
When morning came, they staggered gratefully into the fresh air.
“Promise me we won’t sleep there again,” her mother said, the circles under her eyes darker than ever.
Liza’s father nodded in agreement. “We’ll only spend one more night in the camp. And I think a tent would be better.”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” Stan said, stretching his stiff limbs.
His ability to bounce back from even the worst conditions baffled Liza. Like her father, Stan had taken to the journey like a bee to flowers. He was perpetually making friends with other travellers and asking questions about their experiences.
That night, Stan persuaded Liza to go with him to a saloon and listen to old-timers tell their stories. Her mother objected—a lady didn’t belong in a saloon!—but Liza’s father convinced her that their daughter would be fine. She would have Stan with her, he said, and the world was different out here—it had its own particular rules. It sure was, Liza thought.
She was nervous as she passed through the saloon door, but she was emboldened by the relative indifference paid to her by the crowd inside. Stan had made a beeline for the scruffiest-looking prospector she had ever seen, so she followed close behind and sat beside her brother at the man’s wobbly table. The prospector was probably only forty, but he could have passed for twice that. His nose was purple, badly deformed by frostbite, and strings of his hair clung to his neck and hung past his shoulders, barely distinguishable from the massive beard hiding most of his face. Liza tried not to stare when she thought she spotted something moving amid the greasy strands, and she distracted herself by nuzzling Blue against her cheek.
“Nine days?” Stan was saying. “How did you live on that mountain in a blizzard for nine days?”
“Ain’t so bad when you know what you’re about, but it ain’t no business for tenderfoots, boy.” He held up a small bottle twinkling with gold dust. “But here it is. Here’s what it’s all for. Ain’t she a beauty?”
A month ago, Liza might have been impressed, but these days they constantly saw gold in some shape or form. Still, Stan was mesmerized by it. “You have no idea how to mine for gold,” she’d remind him, but he’d only shrug and ask, “How hard can it be?”
Right now he was leaning across the table, focused on the miner. “What did you eat?”
“I had oats, and I had a couple o’ candles.”
“Candles?” Liza blurted. “You ate candles?”
“Can’t say as I recommend neither, but I’m still here, ain’t I?”
Stan didn’t bat an eyelash. “Could you move around, up there on the mountain? During the storm, I mean.”
“Ain’t nobody movin’ round, boy.” The man rolled his red-rimmed eyes towards the ceiling. “Exceptin’ ol’ Whisky Jimmy, o’ course. He had to move round now, didn’t he?”
“Why’s that?”
“That ol’ boy ate his dogs. He’d have to move to catch ’em, I s’pose.” The prospector scowled at Blue. “Sure wish I’d had a dog.”
Liza tightened her grip, and Blue wriggled in protest. “How could he eat his dogs?”
“They was gonna die either way, girl. Some men cut their teams loose, but it’s a death sentence up there either way. Dogs’ll freeze or starve or get picked off by wolves, same as anyone else.” He tapped the table with one grimy finger. “Might as well give them a quick way out, I say.”
“How cold does it really get?” Stan asked, sidestepping the issue.
The miner held out a filthy hand, palm side up. “Let’s say you’re holding a block of ice in your bare hand. Got that in your head, boy? Now keep that ice there ’til your hand freezes. While that’s happening, your face freezes. Your belly freezes. Your balls freeze. Everything freezes.” He touched the tip of his damaged nose. “Your nose falls off, and your ears, too. You wish you was dead.” Liza made a sound of disgust and looked away. “All you can think about is finding a fire,” he went on. “Now imagine you’re crawling uphill on your frozen hands and knees, and you’re lugging fifty pounds of gear on your back.” He started laughing, a strange cackle that sounded unnatural to Liza. “How’s that, boy? How’s that? Cold enough?”
Stan’s mouth hung open as he drank in every awful detail, and Liza felt a ripple of concern. Ever since their father had brought up the idea of going to the Yukon, Stan had been keen. When they’d seen the men on the boats with all the gold, drifting away from Dyea, his eagerness had grown. And now, surrounded by prospectors and mountains and the reality of the Yukon, he had become almost obsessive.
Liza looked around the room, and all she could see were ragged men hunched over tables or gathered by the bar, passionately discussing the exact same topic. And when she turned back towards Stan, she saw a similar set to his posture.
“That’s enough,” she murmured into his ear. “I want to leave now.”
Stan held up a hand, ignoring her plea. She felt a brush against her shoulder and glanced up as one of the men raised an eyebrow at her. Heat poured into her cheeks and she grabbed Stan’s arm, but he was entirely absorbed in the miner’s story.
The stranger moved on, but Liza’s heart would not stop pounding. She was trapped in a crowd of strangers, and that crowd was clustered in the middle of nowhere.
I have to get out of here.
Stan didn’t notice when she jumped to her feet, pushed through the crowd, and burst through the door. Outside, she sank ankle-deep in mud, but the cold shock of it was a relief. She was free.
Then she looked up and up, following the trail with her eyes until it disappeared within the crevices and curves of the mountain, and the thumping in her chest returned. She wasn’t free at all. She was trapped in the North, caught tight in its jaws, and there was no way out.
Ben
EIGHT
Winter in the Yukon was like nothing Ben could have imagined. January had carved itself deep into the ground, freezing lakes solid and turning difficult land passages into forbidding trails of sheer ice. Snowdrifts piled on Ben’s eyebrows, and icicles hung from his whiskers, sealing his lips together. He could barely see through the slitted goggles he wore to prevent snow blindness, and he’d forgotten what his fingertips felt like. And the wind . . . Thompson had been right—the Mounties were now the trees, bent double against it.
Before their departure from Dawson City two weeks ago, each man had been issued a buffalo robe, a beaver cap with ear flaps, mittens, long woollen stockings, goggles, and moccasins, to which Ben had added a pair of waterproof sealskin mukluk
s he’d purchased from a local Hän. But the clothing did little to shield them from tempests that threatened to freeze the men to the spot as they made their way to the summit of the Chilkoot Trail.
The world was an uninterrupted vista of black and white, offset by nothing save the blue of the sky on rare days when the storm clouds cleared. Today was one of those days, but just because the sun was out, that did not mean Ben felt any warmth. This morning, a perfect circle surrounded the sun, a razor-thin, frozen rainbow cutting through lacy clouds with bursts of yellow burning at either side. The story the Hän told was that the yellow spots were fiery earmuffs which kept the sun warm when the cold got this extreme. Under its icy glare, tiny tornadoes of snow skimmed across the frozen landscape, danced through the air, and set ice crystals winking from faraway branches.
Ben’s detachment had been climbing for days, and the higher they went, the harder breathing became. The only one who didn’t seem as affected by the ascent was Thompson, who trudged through the knee-deep snow as if it were no more than a steep set of stairs. Ben assumed that was because the Sergeant had done this trek before, and he tried hard to keep up, but the snow beneath his boots was unreliable, sometimes supporting his steps, sometimes giving way and dropping him hip-deep. Every move was exhausting. He’d lost count of how many times he’d had to wrench his leg free of snow. He was tugging it loose yet again when he stopped, distracted by a small black twig, maybe two inches long. It poked out of the snow by his right hand, which was odd, since there were no trees anywhere near them. Curious, he pulled at it, but the twig broke in his grasp and the surrounding snow collapsed in a heap by his feet.
Ben stumbled backwards with a cry, realizing the twig was not a twig at all. Sticking out of the snow was a frozen hand, three of its blackened fingers and a thumb grasping at the sky.
Thompson turned. “What is it?”
“A body.”
Ben scooped more snow away, revealing a coat sleeve frozen stiff and the solid side of a man’s torso. He heard Thompson climbing down to him, then he was beside him, helping him dig. The two of them shovelled enough snow away to see the corpse’s grey face, its lips black and drawn slightly back in a snarl, as if he had dared to challenge death. Horror rumbled through Ben’s chest at the thought of what the man would have suffered out here, waiting for the inevitable end.
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