Hear the Wolves

by Victoria Scott

  I wonder how we’ll make it through the one, okay, maybe two days it’ll take us to arrive at the river when I’m not sure how I’ll make it through the hour. And I wonder how much food Mr. Foster has in that pack.

  I glance at him, but his eyes are fastened to the ground. Following his gaze, I spot an old animal trap, vintage teeth snapped closed. Inside its mouth are the bones of a deserted animal. Bits of fur are lifted by the wind, and black spots splatter the cruel contraption. I purse my lips, because my father taught me better. We hunt animals for the food they provide, but we don’t torture. Pilot catches my eye and shakes his head.

  “I’m starving,” Elton says, not seeing what we do. His gaze is on the horizon like he can find something to eat without anyone’s help. After watching him create that knot in the store, I wonder if he could.

  Eyeing Ms. Wade, I say, “Maybe this is a good place to stop.”

  “The next shelter is close,” Pilot says, pointing to three dash marks carved into a tree trunk. Sure enough, after another quarter mile, we come upon the ramshackle structure.

  Built of wood planks and a rusted metal roof, the supply shelter stands six feet tall and stretches ten feet across in length and width. We’ll be able to sleep inside, the lot of us, but we’ll be getting to know each other awfully well.

  Mr. Foster glances out the open doorway before sitting. I know why he hesitates. It’s the same reason we’ve covered so much ground since racing into the woods early this morning. When he’s satisfied that nothing is following us, he leans against the wall and slides down.

  The rest of us find places as I continue to explore our home for the night. The floor is covered in those same wooden planks, and the door is nothing more than a cut of plywood secured by bronze hinges. A stubby stick serves to keep the door closed against the elements, and as Nash steps inside and drops it into place, Mr. Foster pulls off his pack and explores the contents.

  “Antibiotic cream,” he says, and we nod. “Cheese, more venison, and two sleeves of saltines.” Mr. Foster smiles like he’s going to play a fun game to ease our minds. “Sloan, if there are eighty crackers here, and we each ate five a day, how long would they last us?”

  It’s not a hard problem to solve. I know that. But the numbers swirl in my head, even more so with everyone’s eyes on me. I see Nash counting on his fingers, his lips moving with his calculations. My blood boils knowing that man will come to a conclusion before I can.

  “Not long enough,” I mutter.

  “How about this instead?” Mr. Foster poses. “Do you know what cloud types we’re hoping to see so that we know the blizzard has passed?”

  “Who cares?” Pilot interrupts. “It’s over when it’s over.”

  The enthusiastic smile on Mr. Foster’s face fades. Instead, he gives his head a frustrated shake. “I was just trying to pass the time.”

  “No, you weren’t,” I say quietly.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said you weren’t trying to pass the time. You were trying to make me feel stupid. You know I can’t do math like that in my head. Why don’t you ever leave me alone about it?”

  Mr. Foster frowns. “I saw the way you shot that wolf, Sloan. If your father pushed education on you half as much as he did hunting you’d be an A student.”

  I stare at him long and hard until he shrugs.

  “You could be a B student,” he concedes.

  “I knew the answers to your questions,” Elton mumbles. “Not that you’d ask me.”

  Mr. Foster gazes at Elton, confused, but before he can respond, a sound rockets through our small refuge.

  The wolves.

  They’re howling.

  Elton pulls his knees to his chest, and stares at the fragile door. We all do. Several tense moments pass—those eerie howls filling the silence—before Ms. Wade begins speaking.

  “There aren’t as many of them as you may think,” she says, her eyes on the boy.

  He shrugs like what does he care? But I notice how he keeps his arms around himself instead of petting that nudging basset hound.

  “They each make a unique sound when they howl, and they do it on purpose too. Know why?” she asks.

  Elton shakes his head.

  It’s Nash who leans forward in the dying light. “Why?”

  Ms. Wade smiles, amused to have caught the man’s interest. “They’re showing they’re strong in number. Nearly all packs are made up of a breeding male and female, the mother and father, and the pups they bear. Sometimes aunts and uncles and their offspring will stay with the pack too. Just like with humans, those kiddos will eventually leave to form their own families. When they howl like that though, they’re trying to sound like a bigger group than they are. The more wolves, the bigger their territory and the stronger they can hold it.”

  Though I hear their united chorus, it seems to me the wolves aren’t simply members of a pack, but are also individuals with personalities and jobs. I’ve seen females watching over the pups, and alphas showing more bravery than others. But maybe there’s one wolf that’s the troublemaker, and another that’s always playful. And maybe another, like the young gray wolf I’ve seen, that’s the best hunter. I bet wolves have labels too, just like people. And I bet some of them don’t like their labels.

  Ms. Wade looks back to Elton. “That noise they’re making? It’s probably the pack warning away others that might be nearby.” She beats a closed fist against her chest. “Listen to us. We are strong in number. Find your own territory. Find your own food.”

  Elton’s eyebrows knit together. “What did you mean, a while back, when you said the rabbits are dead?”

  The smile leaves Ms. Wade’s face. “Well, it’s just that … ”

  “We killed them,” I answer. “We made more of them, and then we killed ’em.”

  “Sort of,” Ms. Wade answers. “After the tree felling pushed the wolves back, the rabbits lived longer, and so did their offspring. More rabbits had more time to breed. So yes, in the end there were more hares. And that lead to more wolf pups because their food source increased.”

  “Then we razed the bush,” Pilot supplies.

  Ms. Wade nods. “Yes, and the rabbits lost their burrows. Then this blizzard came.”

  Elton leans forward. “So they’re all dead? All those rabbits?”

  “I would imagine many of them are,” Ms. Wade answers.

  A worry line forms between his eyes. “So … what will the wolves eat now? Now that there are more of them and no rabbits?”

  “Caribou,” I answer quickly. “Or moose. Or deer.”

  But Ms. Wade wrings her hands, and I know my response falls flat. Last year my father would come home with a plump caribou once a week. But this year we haven’t seen half that number.

  “They were building that fence, right?” Mr. Foster says.

  “Oh, hush,” Ms. Wade clips.

  She’s trying to protect me because it was my father’s idea to build the thing, but I won’t be ashamed of him, even if he doesn’t deserve my defending him right now.

  “Yeah, they built a fence,” I say, lifting my chin. “It runs just south of our land, through the woods and to the river, ten or so miles. It’s meant to keep the bigger game from leaving after they migrate inland.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” Nash says, his voice booming. “The stupid animals went around it, and then it kept them from coming back.”

  “So the rabbits are gone,” Elton says quietly. “And the caribou are gone. And most of the deer and moose too. But the wolves are still here, and there’s more of them than ever before.”

  Nash sits back with a boisterous laugh. “Well, that’s fantastic. So we got ourselves a hungry pack of wolves, and we’re the only red meat for miles around. And to top it all off, we did this to ourselves!” I grind my teeth as Nash picks at that feeble brain of his. “Well, we’ll give them plenty of time to get at us. You can bet your bottoms we ain’t making it to Vernon quickly. Not after we dr
agged our feet through the snow all day.”

  Nash shoots Ms. Wade an accusatory look. When she opens her mouth to respond, the man cuts her off with a sneer. “Hey, Norma Jean, wasn’t that husband of yours reading about the wolves in India before he died? Teddy told Hank that—”

  Ms. Wade snaps upright. “Shut your mouth, Nash Blake. You shut it right now or I’ll silence you with what strength I have left.”

  Nash grins and looks at Elton. “Those wolves killed like eighty people, almost all of them kids.”

  “Nash!”

  “Heard Teddy saying one of the kids was taken in front of his own mother, and when the authorities looked for the child later, all they found was the head.”

  Elton looks at Ms. Wade with fear in his eyes. And I look at Nash with murder in my own. “It’s just a story,” Elton says with unconvincing confidence. “Right?”

  But Ms. Wade only purses her lips and turns away.

  The truth lies between us as night invades.

  And the wolves continue to howl.

  October in Alaska means only ten hours of daylight, which leaves an awful lot of time to lie in the dark and imagine what’s lurking outside the shelter walls. But somehow, I find sleep, and when morning comes at last, I wake like an animal, with urges to fill my belly and empty my bladder.

  When I see Ms. Wade sleeping against the wall as far away as she can get from Nash, I hesitate. I can’t wake her, not when I know she needs the rest. And not when I can make out the dark spot staining the sweater beneath her jacket.

  I fidget, knowing I can’t go out there alone. Not without someone in sight. But I have to go.

  It’s Pilot who hears me shifting and stands up.

  He shuffles for a moment, like he’s trying to decide what to say. “I, uh, I gotta go. Will you come with me? Just to be safe?”

  I pause, but not for long. After pulling a beanie over his buzzed hair, he pushes open the door. I practically run past him and duck behind a bush. I keep my eyes trained on the boy as I squat, but he never looks in my direction.

  The cold gives me an early-morning bare-bottom whopping. And I can tell by looking at the sky that the blizzard isn’t ready to release its hold.

  As I’m pulling my thermals, jeans, and snow pants back up, I hear the crinkle of that invitation in my pocket. What would it be like if I set aside my fear and accepted? I’ll be thirteen in two months’ time, and there’d be a chaperone to greet me in Anchorage as soon as I stepped out of that terminal. But I can’t even pee alone, so I might as well make a paper airplane out of the invitation and fly it to the moon.

  “Hey, Sloan,” Pilot says when I appear from the bush, my stomach growling, the relentless snow nipping at my cheeks. “I wanted to talk with you about … about your dad and sister.”

  I stride toward our shelter as my face heats. “Let’s not and say we did.”

  Pilot takes hold of my arm, and I stop. “They caught a ride with my mom, did you know that? When I didn’t see you with them … I wouldn’t have left you, all right? That’s all I’m getting at.”

  “Don’t you dare act like you stayed behind for me,” I bark. And then, lowering my voice, I add, “I’d hate myself if you did.”

  “I stayed because I thought my dad would be there. I told you as much.” He shrugs with a slight smile. “And I stayed because you gave me gloves once upon a time.”

  “That wasn’t me,” I say.

  Pilot laughs. “Yeah, it was.”

  “You never wore them.”

  “Because I was embarrassed you noticed.” Pilot releases my arm and glances away, like whatever he has to say next will sting coming out. “I know what it’s like to have a parent disappoint you, okay?”

  I look up at Pilot. Realize how much taller he is than me. And almost two years older. I bet he’s kissed half a dozen girls. Pilot may not have many friends, but his face could convince any girl to lean closer. Does he know that?

  “Okay,” is all I say before heading back, listening hard so I can be sure he’s close behind. I hate that we have this unfortunate thing in common, and that he may understand me better than most. But I’m also frustrated that I’m thin and awkward and undeveloped in my older sister’s curvy shadow. He must think I’m so childish.

  I shake the thought from my head as Mr. Foster appears from the shelter.

  “We should get started early,” he says with a yawn. “Maybe we can get to the river today if we travel fast enough.”

  Pilot walks past, throwing Mr. Foster a nod. Before he heads inside, Pilot glances back with a look I’d like to bottle. Maybe he doesn’t look at me like a child. Maybe he doesn’t look at me that way at all.

  Silently, I throw my lasso around Pilot’s waist.

  Pilot says there are four more shelters between here and the river. As we follow him to the next one, I huddle against the wind and snow, which rages meaner than ever. I try to recognize something in my surroundings, though I can hardly see through the whirling white. I spot a seventy-foot paper birch and an enormous boulder my mother and I may have passed on our way to the river two years ago. But I’d followed my mother blindly that day, a planet orbiting the sun out of some gravitational pull. My eyes had been on my feet, and on her, and on the bag of spiced peanuts she’d brought for the walk.

  Ms. Wade holds tight to my arm as we travel. I like the sensation, the weight of her fingers reminding me I’m not alone. Even without my father and sister, I can stand upright. I just need someone else to lean on. Is that so wrong?

  She’s moving slower today, but then we barely ate this morning, trying to ration what food remains. As Pilot carries my .22, I silently count those bullets over and over—four for my father’s rifle, and four for my own. Ms. Wade stumbles and I glance over at her, at those soft blue eyes set in the folds of her face and the hard lines on either side of her mouth. I rarely see her smile, but I know her insides are good. She’s a strong woman, and that’s more important than wearing a pretty smile for the world’s sake.

  Ms. Wade’s color is pink. Pink like a blush. Pink like the flat of my tongue. A pink you can trust through and through even if it wants people to think otherwise. Ms. Wade probably thinks her color is a little red, like Nash’s. But it’s not.

  “I keep thinking about things,” Ms. Wade says when the others are out of earshot.

  “What sorts of things?”

  “Teddy, mostly. How I wish he were here. He wasn’t the cuddle-up type, but he always held me as I fell asleep. Sometimes it’s not what we do of our own accord, but what we do despite it going against our nature.” She nods. “That’s how you love.”

  I’m not sure if that’s right or not, but because I think it’s good to keep her talking, I ask, “Do you hear from your boys often?”

  “Occasionally. I call them from the store when I can. They’ve got little ones of their own now, you know—Cliff just had a son, and David has two girls, just like your daddy does. I’m going to see them one of these days.” She hesitates, and then says with certainty, “This coming spring.”

  Ms. Wade looks at me from the corner of her eye. “I remember when my boys were still babies. I always wanted them to need me more than they did. David walked by the time he was ten months old ’cause he saw his older brother doing it. But Cliff took longer. He did this thing they call cruising. It’s where a toddler holds on to furniture as they move about the house. They can walk fine on their own, mind you. But they’re too afraid to let go. They don’t trust themselves.” Ms. Wade pauses. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

  I shrug, because I’m not sure I do.

  “Your mama wasn’t happy, Sloan,” Ms. Wade says suddenly, firmly. “And there was nothing anyone could have done to make it so.”

  I stop walking, stunned silent.

  Ms. Wade takes my chin in her hand and forces me to look in her eyes. “I know your daddy left you so that you might be more independent. But it’s okay to hold tight to people. If you don’t want to be alone aft
er your mama left and you got lost in those woods, then I say so what. But you got to know her going wasn’t your fault. When she took off in search of another life, it was for herself, understand?”

  My eyes dart away, staring at the same woods I raced into after I found my mother’s note. I was sure if I found Mama’s ruby ring, she’d come back.

  Maybe Ms. Wade is right. Maybe it wasn’t my fault she left. But if I’d have seen her color—blue, blue, blue like storm clouds and the veins on the inside of your wrists—I would have known that she would leave.

  I would have known what to expect.

  “Look at me, Sloan,” Ms. Wade says. “You’re okay.”

  Something inside me threatens to break free, like holding tight to a balloon, but wanting to watch it float toward the sky too.

  Her words are buried by the sound of Pilot yelling. Nash has his arms locked around his son, and he wrestles him forward. Ms. Wade releases me, and I fly toward my lifeline.

  I’m twenty paces away when I spot the steep ledge.

  Nash pushes his son closer to the ravine, the blizzard making it hard to see how near they are to the ledge. Mr. Foster grabs at Nash’s shoulders, but the man moves out of reach. Soon, Nash is too near the edge to risk doing anything. If we startle Nash, he could release his son and send him tumbling to his death. Pilot’s face is frozen with horror, my childhood rifle forgotten in the snow. His toes skim the ground, and when he flails, I watch those boots leave the ground in favor of open space.

  Nash locks his son against his chest for a moment, and then a slow smile parts his mouth. A laugh breaks across the forest as Nash steps back and thrusts Pilot away from the drop.

  “Just about wet yourself again, boy!” Nash holds his stomach and laughs. “That’s what you get for not trusting your old man.”