by Becky Citra
“I’ll just be a minute,” I muttered and ran to the shanty.
The little fox lay curled in a tiny ball just like I had left him. I cradled him gently in my hands. His chest rose up and down weakly. He was still breathing, but he seemed barely alive.
I dipped my finger in the pan of milk and tasted it. It hadn’t gone bad, so I dipped my finger in again and dribbled a drop across his nose. I held my breath. His eyes blinked, and I saw a flash of pink tongue.
My heart gave a jump. Kate was wrong! The little fox cub was going to survive. I dripped more milk around his nose and mouth, and three more times his tongue licked it up. Then his eyes blinked shut. “Please, just a little bit more,” I whispered.
But the baby fox had fallen asleep in my lap. I cupped my hands over his little body, trying to make a pocket of warmth. I leaned against the shanty wall. I felt like I could watch him forever. I turned over plans in my mind. Was there some way I could sneak him into the cabin? I was sure Max would help. My mind wandered and I forgot about everything else, Jingo’s puppies, my chores and Grandmother’s walk.
After a long time, I shifted my position. My legs and back were becoming stiff and cold. I felt a sudden stab of panic. How long had I been sitting there? Grandmother must have given up on me ever coming back.
The fox was still sleeping, and I told myself that the little bit of milk had helped. I tucked him into his nest in the hay and then hurried out of the shanty.
I ran into the cabin, calling, “Grandmother, I’m here!”
I was met by silence. Grandmother’s knitting lay neatly on the rocking chair. I glanced at the hooks beside the door. Her black coat and shawl were gone.
Grandmother never went for a walk by herself. Anger mixed with fear prickled my back. I went back outside and searched all over the farmyard, calling her name. She wasn’t by the garden or the barn or the lake. I even peeked inside the shanty. It was empty except for the tiny fox, who lay curled in a ball just as I had left him that morning.
Our wagon rumbled down the road. My heart thudding, I went to meet Papa. “Grandmother is missing,” I said shakily. I looked down at the ground. I had never lied to Papa before. “I ... I just got back from Kate’s.”
Alarm flashed in Papa’s eyes, but he spoke in a calm voice. “Check the trail to Blueberry Point. Max and I will look in the woods behind the cabin.”
I ran along the trail, my heart thudding. “Grandmother! Grandmother!” I shouted.
I hadn’t gone very far when I heard a faint cry. I raced around the next bend and saw Grandmother, sitting on the ground, her back resting against a log. Her face was white and strained. I stared at her in horror.
“Instead of standing there like a ninny, you might help me up,” she said crisply.
Grandmother put one hand on my arm and the other hand on her cane and slowly eased herself up. She closed her eyes and leaned on me.
“I’ll get Papa!” I said.
Grandmother shook her head sharply and said, “Nonsense! I’m just feeling a little dizzy.”
We hobbled back along the trail, stopping every few minutes to rest. When we were almost back, Papa met us, relief spreading across his face. He ignored Grandmother’s protests, picked her up in his arms and carried her to the cabin.
Grandmother rested in bed all afternoon. Papa went into the bedroom, and they talked for a long time in low voices. Papa’s face was stern when he came back out.
“What happened to Grandmother?” said Max.
“She doesn’t really remember,” said Papa. “She’s had a bad fright.”
“She said she was feeling dizzy,” I mumbled. “I think that’s what made her fall.”
Papa frowned. “It could have been much worse. Grandmother could have broken a bone. Ellie, you are forbidden to go to Kate’s for two weeks.”
Two weeks! I forgot that I had been annoyed at Kate. I would miss seeing the puppies open their eyes and everything. And now that Papa was angry, there was no hope that he would understand about the baby fox. My breath caught in a sob in my throat. Grandmother and her stupid walk! She was probably just pretending to be dizzy to get me in trouble. I sighed. It was all her fault, and knowing her, she wasn’t one bit sorry.
7
“Is Grandmother staying for Christmas?” said Max at supper.
“Christmas is months and months away,” said Papa.
“I know,” said Max stubbornly. “I just want to know. Is Grandmother staying for Christmas?”
“No, young man,” said Grandmother. She was still pale, but the spark was back in her eyes. “I am not. I could not abide a winter in Canada. My ship sails in the fall.”
Max looked relieved, but my heart was pounding. Had Papa and Grandmother discussed her horrible plan again? Would Papa make me go? I shivered. I would run away and hide until Grandmother’s ship left. Papa would be sick with worry, and it would serve him right.
Just then, a pounding on the door made us all jump. It was our neighbor, Mr. McDougall.
“There was a fire last night at the Robertsons’!” he said.
The Robertsons had a farm on the road to The Landings. They had a big noisy family of eight children and another baby on the way.
Papa was already grabbing his coat. “Is it bad?”
“They saved the barn, but the cabin burned to the ground,” said Mr. McDougall. “They lost everything.”
Grandmother gasped.
“I’m getting together a group of men to build a shanty for the family to live in,” said Mr. McDougall. “Can you spare a couple of days?”
Papa had finished planting his wheat, but he looked at Grandmother and hesitated.
“The children and I will be fine,” she said, her face pale.
My stomach sank. Papa said, “Max will come with me. He’s old enough to help. Ellie, put together some food while I hitch up the horses.”
For the next hour everyone rushed around. I packed up jars of fruit and vegetables, two loaves of bread, a sack of potatoes and a big ham. Papa and Max loaded tools, buckets, blankets, pots and spare clothing into the wagon.
I waved until Papa and Max were out of sight. How would I ever stand Grandmother for two days by myself?
I slipped back to the shanty. The baby fox looked like a ragged scrap of black fur in the hay, his eyes tightly closed, but he was still alive. I tucked more hay around him and went back to the cabin, afraid to leave Grandmother alone for too long. Grandmother was lying on Papa’s bed, snoring gently. I closed the bedroom door with a sigh and walked over to the spinning wheel. The wheel moved smoothly without making even a tiny squeak. I spun it harder and it whirred softly.
I had watched the widow Sally spinning my wool into yarn on her old spinning wheel lots of times. A sudden idea burst into my head. I always had to give Sally some of the yarn in payment. But if I could spin my own, I would have a lot more to trade at the store at The Landings! I might even have enough to get that matching coat and hat that I had wanted for so long.
I glanced at the bedroom door. The Robertsons’ fire had upset Grandmother. She would probably stay in bed for the rest of the evening. I looked back at the spinning wheel. What was so special about it anyway? How could it hurt if I just tried it once?
I fetched a basket of my wool from the barn. When I got back I stood by the bedroom door and listened. There was no sound. My heart pounding, I sat down at the spinning wheel.
I pushed the treadle with my feet. I pushed too hard, and the wheel spun wildly. Startled, I yanked my feet off. I took a big breath and tried again. The wheel jerked and stopped, jerked and stopped. I sighed. Sally made it look so easy.
I grabbed a handful of wool and started twisting. The treadle banged up and down. After a while, I stretched out a piece of the yarn to inspect it. It didn’t look like the yarn Sally spun. It was skinny in places and had horrible lumps in others. I bit my lip. Maybe I was trying to go too slowly. I pumped the treadle harder.
Whirr. The wheel spun wildly.
I was concentrating so hard that I didn’t pay any attention to Pirate. He crouched on the floor, watching the spinning wheel. I glanced down and saw his tail twitch back and forth. I knew what that meant!
“Pirate, no!” I said.
But it was too late. Pirate sprang through the air and landed on the side of the spinning wheel.
Rrrrooow! His claws scrabbled for something to grip. The spinning wheel teetered and crashed to the ground. Pirate fled to the windowsill, his fur bristling.
I stared in horror at the spinning wheel. It lay on its side, the wheel turning slowly. I was terrified that it was broken.
The bedroom door opened. Panic swept over me. I didn’t look at Grandmother. My heart thudded so loudly I could feel it in my ears. I squeezed my shoulders, waiting for the whack of her cane.
There was a long silence. Then Grandmother bent over and picked up the spinning wheel. “It doesn’t appear to be broken. Thank God for small mercies,” she said.
Grandmother sat down at the spinning wheel. After a minute, the wheel hummed smoothly. “Sit beside me,” she said. Her feet flew on the treadle, and her fingers worked nimbly.
I sat on a chair and watched Grandmother spin for a long time. The only sound in the cabin was the hum of the wheel. My shoulders relaxed. A distant memory tugged at me. “Grandmother, did you spin in the house in England?”
At first I thought she didn’t hear me.
Whirr whirr whirr went the wheel.
Then she said, “I kept the spinning wheel in your bedroom. I spun every night after your mother died. You missed her so much. The sound of the spinning wheel was the only thing that would put you to sleep.”
“I think I remember,” I said softly. Grandmother stood up. “Now you try,” she said briskly.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Grandmother.
Reluctantly I sat in her chair. She stood behind me and put her wrinkled hands on top of mine. “Take it easy at first. You do everything too vigorously.”
I chewed my lip. Up and down, up and down went my feet on the treadle. The wheel spun faster and faster. Slowly the bobbin filled with yarn. In a sudden burst, I told Grandmother about the coat and hat at The Landings.
“If you work every day, you could have all the wool spun by the fall,” said Grandmother.
The fall. A cold feeling spread through me. I swallowed. I had to tell Grandmother that I wasn’t going back to England with her. My heart thumped. I bent over the wheel and concentrated on my spinning.
I was too afraid to tell her now. But I would tell her soon.
8
I checked on the baby fox just before bedtime. He wouldn’t lift his head, and for a second I thought he was dead. I put my finger on his chest and felt a tiny heartbeat. I dipped the corner of my apron in the milk and squeezed drops on his nose and chin. His eyes blinked open and shut, but this time he didn’t drink.
I shivered. The thick log walls kept the shanty cold even though it had been a sunny day. I mounded up hay around the little fox. My head pounded. What should I do?
Tap tap tap. Grandmother’s cane! She was right outside the shanty!
“Ellie, are you in here?” called Grandmother.
The shanty door gave a sudden creak. A strip of light slid across the wooden floor. I held my breath and tried to stay perfectly still.
“Whereever could the child have gone?” muttered Grandmother. I heard the door swing wide open. Then there was a long silence. My heart thudding, I turned around.
Grandmother and I stared at each other. “So this is where you keep disappearing to,” she said finally.
I felt sick. I knew that Grandmother would tell Papa about the fox. And Papa would kill him, the way he had killed the rest of the litter.
Grandmother’s black dress rustled as she crossed the shanty floor. She stared down at the baby fox in silence.
“Max said there were six babies, but he was wrong,” I blurted out. “I found it in the den.” I looked up at Grandmother’s cold gray eyes. “I know you’ll tell Papa, but I don’t care. I’m going to keep it.”
Grandmother raised her eyebrows, the way she did when she found the sticks and leaves in her strawberries. Hot tears pricked the back of my eyelids. For a few minutes, when Grandmother was helping me spin my wool, I had liked her. But now I hated her. I closed my eyes and waited for her to tell me for the hundredth time how foxes killed all their chickens when she was a child.
She didn’t. She tapped her cane on the floor and said in a brisk voice, “In that case, we better bring him inside. He’ll freeze to death out here.”
We made a bed for the fox in a washtub. We lined it with an old quilt. I gave Grandmother one of my old wool scarves, and she folded it into a snug nest. We tucked the tiny fox into his new bed and carried him to the hearth. The fire was hot as I was still kindling it every morning. Soon I would switch all my cooking and baking to the outdoor fire and bake oven.
“Now, we better see about getting some milk into him,” said Grandmother.
I told her what I had tried. “He doesn’t want it anymore,” I finished.
“Nonsense,” said Grandmother. “He wants the milk. He just doesn’t know how to get it.” She poured milk into a pan and set it on the hearth close to the fire. “We’ll try warming it. Cold milk must be an awful shock to his stomach.”
When the milk was warm, Grandmother stirred in a spoonful of honey. “You hold him, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Grandmother sat in the rocking chair. I kneeled beside her. I lifted up the little fox and cradled him gently in my hands. He was no heavier than a handful of leaves. I propped his head up with my fingers. Grandmother dipped the corner of a white cloth into the milk. It was one of her lace handkerchiefs from England! She squeezed a creamy white drop onto his chin.
His nose quivered. Grandmother squeezed another drop of milk. The fox opened his mouth. A sliver of pink tongue curled up.
I held my breath. Grandmother dipped the corner of the handkerchief back into the milk. Then she gently slid it into the fox’s mouth. He clamped down and sucked.
I let my breath out with a rush.
Grandmother soaked the handkerchief in the milk again and again. Each time the fox sucked hard. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his belly went up and down. After a few minutes, he stopped drinking and fell asleep.
I tucked him back in his bed, folding the scarf around him gently. Grandmother said, “When your mother was your age, she found a baby crow. It had fallen out of the nest and been abandoned. She looked after it for a long time.”
A prickle ran up my back. Papa never talked about my mother. “Did the baby crow live?” I asked.
At first I didn’t think Grandmother heard me. Then she said in a soft voice, “Yes, it did. It stayed around for years and became quite a pet. Your mother named it Lucky.”
“That’s what I’m going to call this fox,” I said. “Lucky.”
“Well, he’s going to need some luck to make it,” said Grandmother. Her voice became brisk again. “Right now, he needs sleep. And so do you. Your papa wants you to finish planting the potatoes tomorrow.”
I was full of more questions about my mother and worried about Lucky. I tossed and turned in Papa’s big bed for a long time, thinking about everything that had happened that day. In the morning, Grandmother was sitting in the rocking chair with her eyes closed, the washtub at her feet. I wondered if she had sat there all night! I peeked in at Lucky. He was sleeping too, his tiny body curled into a ball.
I dug hills for the last of the potatoes. I tried not to think about what Papa would say when he got home. At least I would have Grandmother on my side. Even Papa had a hard time standing up to Grandmother.
When I finished in the garden, I slipped a rope around our cow Nettie and led her a little way into the forest behind the cabin. Nettie could eat grass during the day, and I would fetch her for milking in the evening.
I hurried ba
ck down the trail, suddenly anxious to see Lucky and Grandmother. I stopped when I came in sight of the lake. A birch bark canoe was pulled up at the shore.
My friends from the Indian village were here!
Grandmother was in the cabin alone. I remembered how scared Max and I had been when we met the Indians for the first time. I broke into a run.
I pushed open the cabin door. A tall man stood in the middle of the room. It was Peter, Sarah’s son. He had long black braids and was dressed in fringed buckskin pants and shirt. A hunting knife hung at his side. Sarah sat upright on a chair, beaming at Grandmother. Her cheeks were brown and wrinkled, and she was wearing a faded calico dress and moccasins.
Grandmother stood with her back against the bedroom door. She clutched her black shawl tightly. Her face was white.
9
Sarah pointed to her chest. “Sarah,” she said. She gave Grandmother a huge toothless smile.
Grandmother swallowed. “Agatha,” she whispered.
“Agatha,” said Sarah. She nodded, her black eyes crinkling. Then she rummaged in a big basket on the floor beside her and pulled out a pipe. She chewed on the end and watched Grandmother with interest.
Grandmother’s lips tightened. Her eyes flickered around the cabin.
A girl burst through the door, her long black braids flying. “There you are, Ellie!” she cried. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It was Annie, Peter’s daughter. Annie was my age. She had been living with a white family near The Landings to learn English. She had come home to the lake for the summer, but I hadn’t seen her yet.
Sarah took the pipe out of her mouth. She pointed at Annie. “Granddaughter,” she said proudly.
Then she pointed at me. “Granddaughter,” she repeated. Her face broke into another huge smile.
Grandmother nodded faintly. Two red spots spread across her pale cheeks.
“I can stay for a long visit,” said Annie. “My father will come back for me tonight.”