Under This Unbroken Sky

by Shandi Mitchell

  She hears him step back, his breath catching in his throat. Choking for air. He bumps into the table. Stops. He breathes short, shallow breaths, like he is afraid. He stumbles to the other side of the room. She hears him pull his coat down from the hook. She hears the door crack open, then quickly shut. He is still inside. He is at the door. She hears him gulping for breath. Maybe he’s afraid to go outside because of the coyotes. Because of Kozma. Something thuds against the door. His hand? His head? He catches his breath. She hears him step forward.

  Lesya braces herself. Her shell cracks. She tells herself, Don’t scream, don’t cry, don’t let him know you’re here.

  She hears the clink of the tin flask, scraping across the table. He’s at the cupboards. She hears the tinkle of coins. Fifty-eight cents she earned selling vegetables. She hears the hollow clunk of the canister. Now he’s near the washstand, picking up something. Searching. He moves to the middle of the room and stops again. Mama is talking in her sleep. Don’t wake up, Lesya prays.

  The bed groans under her mama’s weight. She must be rolling to the other side. Lesya can’t make out what she is saying. Go back to sleep, she wills her. Outside, Kozma wails. His howl is going to wake everyone. Petro stirs and curls his knees up to his chest. Is she standing? What is she doing? Go back to bed, Mama. Go back to playing dead.

  Lesya has opened her eyes, but all she can see is the grain of the log and a crumbling chink of cracked mud and dry straw. Kozma rages, howls his anguish in one long wail. He doesn’t call again.

  Lesya forces herself not to hold her breath. She listens for the smallest noise. She hears her mother’s breathing, the creak of her knees, and her settling heavily back onto the bed. She whimpers as if she is already asleep. Her breathing quiets, soft and regular. Lesya listens for her father. She hears him exhale. Hears one boot scuff the ground. He walks lightly to the door. The latch lifts, the hinge creaks open. Cold rushes in. The door shuts quietly. Lesya hears the squeak of his boots receding.

  MAMA!

  Maria bolts awake. The house is dark. She throws back the quilt, her feet hit the floor; Teodor grumbles in his sleep. She pauses, suddenly unsure whether she has dreamed her child’s voice.

  Katya shrieks again, “Mama!” Followed immediately by Dania’s sharp “Hush.” And Sofia’s protesting groan. Teodor sits up, groggy but alert to danger.

  “It’s Katya,” Maria reassures him, “she’s dreaming again.” Teodor falls heavily back to his pillow. Maria hurries to her daughter, whose sobs now threaten to wake the boys.

  “Shhhhh,” Maria calms as she enters the room. Katya, her hair a tousled mess, her cheeks flushed, leaps out of the bed, pulling the covers off her sisters, and throws herself in her mother’s arms.

  Sofia wrenches the quilt back up. “It’s cold!” she whines.

  “Shhh, don’t wake your brothers.”

  “I saw the coyote,” Katya whimpers. “It was at the foot of the bed.”

  “There’s no coyote here.” Maria scans the room for Katya’s benefit. “See, just coats and dresses.” She sits on the bed and loosens Katya’s stranglehold around her neck. “The coyotes are all outside where they belong.”

  Katya doesn’t believe her. “I saw it.” She looks around the dark room to see where it is hiding.

  “I came right in,” Maria reassures. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Katya has been having nightmares ever since Teodor couldn’t find that piece of paper. Usually she dreams of fires chasing her. It’s no wonder, how he scared them. Ranting like a madman, pulling jars off the shelves. He broke two jars of beets. He shouldn’t have left it on a shelf if it was so important.

  “Maybe it’s under the bed?” Katya lifts her toes up higher.

  “You crawl back in bed. I’ll check.” Katya hesitates, assessing the distance from her mother’s arms to her sisters. “Quick, like a bunny,” Maria taps her bottom. “Nothing will hurt you. I won’t let it,” she promises.

  Katya scurries under the quilt’s safety, jostling Sofia, who shoves her back toward Dania. “It was here, I heard it.” Katya senses everyone’s disbelief.

  “The coyotes were crying earlier, you must have heard them in your sleep,” Dania explains. Dania, who tried to help find the paper, only to have Teodor push her aside.

  “I saw it,” Katya insists. “It was looking for something.”

  Sofia grouches, “Too bad it didn’t take you.”

  “It would’ve ate you first.” Katya elbows her. Sofia retaliates with a kick.

  “That’s enough,” Maria commands. “All of you, back to sleep.”

  “What about under the bed?” Katya reminds her.

  Maria checks. “No coyote. Coyotes won’t come into our house, they have their own place to live.”

  “Maybe this one doesn’t,” Katya considers, unwilling to believe that it was just a dream. She could smell the coyote. She heard it panting.

  “Don’t you remember the story about the mitten?” Katya shakes her head no. She doesn’t want Mama to leave just yet.

  Maria plays into her game. “One story and then to sleep.” Sofia quickly makes room for her mother, an automatic response from when she was little. She knows she’s too old for these stories, but she still feels a tingle of excitement.

  Maria snuggles in next to Sofia, who inches over more to make room for her mother’s round belly. It’s been a long time since she’s crawled into bed with her children. They smell sweet, like freshbaked bread. When they were small, she used to love bedtimes—they would tumble around her, their limbs tangled, their bodies pressed against hers, willing to follow her voice into dreams. Ivan appears at the doorway.

  “I heard them too,” he sheepishly explains, wanting permission to enter.

  “Come.” Maria waves him in. He bounces onto the foot of the bed and squishes between Dania and Katya. It’s a wonder he’s not having nightmares too. Teodor slapped him across the face. What did it say? Ivan could barely stutter the words through the snot and tears. You gave money and it’s your land. And Teodor hugged him. That’s right, that’s right. Myron pulled Ivan away and stood between him and his father. She thought Myron was going to hit him. The girls tousle for space, clinging to one another so as not to fall off.

  They all know this story; it has been passed down for hundreds of years all the way from Ukraïna. Mother to child. Dania memorizes her mother’s cadence, knowing that someday she too will be telling it.

  “Once, a child was walking through the woods and he lost his mitten.” Sofia points an accusing finger at Ivan, who responds by touching his freezing toes to her shin.

  Maria continues with her best folktale voice: “When along came a little mouse. It climbed into the mitten. The mitten was large and warm and soft. And the little mouse announced, ‘This is where I’m going to live.’ He’d just settled in when along came a frog, who asked, ‘Who lives in this mitten?’

  “‘Squeaky Mouse, who are you?’ replied the mouse.

  “‘Croaky Frog, can I come in?’

  “Squeaky mouse says, ‘No, there’s no room, this is where I live.’ But Croaky Frog pushed his way in anyway. Now there were two of them, when along came a rabbit, who asked, ‘Who lives in this mitten?’

  “‘Squeaky Mouse and Croaky Frog. Who are you?’?”

  “‘Hoppity Rabbit,’?” Sofia interjects. “‘Can I come in?’?”

  Maria nods her approval. “Squeaky Mouse and Croaky Frog say, ‘No, no, there’s no room.’ But Hoppity Rabbit squishes in.” The children nestle closer. “When along comes…” Maria waits for the next storyteller.

  “Sister Fox,” Dania adds. “And she said, ‘Who lives in this mitten?’?”

  Maria continues, “‘Squeaky Mouse, Croaky Frog, and Hoppity Rabbit and there’s no room for anyone else.’ But Sister Fox decides to live there too and climbs over Hoppity Rabbit. The mitten stretches. And along comes…”

  “Brother Wolf.” Katya betrays her knowledge of the story. “And Brother Wo
lf asks, ‘Who lives in this mitten?’

  “‘Squeaky Mouse,’?” says Maria.

  “‘Croaky Frog,’?” says Dania

  “‘Hoppity Rabbit,’?” says Sofia.

  “‘And Sister Fox,’?” proclaims Katya.

  “And there’s no more room!” Maria whispers, their voices getting too loud. “But Brother Wolf squishes in and the mitten stretches more. And along comes…”

  “Growly Bear,” pipes up Ivan.

  “And Growly Bear asks”—Maria drops her voice low and rumbly—“‘Who lives in this mitten?’

  “‘Squeaky Mouse, Croaky Frog, Hoppity Rabbit, Sister Fox, and Brother Wolf. And there’s no more room.’ But Growly Bear crawls in and the mitten stretches.”

  Maria pushes against the children, who squeeze in tighter. When she was a child, the story had a wild boar, but he has no place in Canada. The children giggle and yawn, forgetting what woke them in the first place. “Then along comes Tiny Grasshopper. He asks, ‘Who lives in this mitten?’

  “‘Squeaky Mouse, Croaky Frog, Hoppity Rabbit, Sister Fox, Brother Wolf, and Growly Bear. And there’s no more room.’ But the tiny grasshopper wiggles his way in under the bear’s paw. But this time the mitten doesn’t stretch: the seams split and the mitten bursts open.”

  The children listen intently, knowing the story is almost over.

  “All the animals go flying in every direction, they tumble and roll through the dirt. Bumping their heads and tails. One by one they get up and dust themselves off and decide to find their own homes elsewhere.”

  Maria’s never been satisfied with that ending; she suspects it’s been changed. She used to ask her mother how come the fox didn’t eat the rabbit and the wolf didn’t kill the bear, and the frog didn’t eat the grasshopper, and the boy didn’t come back with a gun and kill them all. Her mother would shake her head and sigh, “That’s the story.” Her own children have never questioned the fable’s impossibilities. They want to believe. How long can she keep them believing? They bask in the afterglow of the story; their eyes are heavy again. Sleep is calling them back.

  “What happened to the boy who lost his mitten?” Ivan murmurs.

  “His mother made him a new one and told him to be more careful next time.” She can tell by Sofia’s breathing that she has fallen asleep. She reaches across her nest of children, absorbing their warmth.

  “So the coyote won’t come into our house?” Katya ponders, half-asleep. “Because it has its own place to live?”

  “That’s right.” Maria yawns. “It lives in the woods. Now go to sleep.” She knows she should get up and return to her own bed, but she wants to savor this moment. She has managed to keep them safe. Now that the letters have stopped, things will go back to the way they should be. The mitten has split open.

  Katya is thinking about a frog, a mouse, a rabbit, a wolf, a fox, and a bear stuffed inside a mitten. Maybe the mouse is stuffed in the mitten’s thumb and its long tail is tickling the belly of the frog, whose webbed toes are stepping on the rabbit’s ears. Maybe the wolf and the fox are hugging each other to make more room for the bear, whose big bum is poking out the end.

  Katya squirms for more room in the crowded bed. She knows there was a coyote in her room. But now that her bed is full, she knows that it won’t be able to crawl in: Mama wouldn’t let it.

  MYRON KNOWS THE MITTEN STORY. HE MOUTHS THE WORDS I’m Growly Bear on cue. That was always his part. He was awake long before Katya, the hair on his arms bristling with each howl. He could tell one of them was by the stone wall, racing back and forth. Maybe it could smell the blood.

  Myron hasn’t been able to check the snares for two weeks. He’s been running a fever and has a cold in his chest. Maria won’t let him outside. She has garlic bulbs under his pillow. Each night she rubs a mustard poultice on his chest and forces him to drink a tablespoon of wheat wine steeped with honey, fever root, and a raw egg. Twice she has heated the small glass domes and placed them on his body to draw out the sickness. Circular welts dot his chest and legs.

  The first few days of his illness, he thought the coyotes were chasing him. He was lost in the snow and being hunted. No matter how fast he ran, he could hear the pack keeping pace behind him.

  The coyotes started coming closer to the homesteads right after Myron’s last trip to the snares with Ivan. Teodor says it’s because the snow is too deep in the woods and the lake is frozen. They’re running the trails looking for easy prey. But Myron knows that’s not the reason.

  He feels guilty that his father had to take on his chores. He’s tried to force himself outside in the predawn. But each time he takes down the rifle, his hands shake and he feels like he’s going to throw up. It’s the same feeling he had when he stepped between Teodor and Ivan. And when he held the gun on his uncle. And when he wished his father would die in the fire. And when he shot the rabbit. And when he doubted that there ever was a piece of paper. It’s the same feeling he gets when he looks out the window, expecting to see a three-footed coyote. Everything that’s happening is his fault. He took the coyote’s paw.

  With everyone asleep, he quietly gets out of bed. He slips his boots on, pulls his jacket over his nightshirt. If his father wakes, he’ll tell him he’s going to the outhouse. He inches toward the door. He looks up at the rifle hanging above the door frame, considers taking it, but doubts that he can retrieve it without his mother hearing. Sofia is snoring, masking his movements. He lifts the latch and slowly opens the door just wide enough to squeeze through.

  Outside, the night feels dense, like a storm is coming. The crescent moon is filtered by a gauze of clouds. Thankfully, it is silent. The coyotes are gone. The cold seeps through his long underwear. It nips his ears. His lungs constrict. He tucks his hands in his coat pockets wishing he had brought his mittens. He hurries around the side of the house, up to the outhouse, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one has noticed his absence. He searches the darkness, but there are no wild dogs in sight. He veers off the trodden path and heads behind the outhouse. The deep snow fills his boots and numbs his shins.

  He scrambles uphill to the spruce tree with the two tops. Beneath it, a large boulder peeks through the snow. He stomps a path around it, excavating it from the drift, and heaves aside the stone. Embedded in the snow is the foot. Hiding it had not absolved him of his crime. He had stolen from the wild. Myron extracts the paw. It leaves behind a perfect print.

  He looks toward the woods crowning the lake. He’s never gone there at night. It’s about half a mile. He can turn back, forget about this piece of flesh. Let it rot into the ground come the spring. But he knows he can’t. He took it. He has to return it. He has to make things right.

  He heads toward the trees, running at first to keep warm, but the icy air cuts into his throat and his nostrils plug. He slows to a fast walk, checking behind him every few minutes to make sure he can still see the house. The tops of the trees sway. Gusts of snow spray over the drifts. The wind is from the north. Myron quickens his pace.

  He can see the stark branches now, their gnarled limbs clatter in the breeze. He’s entering the muskeg. He slows and comes to a stop twenty feet from the edge of the woods. He can see the frozen lake that could be mistaken for a field. Clouds of snow surge across its ridges, sweeping clear patches of glassy ice. The lake moans, protesting the weight bearing down on it.

  The ice on the paw’s foreleg melts in Myron’s grip. Keep going, he tells himself. He steps onto the crusted layer of glittering ice crystals. Each foot breaks through, grabs at his ankles, scrapes against his shins. He tries to walk quieter, lighter. But he can hear the rustle of his coat. They can hear him. They can smell him. His heart chokes in his throat. He remembers every story he’s ever heard of boys disappearing in the woods. Tales of caution to keep him close to home when he was little. The frozen boy, the drowned boy, the lost boy, the boy who was turned into a tree, the boy eaten by wolves…

  If the coyote is still alive, it will be in thes
e woods; that’s where its tracks headed. It might be inside a hollow trunk or in a burrow in the ground, nursing its wound. Animals instinctively retreat to someplace small and enclosed when they are injured. It holds them tight. It hides them. His father has seen animals with deep scars, missing ears and tails, twisted broken limbs, gouged eyes, and somehow they survived. Somehow they healed.

  If it isn’t alive, then its spirit is still trapped here. Myron is only a few feet away from the tangled stand of spruce and poplar. He could fling the paw into the dense underbrush and run, but it wouldn’t be enough. It has to know that it was him, nobody else, that should be punished.

  It is darker here beside the trees. The snow has drifted lee-side of the trunks. An owl hoots indignantly that a trespasser is approaching. To his right, a branch snaps. The owl goes silent. The wind whistles softly through the branches. Myron holds the paw up to the wilderness. An offering.

  He bows his head and lowers his eyes to show his submission. He takes a step forward and then another, expecting the woods to explode any moment in a frenzy of teeth and claws. He climbs up the drift, and when he can no longer free his legs, he crawls. He drops his head lower. He pushes through the snow on his knees. Forgive me. Forgive me.

  He reaches the crest and behind it sees a small windswept hollow, a carved ellipse haloing the trunks of two intertwined poplars. Katya calls them the loving trees. Myron reaches into the wilds and lays the paw at the base of the trees.

  He holds his trembling hand out to the night and braces himself for his sacrifice. A hand for a hand.

  A gust of wind wails through the woods, shaking loose a torrent of snow that pelts his hair, the back of his neck and shoulders. His legs cramp. His arm grows tired and sags. His wrist numbs. His fingers ache from the cold.