Echo Mountain

by Lauren Wolk

  She shrugged, Samuel’s long johns like a headless puppet in her hands. “As soon as Maisie says so.”

  Which meant I would visit the litter again after I’d brought the venison home.

  Perhaps if I smelled enough like both a harmless deer and a juicy dinner, Maisie would let me hold my pup.

  “Tell the Petersons I’ll bring up a peck of potatoes later on,” she said. “You take the pail of milk I left by the well.”

  That was another way we paid our way on Echo Mountain.

  Our two milk cows, Venus and Jupiter, had a little fenced-in yard of their own below the cabin, but we loved those big, mooey girls too much to keep them locked in a world of mud and flies. So my father had threaded barbed wire through the trees in a big hoop around their pen, and every morning we let them out to roam in the woods, feasting on wild grass and moss, scratching their shoulders on the trees, napping in the shade. At dusk, we herded them into their tiny stable, just big enough for the two of them, a net of hay, a trough of water, and nothing else.

  One time, a mountain cat had climbed onto the roof and screeched at them through the tin and wood, and they had lowed and hollered in fear until my father had come out, a torch in his hand, to scare the cat away.

  I would remind my father of that. How the cows needed him, too.

  I thought about such things as I lugged their milk up the trail to the Petersons’ that morning, Samuel far ahead of me.

  The trail was steep, the milk heavy, and I knew what would happen if I tripped on a root and spilled it, so I kept my eyes on the ground until I reached that tree, there—that big old balsam fir that curtsied a little in the wind as if it had been waiting for me.

  I set the pail carefully aside and, taking my knife and a scrap of leather from my pocket, ducked under the tree’s prickly skirts and ran my hands along the rough bark until I felt the blister where I’d recently cut a branch to chip into tea for my mother.

  The tree hadn’t seemed to mind sharing what it had to share.

  The blister was the size of my thumb, its skin tough, a hard bubble. When I pierced it with the tip of my knife, the sap inside oozed out onto the blade, and I wiped it onto the scrap of leather over and over until I had a sticky dollop that I folded up carefully and slid into my pocket.

  Then I cleaned my knife by plunging it into the dirt and scraping it against a rock again and again before slipping it, too, into my pocket.

  Until now, the sap from this tree had healed our small wounds, glued the tip of my mother’s finger back on after she sliced it nearly off with a carving knife, made us new skin when we needed time to knit ourselves back to whole.

  I didn’t know if it could fix anything already scarred over, but I saw no harm in trying, though I knew it would make an unholy mess.

  I also knew a mess was not the worst thing that could happen.

  There was no jewelweed yet—the spring too fresh for that—so I contented myself with balsam for the time being, happy in the knowledge that there was mustard, powdered and waiting in a tin in our kitchen. And cinnamon, too, though not much of it. Vinegar and onions. And mud, of course, whenever I wanted to make it. Honey, soon, if I could manage to steal it from a thousand bees. Maybe the next time the Lockharts went to market for coffee and salt they could ask for ginger, too, though I would have to find a way to pay for it.

  I was filled with such thoughts as I ducked back out from under the drooping branches of the balsam tree, picked up the pail of milk, and turned toward the Petersons’.

  And realized that I was not alone.

  * * *

  —

  On the path ahead of me was a creature I’d never seen before, his paws braced, head low, ears pricked.

  At first I thought coyote, but it wasn’t. Too big.

  And then I thought wolf, though I’d seen only one of those. But he wasn’t a wolf, either. Too . . . blunt. Not enough snout.

  And then: dog, though not the kind I knew.

  Wild dog, maybe.

  He had a big head, a lean body, and was well brindled—some of him brown, some red, some gray—with an ample tail and a coat still winter-thick.

  Even from five paces away, I could see an enormous tick hanging from above one eye, so full of blood it waggled as the dog tipped his head to one side, his face fiercely curious.

  I didn’t move.

  “Who are you?” I said carefully.

  As if in answer, he took a slow step toward me, his eyes dropping from my face to the bucket of milk in my hand, then lifting to my face again.

  I carefully set the bucket down and took off the lid.

  But when I looked up again, the path was empty.

  If he’d been my dog, I would have called him Ghost.

  Chapter Ten

  I waited for the dog to reappear, but there was no sign of him.

  I waited some more, hoping he would come back. Hoping he wouldn’t.

  Nothing.

  So I put the lid back on the bucket and started again toward the Petersons’. I wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But I was careful, watching for the dog as I climbed.

  “Samuel!” I called, though he usually ignored me and was, besides, bound to be with Mr. Peterson by now, following him around like a shadow, yammering about nothing of importance. He seemed to crave the company of men lately, and I couldn’t blame him. I knew he loved me and Esther and our mother, but I also knew how much he missed our father.

  “You must be careful around a horse, even a friendly one,” Mr. Peterson was explaining to Samuel as I reached the edge of the yard and found the pair of them examining the hoof of a big tawny workhorse named Scotch. “If you hurt him, even by mistake, he might very well boot you over the hill.”

  I watched as Mr. Peterson showed Samuel how to cradle Scotch’s hoof in his left hand so he could clean it with his right. “There, that’s it,” he said, as Samuel carefully dug out a wad of accumulated muck. “You’re born to it.”

  Samuel looked up at Mr. Peterson, smiling, and caught sight of me standing at the trailhead, the milk in my hand.

  “Took you long enough.” Samuel put down the hoof and straightened up.

  “Did a big dog come through here just now?” I asked, but they both shook their heads.

  “No,” Mr. Peterson said, glancing over his shoulder and around the yard. “No dog at all.”

  “What big dog?” Samuel asked.

  “That’s what I want to know,” I said.

  “What did it look like?” Mr. Peterson asked, a little worry on his face.

  I thought back. “He was . . . rough looking. Brindled. Nervous.”

  Mr. Peterson glanced up-mountain, thoughtful, then back at me. “I do believe I’ve seen that dog before. Once or twice. But there’s nothing for him around here.” He turned back to the horse.

  “Something wrong with him?” I said.

  Mr. Peterson shook his head, not looking at me. “He’s a wild mutt,” he said. “Not a dog you want.”

  “No, I meant Scotch.” Though now that I’d been told I wouldn’t want the dog, I found that I did. “I meant is something wrong with Scotch.”

  “He’d been favoring his hoof,” Samuel said, in a voice much like Mr. Peterson’s. “But I’ve cleaned it out now.”

  As we watched, though, Scotch lifted his sore hoof and rested his weight on just the front edge of it.

  “Still lame.” Mr. Peterson pulled the hoof into the light again so he could look more closely.

  Samuel peered at it, too, near as he dared. “Is that a thorn?” he said, gently probing with a fingertip until Scotch threw his head back and shifted his weight enough that Mr. Peterson let go the hoof and stepped back.

  “A thorn or the tip of a stick, straight in.” Mr. Peterson made a face. “Scotch isn’t going to like me pulling it out.” He ducked into the stab
le. Came out with a pair of pincers.

  “I’ll hold his head,” I said, putting the milk beyond kicking distance.

  “Stand well away, Samuel,” Mr. Peterson said as he lifted the hoof again.

  But Samuel came to stand with me as I took Scotch’s bridle in both hands, at the corners of his mouth, and put my face close up to his. “There, boy,” I whispered again and again. “This is only going to hurt for a second.”

  And I felt his answer. How he loved Mr. Peterson.

  “It’s just a lousy thorn,” Samuel whispered. “It’s—”

  But then Mr. Peterson pulled the thorn and Scotch lurched away, dragging me with him, and we all ended up in something like a dance for a moment or two, Mr. Peterson scrambling free, Samuel reaching for the reins, me hanging on to the bridle, and Scotch prancing in place until he calmed . . . calmed . . . came back to still, and we all took a breath.

  “Wouldn’t want this in my hoof either,” Mr. Peterson said, holding up his pincers and the long, bloody thorn in their beak.

  “Aren’t you worried that it’ll fester with all the muck he stands in?” I said.

  Mr. Peterson sighed. “It’s his own muck. And I can’t very well put a boot on him.”

  I pulled the leather scrap from my pocket and offered it over. “Fresh balsam,” I said.

  “For a hoof?”

  “Works on a hand. Why not a hoof?”

  Mr. Peterson pulled back a flap and lifted the balsam to his nose. “That’s fine.”

  “You always carry balsam in your pocket?” Samuel said, squinting at me from under the brim of his hat.

  “I do today.”

  And we both watched as Mr. Peterson took a knife from his pocket, opened it, scraped out a portion of balsam, and spread it where it was needed.

  Scotch swung his head around to stare at me. The look in his eye warmed me to my bones.

  “I’m in your debt,” Mr. Peterson said, though we all knew that any debt was one we owed him, not the other way around. He held out what was left of the balsam.

  “Oh, keep it. I can always get more. And I brought you some milk,” I said, fetching the pail.

  “We brought you some milk,” Samuel said. But pride quickly stepped into the shadows, and something quite different took its place. “We would have brought meat if we had any. Or fish even.”

  “But meat I have,” Mr. Peterson said gently. “And milk I need. And balsam, too.”

  He led us to a granite lid atop a narrow hole in the shade of a big hemlock, shoved aside the stone, hauled out a bundle of meat wrapped in cloth, and handed it to us both.

  The hole was his cache, deep enough to be cold still, lined with rocks and narrow enough so no bear or coyote or mountain cat could get in, even if they managed to wrestle off its lid.

  “That ought to do you for a bit.” He pushed the lid back in place. “And hold on,” he said, turning toward his cabin. “There’s tallow as well.”

  He took a step and called, “Molly!” and then, “Molly!” again, even as she came out on the porch in an apron, her hands white with flour.

  “Good morning,” she said to us, smiling. “And how is your mother?”

  “She’s well.”

  “And your father?”

  I paused, remembering that hand as it twitched. “The same.”

  She nodded briskly. “I’ll get the tallow.” She stepped just through the door to fetch a lump of deer tallow tied up in an old kerchief. “Rendered and ready,” she said, bringing it to where we stood in the yard, the pouch of meat slung between us, dripping a little blood onto the ground.

  That was a trail we did not dare leave along the path, so I blotted the belly of the sling against the ground, Samuel getting my gist and lowering his end, too, while Mrs. Peterson tucked the tallow into a fold at the top.

  “That ought to make you a fair bit of soap,” she said. “Or candle, if you like.”

  We nodded our thanks, said it, too, and then our goodbyes.

  “Tell your mother to come along next time,” she said. “I could do with a visit.”

  “She’ll be up in a bit with some potatoes.”

  “And I’ll be back soon to visit Scotch,” Samuel said.

  And off we went back down the mountain, the meat swinging between us in its hammock, Samuel’s end mostly dragging on the ground, leaving a trail of blood despite our best efforts.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s not easy to gather stink, but I decided I would go out before dark and do just that.

  Supper almost changed my mind, it was so good and made me so sleepy, the venison a lovely change from soup.

  I wanted to say to my mother, as she seared it in a black pan, “If that smell doesn’t wake Daddy up, nothing good ever will.”

  But I knew I would soon be raising her dander again, so in the meantime I was the girl she wanted me to be. I helped with the meal, thanked her for it, and cleaned up afterward, my voice quiet, my smile steady, until I thought perhaps she and even Esther had forgiven me for dousing my father that morning, though I knew they still blamed me for much more.

  “I’ll take supper to Maisie,” I said when the kitchen was clean and the lanterns lit.

  “And then we’ll make soap,” she said.

  My mother didn’t notice when I took a jar with a tight lid and snatched the last egg, the one that had been meant for my lunch. Since it was, in some ways, mine, I reckoned that I had the right to spend it as I wished. But I wasn’t sure my mother would see it that way, so I took it when she wasn’t looking and carried it out with the scraps for Maisie.

  “Oh, how spry you are!” I said to Maisie when I crept into the woodshed and found her on her feet, her tail wagging a little.

  I knelt down and let her come to me, the puppies squirming and squealing in their nest of straw.

  She put her nice, wet nose into the hollow of my neck and snuffed at me, licked my cheek, put one forepaw flat against my arm until I knuckled her ears and kissed her in return. She gobbled the venison as I fed it to her on the flat of my hand, piece by piece, not just the gristle but soft meaty bits, too.

  I knew that twilight would soon come creeping across Echo Mountain, and the night critters with it. Deer, wherever fire had left a clearing. Coyotes, wherever there were deer. Raccoons, masked for plunder. And skunks, hunting for grubs and worms and frogs too young to be quiet on a spring night.

  But skunks loved eggs most of all.

  And I had one.

  A nice big one from Mrs. Anderson’s Rhode Island Reds, who feasted on marigolds and wheat berries and laid hearty eggs for all of us who lived nearby.

  I had planned to crack the egg into a notch of a big rotten stump below the cabin, where I’d often seen skunks digging for termites, and then wait for its thick, gamey smell to draw a skunk close while I waited in the trees.

  But I looked into Maisie’s eyes, ran my hand down her washboard ribs, thought about the milk she made for her puppies, and fed the egg to her instead.

  I cracked it with one hand into my other and held it out while she lapped and lapped until it was gone.

  “So you can sleep well,” I whispered into her silky ear. “So you can come out of here soon and see the springtime.”

  And I was startled by the swell of happiness and fullness that swept over me as she laid her head against mine.

  When I crept into the nest with her puppies, she trembled a little but didn’t protest. Not even when I lay among them and they belly-crawled up to my warmth and butted me with their hard little heads, Quiet the one to find my neck and claim it for his own, curling against my pulse and sighing as if he’d found what he was looking for.

  “That’s my little one,” I said, the rumble in my throat a new music to his tiny ears. “That’s my Quiet.”

  After a while Maisie crooned at me
until I gave back her bed and her babies, and then I hid the jar I’d brought to collect skunk stink and went out into the twilight to start again from scratch to gather the makings of a cure.

  There was still light enough in the sky to coax me across the yard again toward the path that led to the balsam tree.

  But the woods were darker, and I’d forgotten about the trail of blood that Samuel and I had left on the path not long before.

  Chapter Twelve

  It wasn’t a coyote that found me. Or a bear. Or even a fox.

  I didn’t hear anything as I stood under the tree, collecting balsam on a paddle of wood I found in the litter around its trunk. Nothing but the whisper of its long roots reaching deep into earth still cold from the long winter.

  And I didn’t see anything, either, as I tapped the patient old tree again and took what I needed.

  I didn’t know I was being watched until I turned back to the path and found myself face-to-face with that big dog again.

  This time, in the poor light, he looked even more like a wolf. Even more like something wild.

  I hoped that he hadn’t followed the blood trail, expecting something wounded. Something he could eat.

  When he lowered his head and took a step toward me, I knew a moment of fear, but the sound he made was not quite a growl—it was more question than threat—as if he needed something but couldn’t quite make up his mind about me.

  Then “Ellie!” came the thread of my mother’s call from down the path.

  And I turned instinctively toward her voice.

  Turned back to find the path empty, the dog gone.

  Just as before.

  This time, I didn’t look for him in the trees or follow up the path.

  This time, as darkness came, home felt like a better choice.

  * * *

  —

  My mother was waiting for me in the yard.

  “What were you doing up there?” she said, her hands on her hips.