He senses the moose and searches for it now, amongst the next group of trees. For the tell-tale rust between the glowing silver-white trunks. He arcs around to a clearing on the other side. Behind a tree he waits. He barely catches the muted sound of distant voices on the breeze. Haywire? Leah? But they have not been born yet! Momentarily distracted, his single focus is on the animal. This is the most magnificent cow moose he has ever laid eyes on. He admires her raw, wild beauty. Flawless, except for an old wound on her left back flank where the hair does not grow. He and the animal breathe the same autumn-scented air the trees have exhaled. Closing his eyes, he feels his heart beating, slow, steady, senses her heartbeat. Feels her life force enter him.
Leah somewhere now, sobbing as if her heart is broken. He wills his focus back to the creature. Opens his eyes, swings the .30-30 to line up the open sight. He knows it’s bent. It must be a perfect shot. He has one bullet. The animal must not suffer or run. Angus senses Haywire, as surely as if he is standing there at his side. He hears the wailing, wants to comfort Leah. Instead, he takes a breath, holds it, fires. Thunder, thud, crashing of brush. The moose does not attempt to rise, he sees her flank rise and fall with quick breaths. He will let her be for a time. Allow her to die alone, in peace. He allows the oneness with all that is to fill him, as he has been taught. He thanks the animal for giving her life to feed his family and allows gratitude to fill him. Feels her heart slowing, begins to mentally prepare for skinning and butchering.
Someone. A flash of movement beyond his vision. Father, grandfather, coming across to him, their long shadows moving just ahead of them, the shadows of great birds. He sees their smiles of pride, his father waves. They are close now, and he knows it is time, does not hesitate to go to meet them. Together they will fly home.
l
SOMEONE ELSE IS DRIVING
When someone else is driving you can close your eyes
If the sun is shining, you can see your own designs
Pinwheel warriors in a fire-orange sky
When someone else is driving and you close your eyes
When someone else is driving and you close your eyes
When I close my eyes, I can see what I want
Don’t ask for nothing you won’t get what you want
Only what comes to you and only what’s there
Fall into the mystic if you dare
CHAPTER THREE
Leah woke alone at dawn in erotic damp, her body on fire with want for Haywire. Shoulders bare, she shivered in the chilly air. They had shared a room at the Old North Hotel. At ease with each other, it had seemed strange to sleep in separate beds. She knew he had remembered the intimate nights they had spent here. She felt no guilt about her attraction, but it had surprised her with its intensity. After all this time.
He was sitting at the small burn-scarred Formica table, waiting for her. In fact, he had been sleepless the entire night, wanting her, fighting his need to join her. To stroke her skin until she begged for him as she always had.
“Come on, Chaos, we have a ways to go.”
“Get me coffee if you want me to go anywhere.”
She watched him walk out the door, how he filled out his jeans and jean jacket. His long strides in those cowboy boots. Damn, she thought, there’s something hot about an Indian man in cowboy boots. She lay in bed, trying to cool her thoughts about him. After some time, she forced herself to get up and into the shower. Crap! She’d forgotten her shampoo. Leaving the shower running, she stepped naked on wet feet into the room.
“That my reward for the coffee?” She heard Haywire’s drawl, saw him caressing her body with his eyes, toes to head. Outside air hit her and her nipples hardened.
“Shut up and give it to me.”
“I’m married,” he laughed in his quiet way, shaking his head. She felt the heat again, knew the lust in her voice betrayed her and flushed. Acting as cool as she could, she sighed and boldly crossed to him, and took the coffee from his outstretched hand.
“Rrrrrrrr,” she growled; “I’m talking about the coffee!”
“Cream, no sugar,” he said, sweet smile, head down. She was not fooled. “You remembered?”
“Couldn’t forget that body.”
That made her want to walk to him, put her arms around his neck and kiss him hot. Instead, she took a sip and spat it back in the Styrofoam cup.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s not Starbucks, that’s what’s wrong with it.” He shook his head. Smiled that little boy smile.
“You’re welcome. Best I could do. Free from the lobby.”
“Crap coffee.” She tried to slam the bathroom door behind her to make a point, but infuriatingly, it was one of those lightweight pressurized doors you couldn’t get a decent slam out of. Not a drum. Not by a long shot.
Once outside in the slick parking lot, Leah gripped Haywire’s arm. The truck was ice-cold. Haywire adjusted the choke. The engine caught. Haywire let it warm up. He motioned to a small box between them.
“Uncle said to give that to you.” She looked at Haywire without speaking. Opening it, she sucked her breath in.
“No way,” she laughed. “I’d forgotten all about these things!” She picked up a Super 8 reel.
“Oh yeah, your movie.”
“Documentary,” she corrected, missing his dancing eyes. “I’ll have to watch these again, see what’s on them.”
“Everybody in the Charlie family you pestered with questions like some cheechako.” Haywire was grinning. She felt a little defensive.
“Your family didn’t mind.”
“Nobody could say no to you, that’s all to it.”
She read out the labels on the films, one by one. All to it. She had always corrected him with “all there is to it.” He was doing it on purpose. Playing up the bush-Indian speak. She ignored him this time.
“Gramma, Uncle Angus, Auntie Laylie…” Her eyes ached from tears that would not fall. A small, fat, hide-covered book.
“What’s this?” she asked, more to herself. It was covered with thick brain-tanned moose hide. Embellished with Northern-style beadwork.
“That diary I was so jealous of.”
“I don’t remember this, this isn’t mine.” Something. Not right. Something.
“You drove me nuts writing in that thing. You don’t remember us fighting over it?”
“I don’t,” she was hot with annoyance. Now she felt numb, her ears ringing. She turned it over to look at the plain back.
“I don’t remember this at all.” Foreboding. Creeping up from her icy feet. “Haywire, this isn’t funny. Why would you say this’s mine?” She heard the distress in her own voice. The roar to rumble as the truck passed from asphalt and hit chip seal.
He did not speak as they drove out to Little Annie. She sensed what she had almost forgotten. The rhythms of this ancient scape. A land unspoiled, breath-taking. Spruce trees, tall and narrow from base to tip. Standing in a carpet of snow like tall graceful Tlingit ladies with long skirts.
A gravel road ahead, mountains rising out of the foothills on either side. She knew them well. Calm settled in her belly like a resting cat.
The sky a brilliant blue, dusty clouds unmoving. With deep cold, it was always dead still. High up, the trees were navy blue. An indication of how cold it was up high. Haywire had taught her to see those things.
Peaks stretching, reaching their slate-grey heads out of quilts of snow. The sun touching peaks, shadows that clung to the sides like shy children.
Leah tasted the exhaled breath of the mountains. Stone voices whispered to her blood. Blood to stone, stone to skin, bone to stone.
“No wonder I wrote so many songs here – the raw beauty, to feel a small part of creation.”
“Yeah, Chaos, you wrote some good ones.”
The engine stopped, and they rolled slowly to a stop. She had forgotten that air-cooled engines could freeze without warning.
The first time it had happened, years ago,
she had panicked. She had not been dressed warmly. Haywire and his cousin had just stared at her when she had asked what the hell they were going to do. Not understanding, they had sat quietly for long minutes as the cold stole in and her anxiety had mounted. Then, Haywire had started the truck, and they had carried on.
Now, she waited for Haywire to start up the engine. Instead, he jumped out. The clang of the door in the deep silence startled her. She caught the whiff of cigarette smoke. The engine fired on the first turn of the key. They drove in silence. This was the way of Northern people, not needing words, voices, to communicate. Their silence spoke for them. City people, she knew, would be unnerved by this. She slipped into it, relaxed.
Peaceful with Haywire, it seemed as though nothing had ever gone wrong between them. He intuited her thoughts. He glanced at a photograph on the dashboard, then at her. His family. His way of telling her that things had changed, he was married. Had kids, a life. Her throat tightened. He reached out, gently took her hand, saying what he would never say with words. Then, he did speak.
“There hasn’t been a day since I met you that I have not said your name.”
“I love you too, Haywire, always did. I will always remember that.” Their words hung, fired heat in the frosty air of the truck all the way to Little Annie.
CHAPTER FOUR
Instinct willed the cow moose to lie very still in the pasture despite the pain that tore through her body. Emitting low rumbles in her throat, imperceptible except to the ravens watching from the tree above, her swollen belly heaved with yet another involuntary contraction. Her body powerfully tensed. Coursing muscles working to expel the life within her. The enormous pressure was not released by the waves of blindingly unbearable throbbing. Between she would sniff, to catch the scent of any enemies that might find her easy prey; although she would not be able to flee. She had chosen a spot long before this began, where she could see in all directions.
The light of midday stretched into the long light and shadow of late day. It was time. With difficulty she struggled to her feet, squatting at the back legs. The final purge, her entire body with nothing to do but expel a life from within to without. The pressure, the spasmodic agony as it moved lower, lower still. Through her torment, she heard the baby land behind her back legs. Tremoring from the exertion of hours, she turned to see the tiny being behind her, still encased in a milky white sac. Bending on tired legs, she began to lick and nose the caul to free the calf. Too weak to stand, it feebly mewled as it caught the scent of her teats. She lapped its tiny body from head to tail to stimulate circulation before allowing it to eat. Energy from the nutrients in the liquid surged through her body, driving the weakness from her.
Yet too weak to stand, the calf pointed with its damp head toward the smell of her teats. The cow felt her milk flow down to engorge her udders. Still, the tiny one did not stand and nurse. By now it should have sucked its fill, falling a few times on new legs. She nuzzled her encouragement; pushed with her nose. There was terrible danger: predators would be hunting in the long shadows of late day. The calf was listless, barely moved. It let out a weak sound as she sniffed it twice, nudged it three times.
There was no use to wait. She moved away to a safer place to bed for the night. The little one should have been trotting behind, now on sure legs. Instead, it lay abandoned, quivering in the cold, growing chilled. It would not survive predators. The cow reached a dense thicket. She was hungry, having fasted during the long hours of the birth. She found willows to satiate her hunger. A half-hour away, where low golden light now weakly touched the tops of trees, the calf tremored one last time, stilled.
Coyote caught the scent. Trotting, tail up, he made ready to scavenge an easy prey.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the cool, stark light and shadow of afternoon a coyote gives birth. The last kit does not come easily. When it is finally born, the mother licks him as the other six feed. He breathes weakly, and she nudges his chest with her head. With a weak leg, this one will not stand. After their first feeding, it’s time to move the whelps deeper into the warmth of the den. She nudges all but the lame one as they lurch to their feet. She moves them, one by one, patiently. The lame pup tries to follow his family, repeatedly falling. His mother does not wait.
He flounders up, falls again. He stands and trips. His lame leg is slower than his other three. Struggling again and again, his mother and the others disappear one by one. Whining and whimpering, his breath hangs in the glacial air. At last he succeeds. Exhausted, following the scent of his mother’s milk, he falls several times, and fights back up. Stiff with cold when he catches up, he is shivering. The others are feeding again. He moves to latch on to a nipple. The mother pushes him away. Obsessed by the pain of hunger, he perseveres until he is no longer shoved off. Not much milk left by that time, he is left wanting, a burning ache in his belly.
By late spring, the kits are lively and growing. The lame one is smaller, due to scant milk but his leg is stronger. Ignored by his mother, he must come in and feed at the end each time. He slowly grows a little. He runs awkwardly behind the others. He’s not welcomed to their rolling, nipping play or in the chasing of mice. He does this alone, off from the family.
As hunger constantly nags, he begins to hunt tiny prey. The kits feed at night and fall asleep together in a warm heap. He’s stopped feeding from his mother, sleeps alone. He is safer in the den with the others; so he stays. Not bonded with the other kits, nor his mother, who nips him often to show he is not wanted. His cunning grows earlier, and he begins to live on rabbits. He is small but lean and strong from his good hunting. While the others still play he has learned to survive alone.
After the first dusting of snow, he is attacked by his brother kit as he enters the den. He fights with ferocity, sinks his fangs deep into the neck. Thick, dark-red blood pools on red-blond fur, drips, then streams to the earth. The pup seizures without sound. A triumphant runt feeds on his still warm brother. This is the night he leaves and does not return.
This is a wandering coyote who’s much smaller than he should be. This is a coyote who is keen in sense and can live and fight on his own. This is a coyote who never will hunt in a pack. This is a coyote who will yip and cry to the moon alone. This is a coyote that has no home.
l
Leah woke in the frigid dark. Confused, she checked her cell phone. 9:30 a.m. Saw only the sign of dawn through the window. It was weird, being in the dark so late in the morning. Throwing heavy covers off, squinting in the half-light, she made her way to the wood box she had helped Haywire to fill. He had insisted on cutting kindling, teasing her about being a city girl, not being able to make fire to save her life.
She felt a little nervous, knowing that her life now depended on fire. Grasping a sharp knife, as Uncle Angus had always done, she whittled a number of pieces of kindling so the curls, still attached, would catch easily. She placed them in the wood stove, leaving spaces for air, and lit a match, moved the sticks with the poker as they caught, to ensure the fire would take hold. She sighed with relief when the flames shone light into the dark of the cabin. She placed two larger blocks of wood on top, waiting for them to light before clanging the door closed.
From the road, Haywire saw the first tendrils of smoke in the still air crawl slowly out of the stovepipe. He said quietly to himself, “So the greenhorn still knows how to make fire.” He had been about to sneak in and light it for her. He walked up the trail to his truck, smiling as he drove away.
Leah’s ears caught the sound of the familiar engine fading in the distance. She smiled, knowing Haywire had been watching over her.
The fire was snapping, crackling and roaring, and she could take it no longer; she desperately needed to pee. Damned if she was going to use the slop bucket. She pulled on her jacket and Doris’s old boots.
“Here goes,” she said to herself and stepped outside, pulling the wood plank door closed until the latch caught. Forgetting cold, she was captured. Everything was whi
te except the black of the trees. Crystal snow on twigs like iced fingers. Leah stood for a moment, turned left to the lake blanketed with thick snow. A restful sight for city-tired eyes. The sky above her lighting to a deep azure, as it can in the high North. Clouds still. So slow, she had to hold her eyes on one spot to see that they were actually moving. A million shades of grey. The mountains in the distance, pristine through clear air. Cloud hanging like smoke across their tops. They seemed to sit, looking at her, waiting with infinite patience. What were they waiting for? Peaks dusted with snow, veiled by cloud. Tree-covered sides sun-touched. The largest a grand old lady of all with a cloud veil, a shawl.
The breath was freezing in her nose. Throat dried, lungs rebelling against the dry cold, she coughed. She turned to look back at the cabin.
Yesterday, she and Haywire had walked out to the ice on the creek to chop a hole with an axe. He had pulled a bucket for her which now stood beside the stove. Leah looked around this place she had thought of so often during the years. She swore she heard Angus’s voice:
“You gonna freeze?” She didn’t bother to close the outhouse door. It didn’t look as though it would. She sat, shivering, grateful for the Styrofoam seat, looking to where the creek met the lake remembering the sheltered spot where the little boat once sat, tied up to a tree, moving in the eddy when the weather was warm. Now, the old thing was up against the cabin on the lakeside. Only patches of aluminium showed through thick snow. Her eyes followed old animal tracks and she smiled at the flash of a magpie in a nearby tree. Her toes were cold pinched, and she walked faster as she approached the cabin. She kicked her boots against the door frame, knocking off snow.
The fragrance of smoke reminded her to check the fire. She added a larger piece of wood, enjoying the heat radiating from the ornate old stove. Long after Gramma and Uncle had moved to a new house a mile up the road, she remembered coming down with Haywire and finding Uncle here. They would knock and enter, find him content, solitary, forming fur stretchers with a knife, or cleaning traps.
The Silence Page 2