The Wolves of Winter

by Tyrell Johnson

  “Yeah, well,” I said, “next time, duck.”

  * * *

  I didn’t see Ramsey the next day. Jeryl said he’d gone to do some carvings. Ramsey liked to carve animals out of wood: squirrels, birds, wolves. Ken made fun of him for it, but he was actually pretty good. Either way, I doubted anyone would see him for a while.

  Ken and Jeryl spent the day on the ladder, pushing snow off the roof with a broom Jeryl had made from old spruce. He used small strips of wood for the bristles, which he attached to a long pole he’d carved from a fallen tree. It wasn’t the best of brooms, but it did the trick. Who thinks of bringing a broom when you’re fleeing for your life?

  I spent the day helping with the animals. Mom took them for a walk while I mucked out the pen. When they got back, we brushed them, which I always hated. You have to take care of your animals, Mom insisted. So we brushed tangles out of their thick, nasty hair, using brushes that we’d made out of spruce and wire. Waste of good wire, that’s what I thought.

  I waited to see Jax, kept lurking around the cabin like a crazy person. But he was nowhere to be seen. He’d been on his feet awhile now, and Jeryl hadn’t mentioned sending him away, so he’d been using his time to explore the area. Wolf was gone too. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that one day they were just going to be gone and never come back. We’d wake up one morning and there’d be nothing but footprints in the snow. For some reason, I didn’t think Jax would say good-bye. The thought made me anxious.

  After lunch, I spent some time on my bed in the loft, reading Walt Whitman. “Song of Myself.” If I had a favorite poem of his, it would be that one. Especially the last line:

  Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

  Missing me one place search another,

  I stop some where waiting for you.

  I liked to picture Dad like that. Somewhere. Heaven. Waiting for me.

  * * *

  I went for a hunt that afternoon, just before the sun set. I didn’t go very far, and I didn’t spot any game either. But I saw Jax’s footprints in the snow. I knew they were Jax’s by the dog prints dancing around them. Since it was already getting dark and I didn’t have much faith in scoring a kill, I decided to follow them. Probably he’d already gone back to the cabin for the evening, probably I’d follow a loop to our settlement, but just for the hell of it, I tracked those prints.

  I crested a small hill through a group of pine trees. Turned out, he hadn’t gone home. Jax and Wolf were on the other side in a clearing. I hid behind one of the trees and watched them, my hands pressed against rough bark.

  Wolf was running around Jax, barking, while Jax turned to face him. Then they both froze, staring at each other. Wolf’s mouth was closed like he was intent on listening. Then Jax made a quick jerking motion at the dog, and Wolf bounded into the snow, circling and circling. They did it again and again. Was he training him? No. They were playing. It was such a weird thing to see. Man playing with dog. Maybe not that weird in the world before. But weird now. Animals were beasts of burden or for eating, for making coats, for milking. This was something entirely different.

  I watched them run around, kicking up powder. Jax’s leg must have been feeling better. Maybe he wasn’t planning on coming in for the evening. Maybe he was gone already.

  As the first star punctured through the canopy of dull blue sky, Jax spotted me. I didn’t bother to hide. We stared at each other, neither of us moving. Wolf was still dancing around in circles. Jax didn’t wave. I didn’t wave.

  Eventually, I turned and walked back down the hill, my heart beating a rhythm I didn’t recognize.

  * * *

  Jax didn’t show up for dinner. That’s it, I figured. He’s gone. The little adventure, my little taste of the world beyond, was over. Ken, Mom, and I ate. Ken told us how Jeryl almost fell off the ladder. Mom shook her head while Ken laughed about the way Jeryl’s face had looked. None of us mentioned Jax.

  I was quiet through the meal, thinking. Was Jax just too used to life on his own? Used to the open spaces and the sound of his dog’s breathing? Maybe the five of us were simply too much. I envied him. His freedom. His ability to roam the world. One day that would be me. Maybe I wouldn’t say good-bye either. Maybe Mom would just wake up in the morning and I’d be gone.

  After dinner, I helped Mom clean the dishes. We melted snow in a large pot and used a rag to wipe down the plates. Ken sat by the fire, trying to puff on a pipe he’d made. Who knows what leaves he used to smoke or what they did to him. Maybe he’d lose his mind; climb the ladder naked in the middle of the night and howl at the moon.

  “Are your hands broken?” I asked him.

  “Dishes are a two-woman job,” he said. “We can’t all crowd around the bucket.”

  “You’re right. Mom and I will do half, then you do half,” I said.

  “I brought in the meat.”

  “Bullshit, you haven’t made a big kill in weeks.”

  “Gwendolynn,” Mom said. “Leave it. He’ll do them tomorrow. Right, Ken?”

  Ken puffed, or rather failed to puff, on his pipe. “Yeah, yeah.” Which meant he wouldn’t. I thought about throwing the wet dishrag at him. I even started to lift it.

  “Well, I’m heading,” he said, standing. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. You really outdid yourself this time.”

  “Shut it,” she said with a smirk.

  As Ken opened the door, I saw a light snow falling outside. A flash of white and gray. A bark. The figure of a man.

  “Hey, neighbor,” Ken said as he slammed the door shut.

  I looked down at the dishes. I tried not to smile. Instead, I started to scrub. I could feel Mom’s eyes burning my forehead.

  * * *

  It’s not that I was in love with Jax.

  Really, I had zero romantic inclinations toward him. My excitement over him was the excitement of something new, that’s all. A welcome change in a pattern you’ve come to know, expect, grow bored of for seven long years.

  But.

  I would have been an idiot not to have been distinctly aware of him. The look of him, the smell of him, the blue-white of his eyes. Again, not in a googly-eyed sort of way. But in a way that wolves will smell a new member of the pack or a baby. They’ll sniff, inspect, even try to rub off their own scent on the newcomer.

  Basically, I was aware of the fact that he was a man, and not much older than me. But the best part about him: he was neither Conrad nor Ramsey nor family. I liked that.

  10

  As my dad used to say, it never rains, it pours.

  Jax had just arrived. The first human we’d seen from outside our settlement in seven years. Turns out, he wasn’t alone.

  It started with a shuffling in the distance, a stirring in the otherwise silent morning, the sound of snow being mashed beneath heavy weight. The truck, the horses, the men. They may as well have been aliens landing on our small planet. Everything about them foreign and unfamiliar. Everything about them put us on edge. Their numbers, their guns, their wheels that left trails of crushed snow behind them.

  If Jax was the whisper that broke our long-kept silence, they were the shout that shattered our windows.

  That morning, before they came, we gathered at our place for breakfast. Ground elk and potato hash with goat cheese and milk. It was pretty good.

  Outside, Wolf was barking. Jax kept looking at the door.

  “I’m thinking of taking a trek up to the old logging road,” Jeryl said. “See if I can’t find a moose. The rut shouldn’t have started just yet so the bulls’ll still be up in the hills.” He looked at Ken, me, then Ramsey. “Everyone is welcome to join me.”

  “I’ll go,” Ken said.

  I didn’t volunteer. “We haven’t seen a moose for at least a year,” I said.

  “Doesn’t mean they aren’t up there,” Ken said.

  “I haven’t even seen tracks.” It was true. And you can tell when you’ve seen moose tracks. They’re big and leave distinct dewc
law prints at the end of them like bloated exclamation marks.

  Jeryl buried his last bite of hash beneath his mustache. “Worth a look.”

  “I’ll go too,” Ramsey said.

  “You wanna go?” I asked.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Ramsey never went hunting.

  “What’re you going to do, little Ramsey?” Ken said. “Hook them with your pole?” Ken and Ramsey were having at it again, butting their ox heads together.

  “You’re hilarious,” Ramsey said, deadpan.

  Wolf’s bark snapped just outside our door.

  “Can you tell your dog to shut up?” Ramsey said.

  Jax shrugged. “I’ve got no control.”

  Wolf’s bark grew more urgent. A harsh sound, low in his throat.

  Mom threw the door open, letting in a blast of cold air. “Wolf, shut up!” she yelled. Then paused. Then stepped outside.

  “Jeryl.” Her voice was like the dropping of a gavel. It wasn’t a shout, but it may as well have been. Jeryl stood. Not rushing, but you could tell he wanted to. The rest of us followed him out, even Jax.

  The milky sun was climbing toward its peak just above the mountains, bringing the snow to life in flashes of silver. Over the hill was a truck, pulled by two tethered horses and led by a man sitting on the top of the cab. Sometimes the winter, the endless snow, played tricks on your eyes. We all watched, waiting for the mirage to disappear. But this was no trick. This was real. The horses’ hooves thudded against the frozen ground; the wheels creaked and crushed the snow beneath them. If fear had a sound, that’s what it sounded like. Fear of change. Fear of the unknown. Fear of men. Crunch. Creak. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Jeryl didn’t run to his cabin, because Jeryl never ran, but he moved quickly enough. Ken went for his cabin as well. For a few seconds, it was just me, Mom, Ramsey, and Jax, watching the truck roll down the hill. Jeryl and Ken came back with their guns. I turned toward my cabin, ready to grab my bow.

  “No, Lynn,” Jeryl said. “Leave it be. You too, Mary.”

  “What? Why?” I asked.

  “No, Lynn. That’s final.” I would have ignored him. He wasn’t my father. But his voice was so intense. I’d never heard him sound like that before.

  Jeryl’s eyes pinched. “Ken, you don’t shoot until I do. Understand?”

  “Yeah.” Ken was not breaking his gaze from the truck.

  “We talk first,” Jeryl said, half to himself.

  The horses pulled at the tethers, drawing closer. Wolf took off in the snow, bounding out toward them. Jax called at him, but the dog didn’t even flinch. He ran, a silver bullet over the white snow. He danced around the truck and jabbered like he’d found new friends. The horses neighed, stomped, and shook their heads. When they got within fifty yards, Jeryl raised his gun and started walking toward them.

  “That’s far enough,” he yelled.

  The truck kept on coming. The man on top of the cab waved his hands, saying something. Jeryl aimed.

  “Stop right there!” Louder this time.

  The man took the reins and pulled the horses to a stop. Plumes of white fog shot out their flapping lips. They looked like mythic creatures, with their brown manes, pointed ears, huge snouts, and protruding eyes. Like elks, but not like elks. Too small, too smooth. I’d been around horses before, but that was years ago. And the truck wasn’t quite a truck anymore. It had a bed and a cab, but everything else was stripped away. The side paneling, the bumpers, the windows, the engine, all missing. And where rubber wheels should have been were spoked wooden wheels like a wagon. It was the bones of a truck, a makeshift truck. A science experiment. Old and new. Dead and alive.

  The man on the cab stood and raised his hands. “Easy now. Just a group of traders. We mean no harm. No ill intent, pilgrim.” His voice was low and raw.

  The man had a thick brown beard, long brown hair that hung around his shoulders, and a hat—a weird tan cowboy hat that looked out of place. Everything about the scene felt out of place, though, so maybe it fit right in.

  The doors to the big brown truck popped open and three men emerged. Jeryl didn’t move his aim from the man sitting atop the cab. The other three men watched us; one of them waved. All were bearded. There was a large man with a skullcap, an East Indian with curly black hair, and a man with a red bandanna wrapped around his forehead.

  “Just traders,” the man on the truck said again. “Got a load of hides, a few coats, tools, things like that. And just killed a doe a few miles back. Poor thing was wounded. We’re happy to share. Plenty to go around.”

  “That’s kind of you.” Jeryl said it like it was an accusation. He didn’t lower his gun. Beside me, Ken held his in front of his chest, adjusting his grip again and again, and Jax stood with a hand on the knife at his belt, surveying the scene with that wild look in his eyes. “You armed?” Jeryl asked.

  Cowboy Hat nodded. “Two rifles, two shotguns. Handgun too, but no ammo for it. Couple of knives. We’ll leave them in the truck if that makes you feel better. I know I’d feel a lot better if you’d lower your gun.”

  Jeryl stood frozen in place, his musk ox coat like a black hole against the shining snow. I put a hand on my own knife. I wasn’t a terrible throw. I practiced against the trees when the hunting and waiting got too boring.

  “Any of you sick?” Jeryl asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Been around the sick?”

  “No, sir.”

  Jeryl lowered his gun but still gripped it like he was ready for anything.

  “Name’s Banner,” Cowboy Hat said. “This is Michael.” He pointed to Skullcap. “Nayan.” The East Indian. “And Johnson.” Red Bandanna.

  “Jeryl,” he said. “Ken, Ramsey, Mary, Lynn, and Jax.” He pointed to each of us in turn. I let my fingers uncurl from the handle of my knife. I’d never killed anyone before. I wondered if it was anything like killing a deer. If I thought about it, I could imagine my knife cutting into the rough skin, feel the warmth of the animal’s insides. Used to gross me out. It didn’t anymore.

  Cowboy Hat, or Banner, stepped down from the truck. He looked from Jeryl to Ken, then scanned the rest of us, smiling calmly. Behind him, the other men hefted the deer out of the truck bed.

  “So,” Banner said, clapping his hands together. “Who wants to take a gander at our wares?”

  11

  Everyone drew a calming breath. Jeryl and Ken held their guns loosely. Even Mom’s posture softened a little. But we weren’t quite relaxed just yet. Especially Jax. He watched the men from a distance, eyes darting at their every move. Made me feel uneasy.

  Banner tried to push his goods on us. Jeryl asked if they had ammo, but Banner said they had only enough for themselves. Jeryl also asked if the horses were for trade, but Banner just laughed. He wouldn’t trade those animals for his own heart. That’s how he said it. Without them, they’d be grounded. Jeryl didn’t seem to like the idea of having the men stuck with us for longer than necessary, so he didn’t push it. He did end up trading a pound of carrots for a new shovel.

  I circled the truck myself, looking in at the contents. I saw a few knives I wouldn’t mind having, but there was nothing I was willing to trade for them. I picked one up and examined it. Gold handle, smooth leather sheath, about a five-inch blade.

  “Nice, eh?” It was the man with the bandanna. His lips peeled back. He was missing a tooth. Made him look like an idiot.

  “Mine’s better,” I said.

  He looked down at my belt, at my knife. “Let me see.”

  “No.” I stepped back.

  He held up his hands. “Just wanted a look is all. No worries.” I could feel his slimy eyes on me. “You know, I had a girlfriend in another life that looked a lot like you. Red hair and all.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jax moving beside the truck. Was he listening?

  I put the knife back down in the truck bed. “You got any arrows?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Why? You got a bow?”
<
br />   “Compound bow.”

  “Hmm, interested in trading?”

  “Never.”

  He laughed. “I like you.”

  * * *

  I never really cared about many things. Possessions, I mean. I had an owl stuffed animal that I loved when I was little. I cried when it eventually tore so bad that Mom couldn’t fix it. I also had a pen that my parents gave me for my seventh birthday. It was blue and had stars and planets on it. I had it for a few years before I lost it.

  But neither of those compared to my bow and my knife. I loved my bow and my knife.

  My bow was a black Bear Cruzer. I lost the mechanical release, the draw length and strength weren’t set properly for me, and it was kind of a bitch to carry around. But I loved it. It used to belong to Dad. In fact, when he first let me use it, he kept it in his room. As I practiced and got better, he let me keep it in my room. Then, one spring, he woke me up to join him for a hunt and said, “Go get your bow.” Not “Go get my bow,” not “Go get the bow.” But “Go get your bow.” It was mine. I was awesome with it, and I loved it.

  Dad gave me the knife too. It’s Hän made. Not sure where he got it. It’s about nine inches long from hilt to blade tip. The sheath is brown leather with an eagle carved on the outside. The blade is sharp steel and the handle is made from a moose antler. It does the trick for butchering animals, and Jeryl has a tool that looks like a can opener that keeps it sharp—I use it religiously.

  Dad gave it to me for my eighth birthday.

  “Don’t stab your brother,” he said.

  * * *

  We were all crammed in Mom’s cabin for lunch. It was the biggest structure, with the only table. Jeryl, Mom, and the four men sat around the table while the rest of us stood or sat on the floor by the fire. The venison was a little tough, but I didn’t mind. Jax stood by the door, eating by himself, still watching the men.