Hear the Wolves

by Victoria Scott

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have—”

  Pilot turns toward me suddenly and takes my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips. Like, his lips on my lips and both of us closing our eyes but I kind of crack my eyes to make sure this is really happening.

  It’s over quick. Too soon, maybe. Definitely too soon.

  Pilot smiles at me like a sheep dog that nipped the one thing it’s supposed to watch over. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  I grin into my hands, and Farts cocks his head at us and I wish so bad my stupid sister were here so I could tell her what happened. Even if she’d pretend I was a child and act like she didn’t care. Even then.

  Mr. Foster appears, and my face turns the color of August raspberries. He grins like he knows something even though I may die of embarrassment if he does. Just as soon though, a furrowed brow replaces his smile.

  “We should get going.” My teacher clears his throat. Looks directly at me. “Elton is talking about the wolf. Wondering what to do with it.”

  I know what he’s asking, and why he’s asking me. I’m the daughter of a butcher, after all. My insides churn, but when I see the dark circles beneath Mr. Foster’s eyes, and hunger twists inside my own belly, I know what has to be done.

  So I stand up, take a deep breath, and walk back toward the others. And after I show them the best way, everyone pitches in to help prepare the meat. I check it twice to be sure it looks safe, and Elton uses Ms. Wade’s jacket to start a fire.

  Then we eat. In absolute silence, we eat. And after we’re done, we brush ourselves off and turn away.

  Even Nash remains quiet as we trek toward the river.

  As the sun arcs toward the earth, I stand with my toes at the edge of a frozen river.

  Mr. Foster looks at us hopefully, but no one is celebrating. This isn’t the river we were aiming for, just one of the bigger streams that feeds into it. We shouldn’t have reached this far north. I suspected we were off course when I saw the ravine, but now I’m certain.

  “Great job,” Pilot tells his father. “But not the river we wanted.”

  “Is there a bridge somewhere we could cross?” Mr. Foster asks.

  “Don’t be stupid.” Nash cocks his head at the man. “Want to spend another night in the snow?”

  My mind zips to the wolves, and already I’m searching the surface, trying to convince myself the ice is thick enough to cross.

  Elton sighs. He’s disappointed we walked so far out of our way.

  Pilot rubs his thumb into the palm of his right hand and winces. Nash has a point. We can’t sleep in the elements a second time. And so I touch the butt of my rifle to the edge of the pond. I press down with my body, and when I don’t hear any shifting, I take a tentative step.

  “Sloan, I should go first,” Pilot says.

  I shoot him a look that says I won’t be underestimated. I have a fear of being alone, fine. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be brave. Besides, I know how to get across. The ice can be thinner in some places than others, Daddy told me once. So watch for movement. Listen for cracking.

  Elton is the next to step out onto the ice, with a careful Mr. Foster close on his heels. Pilot and his dog go next.

  I walk back and forth along the edge of the river, moving a few feet farther out each time. Bending the right side of my face toward the ice, I listen. But I know one good ear isn’t enough. Not now.

  I glance at Pilot. “Can you—?”

  “I’m listening.” Pilot nods to his dog. “He may not be good for much, but if that ice cracks, he’ll hear it.”

  And so I continue, slowly—like heart in my throat I can barely breathe slowly—toward the opposite side of the river. I watch the basset hound as he sniffs the ice, ears drooping. We’ve made it fifteen feet across, moving back and forth, when a low whine escapes the dog’s throat.

  My head whips around as chills shoot across my skin. Everyone stops, arms flying out to our sides as if that’ll somehow keep us from falling in. The dog stares back at us, whining nervously, and I realize it isn’t the ice he’s warning us about.

  “It’s his paws.” Pilot puts both arms beneath the dog and hoists him up with a grunt. “The ice is colder than the snow.”

  “Oh.” I turn back to the ice, worried that we just lost our best alarm, and knowing I have to continue anyway.

  Mr. Foster skims forward. “Seriously, Sloan. Let me go first. I’ve studied weather patterns, including how to—”

  “You spend six good years studying these woods?” Pilot asks.

  I look Mr. Foster square in the eyes. Pull myself upright. “I’ve got this.”

  He examines my face. Then he nods.

  “Enough chatter,” Nash says, a shade less confident. “Get us across this thing.”

  My neck tingles as I take another step. And another. Each time, I touch my rifle in the place I plan to step as if that will somehow protect me.

  I’ve got a gun, you hear? No funny business!

  We’ve got to be halfway across when a cracking sound reaches my ear.

  “Sloan, stop,” Elton says in a fierce whisper, because we’ve heard tales of breaking through ice with a simple raised voice.

  A bolt of panic shoots through me, toes to nose, and I stop cold. The noise comes again, and I try to pinpoint where it stems from, my pulse pounding along my neck. Several seconds pass. Or maybe it’s hours. Maybe it’s centuries and we’re all made of stone now so what does it matter?

  Slowly, the fear creeping across my scalp slithers away. I hold my rifle out, slow enough to catch a black fly, and tap on that ice.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  No one moves.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I watch the worried faces of my companions. When Pilot nods, I step out onto the next patch of ice. My foot lands solid, and so I shift my weight. When we’ve gone another five or six feet, Elton laughs nervously. Mr. Foster joins him.

  Nash tells them to stop being morons, but even I can hear the relief in his voice.

  I keep my eyes on the frozen surface. Glide one foot after the other. Not too much weight until I’m sure.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Test, test.

  There.

  When I glance up, I realize we’re almost out of harm’s way. The shore is six feet away. Maybe less. Sensation tingles into my arms and legs. I hadn’t felt the numbness rolling over me until now.

  We’re so close that Pilot sets his dog back down. The basset hound races across the ice, slipping and sliding a little before finally reaching the edge. As soon as he’s safe on solid ground, the dog lifts his nose and howls.

  Did you see what I did there? he seems to say. Raced ahead of you all. I’m a good dog. Good dog!

  Laughter thunders from Pilot, mostly because that howl is followed by Farts tucking his tail and cowering, as if his own vocal chords make him nervous.

  I throw Pilot a grin, and Pilot shrugs like, What can you do about such an idiot animal? I love him.

  My eyes are still on Pilot when I hear the cracking.

  Did I forget to tap? Did I forget to test?

  Doesn’t matter now.

  The ice starts to split beneath our feet. No one moves. No one breathes. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the ice cracks cheerfully, as if it waited until we thought we were safe.

  I glance down, my body shaking with fear. The ice is solid beneath my boots. Pilot seems stable too. So do Nash and Mr. Foster.

  But Elton stares at his feet. At the small veins forming between his boots.

  The ice cracks, snaps, pops—

  And then tears open beneath Elton.

  “No!” I scream. A rift rips the frozen surface into pieces, and I throw myself onto my stomach. “Get down! Get down!”

  Elton’s right leg plummets into the slushy water, but he dives at the last possible moment and is able to pull free. He stretches out like I have, arms and legs spread wide as if we’re skydiving.

  Pilot is on his
stomach.

  Mr. Foster is too.

  Nash stands frozen, arms straight out on either side. He looks to me in that moment like the man on the cross in our chapel.

  The ice breaks beneath Nash’s feet.

  And he’s gone.

  The water releases a satisfied slurp as it swallows Nash Blake. Elton scrambles on his belly toward the opening, horror twisting his face.

  “Elton, no,” I bark. “Don’t move. Don’t anyone move.”

  Pilot ignores me and squirms on his stomach, grunting, his breath coming in panicked bursts.

  “Dad?” he yells. “Dad!”

  Pilot plunges his arm into the water up to the shoulder.

  “Stop!” I yell, thinking of his hands.

  Pilot brings his arm out, unsuccessful, before plunging it back in. He screams with frustration, and the ice crackles beneath his body. Beneath all of us.

  “Pilot, get away from there,” Mr. Foster bellows.

  But Pilot is still searching, still screaming, his sentences broken.

  “Useless idiot!” Pilot grumbles. “ … don’t you dare. Drunken. Skinny jerk … ”

  Seconds turn to minutes. How long has his dad been under? One minute? Three?

  Too long.

  I cinch my eyes shut. I hate Nash, but I don’t want him dead. Not after Ms. Wade. Not this way. Not with Pilot trying to rescue him.

  “YOU WILL NOT DIE, YOU MONSTER!” Pilot roars.

  Nash Blake flies upward, sputtering water, his jacket twisted in his son’s fist.

  “Haaa!” I scream.

  For one blissful moment, Pilot’s face beams with joy. He’s so happy to see his father alive. So stupidly, brilliantly happy.

  And then Nash grabs on to his son and drags him forward. Pilot tries to scramble backward, but Nash yanks harder, using his son’s weight to free himself from the water. But in doing so, he’s pulling Pilot in.

  Their bodies are a blur against the ice, arms flailing, fingers scratching. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t know how I end up on my knees, hands cradling my rifle, the crosshairs on Pilot’s father.

  Will I do it?

  Can I do it?

  If I don’t take him out, he’ll kill his own son. Nash gets a better hold, his hands clutching Pilot’s shoulders. His jaw is set, and as Pilot’s arms splash downward, and Nash rises like a ghost from the grave, I release a bloodcurdling scream.

  My finger tickles that trigger.

  I don’t have a choice, do I? My lasso is around Pilot. I cannot live without my lasso. I cannot live without Pilot Blake, who carried me from the woods.

  Pilot cries out, and in a desperate attempt to survive, he reaches back and hits his father clean between the eyes. Nash’s head snaps backward and he loses his grip.

  Pilot scrambles away from his father, panting. I expect Nash to disappear beneath the ice again, but he doesn’t. He clings to the edge, and slowly, he grows still.

  “Help me, Pilot,” he says, though I can barely understand him through the chattering of his teeth. His skin is blue, his eyes half-closed.

  He reaches one hand out to his son, but Pilot only scrunches up his nose.

  “Pilot,” I say, struck with an idea. He glances at me, and I slide the rifle toward him real slow, so very careful not to disrupt the ice.

  Pilot snatches it and starts to stretch it toward his father. But then he stops. Stops and stares at Nash as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes widen and his chest heaves and I realize he’s about to do something awful.

  “Pilot, reach it toward him,” I say.

  But Pilot doesn’t move. He just watches as his father closes his eyes and lays his head down on the ice. Nash’s fingers slip from the edge one at a time.

  Thumb. Pinkie. Pointer.

  “Pilot, help him!” Elton yells.

  “Give him the rifle,” I echo, because Pilot won’t be himself if he lets this happen. He won’t be the boy who gave his mama the courage to start again. He won’t be the boy who left a note in my bag at school that said, Thanks for the gloves. Can I go hare hunting with you sometime?

  And so I yell at him to help his father. I yell and yell and when still he stares at his father as the last of Nash’s fingers slips from the ice, I dive toward the man. I grab Nash by the collar and yank him upward. I can only manage to raise him a few inches, but seeing me pull his father from the ice chases away the ugly in Pilot, and he grabs his dad too.

  Between the two of us, with Mr. Foster chanting careful, careful, we manage to free Nash from the ice. And because Nash is stubborn as a mule, he kicks to his feet, and half walks, half staggers as Pilot and I lead him toward the snowy shore.

  My mind is fuzzy and my body is exhausted. But with Nash mumbling which way to go, we’re able to find our way again, reaching the next shelter with sunlight to spare. Pilot has his arm beneath his father’s shoulders, and Mr. Foster has the man’s opposite side. All of us besides Elton have threatened Nash. And yet we can’t leave him behind. I can hear the wolves howling, like they know one of us has weakened, and they lick their chops eagerly, waiting for him to fall.

  Nash slumps to the floor, and his head sags to his chest.

  “We’ve got to get him warm,” Elton says.

  “Do we?” Pilot mutters.

  I stare at Pilot, shocked at his coldness, but understanding it all the same.

  “We need to build a fire.” Elton looks at each of us in turn. At the clothing on our backs. Then he looks down at his own jacket. When he starts to reach for his zipper, Mr. Foster stops him.

  “No, not you. You make the fire. That’s enough.” He lowers his eyes, but I don’t miss the shame in them. “It’s time I do something to help.”

  He rips off his jacket, and then pulls a sweater over his head. Beneath that is a long-sleeved thermal, teeth marks torn into the fabric. A dark stain spreads from his elbow, and I wonder just how bad that bite has become.

  Elton takes Pilot and they return with two rocks. They clear a spot directly outside the door, covering it with dry wood from inside the shelter and crisp dead leaves that snuck in.

  “Couldn’t find two flints. But this one has quartz in it. See?” Elton holds up a stone that looks as if it contains crystals. Then he starts swiping the smoother, grayer stone against the other. Once again, it takes forever. The entire time, Nash moans and shakes and leans against the shelter wall. When at last a spark lights, we dry Mr. Foster’s thermal and feed it to the flames. Nash leans forward, blocking anyone else from reaching the heat.

  “Should he … should he take his clothes off?” I whisper, as if Nash can’t hear.

  Elton looks at the man, and says firmly, “Yeah, he should.”

  But Nash doesn’t move, and neither do we.

  Mr. Foster leans back and sighs, the weight of the day taking its toll.

  “That was cool of you,” Elton says to Mr. Foster. “To offer your shirt so I didn’t have to give mine.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” Mr. Foster opens his mouth to add more, but hesitates. Making up his mind, he says, “I’ve always been more intelligent than those around me. By the time I was thirteen, my own parents couldn’t keep up with my learning. But out here”—he waves his hands toward the door—“I’m completely lost.” His eyes flick in my direction. “I feel stupid.”

  I cringe. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you look at me when you said stupid? I’m not dumb, you know. I can do things.”

  “Yes, you can. I see that now. You’re in your element in these woods.”

  “Maybe you were wrong about me,” I whisper, staring down at my hands.

  “I was definitely wrong about you,” he admits. “You know, there are these standardized tests that can measure what a person will excel at academically. But they can’t test for ambition.” He sighs. “And there’s definitely no test that measures how well a person can survive these kinds of circumstances. I’m not sure where we’d be without you, Sloan.”

  I glance a
t Pilot, and though I know he’s fit to burst with anger, he nods to say it’s true. My cheeks blaze.

  “I said you were brave,” Elton adds. “I said it first.”

  “I don’t feel brave,” I say quietly. “Or vulnerable, or whatever.”

  Mr. Foster frowns. “Well, those words don’t mean the same thing.”

  I shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up as if to apologize. I lick my lips and say, “No, what do you mean?”

  My teacher lowers his hands. “Well, uh, being brave means you show a sense of courage in a dangerous situation, or a situation you perceive to be dangerous. But vulnerability? That’s putting yourself in a position to be harmed, but usually for the purposes of benefiting. It’s like falling in love. You might get hurt, but then you might find happiness.” Mr. Foster looks at Pilot and his eyes seem to smile.

  I fidget, and though I’m not angry, my words sound that way when I say, “And intuitive? I guess you think that doesn’t mean smart.”

  “Not exactly, no. Intuition is knowing something without evidence. Like when you knew where to step on the ice even though there were no markers.” Mr. Foster squints. “You’re probably one of the most intuitive kids I’ve met.”

  My heart swells until I don’t think there’s room for it to stay put. Because if his definition is right, then I have been vulnerable. Loving my mother and losing her did that. And Mr. Foster thinks I’m intuitive. Maybe not smart like him, but the kind of smart my mama said I’d need.

  “You really want to be an artist?” Mr. Foster asks softly.

  I stare at him hard. Don’t answer.

  “Because if you do,” he says, “then I think you’ll be successful. Like I said, no one can measure ambition.”

  “Sometimes ambition is ugly though, right?” Pilot challenges, startling me. “Like when ambitious wolves manage to drag an old woman from where she lays dying? Or when a man beats a wolf to death to quench his anger?” Pilot pauses, breathing hard. He turns a hard gaze on his father. “When a man tries to drag his only son into a frozen river to save himself? Is that ambition good?”