Stranded

by Matthew P. Mayo

  On my head I wore my knitted hat, and on that two bonnets I sewed into one, tied under my chin and held down by the stretched top of my shawl. It was all too much, too tight, too heavy, too close. I peeled them off and combed my fingers through my hair. It was flat and thin and oily, but the breeze felt nice on my scalp. I was tempted to rub sun-kissed snow on my bare head, but did not dare, so little do I trust the fickle weather here.

  Still, we must take such moments when they come. Though I wish to God I had turned back after enjoying that hillside in the sun. But I did not.

  Heartened and refreshed by sun, I walked on, keeping my hats in my hand a few minutes more. The only encumbrance was the shotgun. I did not continue climbing, but cut across the slope’s face, heading westerly. One more ravine, I thought. What harm would it do to see what lay down there?

  High up in a tall aspen a bird bounced on a branch. He was striking to look upon, with a long, twitchy tail, a black body, a white breast, and blue along his wings. He rattled out a string of calls, too many for one middle-size bird. The leaves that were left on the tree wagged and fluttered. Then he flapped off and I saw two more of the same birds arrow up out of the far side of the same stand of trees.

  I must have startled them, I recall thinking. I slid down a patch of scree that snow had trouble staying put on, let alone a fifteen-year-old girl. At the bottom, I saw what had really startled the birds, and what I had, in turn, startled.

  A large, sooty-colored wolf stood not forty feet from me. It was stone still, eyes wide, ears perked toward me, and head bent to one side as if confused.

  I reckon it had been loping along what looked to be a wellused trail, narrow but packed by the comings and goings of many wolf feet. It was headed northward, and the trail curved beyond the wolf upward into a ravine I had not yet seen.

  The wolf did not run, nor even startle. We stared at each other’s eyes. My breath, unlike the wolf’s, caught in my throat as if barbed. The corners of the wolf’s mouth raised a little, as if it now understood what it was seeing and found it amusing. I saw the tip of its pink tongue moving slightly at the end of that long, parted mouth. Those eyes, brown ringed with gold at the center, never left my face.

  Still holding my breath, I moved my left foot backwards, upslope. Nothing changed. I moved my right foot, two fist-size rocks slid then stopped, held by the thin snow. I used the butt of the shotgun for balance. I had been carrying it by the tip of the barrels, an unwise thing to do, but not the dumbest I have done, as you will see.

  I know not how long I stood poised, reliant on the feeble balance the gun gave me, my feet awkward on the graveled slope. My eyes were unable to move from the gaze of the grinning wolf, though I willed them to look away. Then I sensed movement to my right. North of the wolf, toward where it was headed, something moved. Several somethings. I pulled my eyes from his, finally, and wished I had not.

  Wolves appeared as if conjured, melting into my view where moments before there had been only tree trunks and snow and jutting gray and black knobs of rock. The creatures looked ribby but strong, and all grinned at me from under wide, wet eyes. As with the first, their pink tongue tips pulsed with every slow breath.

  Two among them were nearly black, others wore spattered gray coats, with thicker, longer hair along their backs and around their necks and heads. They numbered close to two dozen. I wondered how many more might emerge.

  I have felt fear before this, as I have told this journal. I have felt it over and over again. But knowing I was the one thing all those wolves looked at jellied my guts and stopped my thudding heart. Then the wolves slowly spread apart, as if they were not moving their feet, so easily did they move, so quietly.

  By the time my heart pounded once more, harder than it ever has, the wolves had nearly formed a crescent around me. I was upslope of them, the closest still the first I saw. None took their eyes from me as they stepped, slow and confident, toward me.

  I heard no birds, only the huffs of deep, chesty breaths from the wolves. What could I do but retreat back the way I had come? I was far from camp, too far. And I was a fool. As if to prove the point, I stepped back once, twice, and tripped, falling to my backside.

  I jammed my heels into the hillside, sliding rock and gravel over the churned snow. Using the shotgun as a staff I pushed upright and the cold steel of the barrels felt safe and solid. I hefted the gun before me, still stepping backward, though slower and with care. I glanced back over a shoulder once, there were no other wolves behind me. I saw nothing but my own trail through the rock-knobbed snow.

  Though I turned away but a moment, by the time I looked back the wolves had advanced and spread out more. They had the advantage over me as this was their home, their hunting ground. I felt cer tain they were the same ones who had tormented me at the nest.

  I kept walking backward, and tried to think of any advantages I might have. My long skinning knife hung in its sheath on my belt, strapped about my middle, on the outside of my many layers of clothes. Good. I had already taken off the woolen socks I use as mittens. I jammed a hand into my coat pocket for the two shotgun shells I brought with me. Only then did I realize I still held my hat and bonnets. I thrust them under my coat, above the top button at my throat.

  I walked backward faster, grabbing one shell at a time, my dirt-grimed fingers shaking. It was only then I noticed I had not done a particularly good job of washing my hands that morning. I mustn’t let that happen, I remember thinking. Funny the things a person will think at such odd times. I gritted my teeth and forced my breaths to come out even.

  The first shell slid into the barrel. Before I loaded the second, far to my left and downslope, I saw a wolf break into a run. Another did the same. The second was black and mangy, its hindquarters bony, and rather than run, it sort of hopped.

  They were heading me off. I had to move faster, as they were surrounding me while I fumbled and stumbled on the slope. I had not traveled far at all from where I first saw the wolf. No time for the second shell. I snapped the barrel shut, thumbed back on the hammer all the way.

  I sidestepped back the way I came, slamming into a kneeheight boulder. I stepped around it and brought the shotgun up, jammed the butt into my shoulder, swinging it in a wide arc. This did not do a thing to slow the wolves. The first wolf followed me up the slope. I considered shooting at him, but he was still far away, and I was such a poor shot I thought I might miss. If the gun knocked me to the ground, which has happened before, then they would be on me.

  All the while I swung the barrel left, then right. I broke into a lope, sort of sideways, trying to keep an eye on the advancing wolves. Those behind me kept a measured distance between us, their feet stepping sure, the muscles flexing beneath their hair, their grinning gazes never leaving my face.

  I made short, whimpering sounds as I ran, stretching my legs as far as I could with each lunge. Soon I gave up trying to keep an eye on those behind me. I bolted full-out across the slope, jumped two boulders in my way, barking my shin on the second. I failed to see wolves upslope of me, nor any below, down in the trees. But I knew they were there.

  I did not want to see that black one again, with its skinny, skulking body. That creature stayed fixed in my mind as I ran. I heard only my own boots stomping and crunching the snow and gravel, and then I was down at the base of the slope, in deeper snow again. Curse my stupidity. The wolves lunged at me, faster now, spread in a ragged line behind me. I squinted at the snow before me and made for my footsteps from earlier.

  My skirts bunched and balled atop the snow, slowing me. I snatched them up with my free left hand and jammed a wad of hems between my teeth. I wore Thomas’s trousers beneath them. Not for the last time did I think how unfair dresses are, though I wear them over everything else for extra warmth. Right then was no time to wax thoughtful.

  Fifty feet to my right one, two, three low shapes lunged out of the tree line. The scant sun had softened the crust of snow in the open enough that the wolves broke throu
gh to their chests as they angled to arc wide ahead of me. But their misfortune was also some of my own, though I was able to maintain a decent pace as my legs are longer.

  I tried not to think of the distance I still had to travel back to camp, or if I would be able to outrun them. All I had to do was keep ahead of them. My too-frequent glances over my shoulder told me I was not doing well. Wolves are powerful and used to such exertion in the snow. I am not.

  I heard other breaths than mine, breaths that sounded measured and closer. Out of the sides of my eyes, dark shapes advanced. I was so close to the edge of the clearing, and then I would be into the trees where the wind had pushed the snow into stiff drifts, leaving stretches of lesser snow where I might gain time. But so would they.

  I made it to the trees and looked back only once. That raggedy line of wolves still lunged in the snow of the clearing. Others, somewhere to my right, had likely angled back into the trees to get at me. My lungs were afire, but I concentrated all my thoughts on getting home to my nest. And so I did not see the tangle of root and rock as my right boot toe snagged beneath it.

  I piled forward, whipping at the waist toward the ground, my head hit first, wrenching my legs, but my foot popped free. My right hand ripped from the shotgun. As my head smacked the frozen ground, I heard a tremendous explosion and my ears rang. I was up again in a moment, crawling like a baby, wobbling on my hands and knees.

  My sight fuzzed, cleared, fuzzed, cleared again, and I heard screaming. No, that’s not right, it was a yowling. I shook my head and pushed to my feet, my hand slapping at my belt for the knife handle. The fall had stolen precious time. I would at least face the inevitable attack.

  But what I saw as I turned shocked me, and still does as I write this a day later. A wolf, perhaps the one I had first surprised, lay writhing on the snow a dozen yards behind, twisting and flipping, snapping its jaws. It was unable to run or do much of anything because its middle, behind the ribs, had been ripped apart. I did not understand right away. Beyond it the other wolves milled, sniffing and looking at me, then at the yowling wolf.

  Perhaps they had attacked one of their own? I did not care. I ran, guessing I still had a mile to travel before reaching the camp. Soon, I told myself, I would be on my familiar trail, not that it would do me much good.

  I glanced back and the wolves had split apart again. Some of them had set upon the bloody, writhing creature, and it looked as if they were eating it. Some of the others, maybe half of them, resumed their lunging efforts after me.

  But they waited too long. When I dared another glance back, I saw only three of the wolves, the mangy black among them, still trailed me. The rest had turned back and were busy tearing into the other wolf and fighting amongst themselves. Eventually the three following me looked bored with the game and gave up the chase.

  I did not let up. I ran as fast as I could. Even when the leather sole on my left boot loosened and began to flap, slapping like a tongue, front to back. It wasn’t the best time for that to happen, but I stepped higher and did not slow down until I reached camp. I had almost made it to the edge of my little clearing when I risked another look backward. Nothing was following me.

  That didn’t slow me down one bit. I ran straight to the door of the nest, didn’t bother to look around for signs that anything had tampered with it while I was away, and yanked hard. It popped free and I pushed my way inside. I shut it behind me and dragged the log across it. There was still daylight left but I did not care.

  There was no way I was going to leave the nest again that day. Maybe not even the next, I thought. What if the wolves decided to follow me? What could an entire pack do? Surely they knew the route. Visions of their shiny eyes and grinning snouts, barely panting, tremble me anew each time I think of them.

  Not until hours later, near dark, judging from the weak light angling down through gaps in the chimney hole, did I muster the courage to make a fire and think about food.

  I made so many mistakes yesterday. I thought of the way the wolves moved soundlessly, with so little effort, jumping at me through the snow, catching up with me. I saw my boot catching, saw myself falling as if time had slowed down, saw the snow and rocks rising up to meet my face. Then that terrible booming explosion. What had that been?

  And then I knew. It is absurd to me now that I did not think of the shotgun until that moment. I stood up from the bunk, panic gripping me. Even though I knew exactly where the shotgun was, I pillaged my nest, rummaging to no avail. The shotgun was where I had dropped it in the snow. And then another thought stopped me cold.

  I shot the wolf that had been closest to me, the one who would have been on me when I tripped. Somehow, the notion sickened me, but not enough to throw me off my supper. I was hungry despite the day, or probably because of it.

  I spent the rest of the night, as long as I was able to stay awake, stitching that flapping sole of my boot. I made it as good a job as I could, though I used up the last of Papa’s waxed thread he had bought special for tack and canvas repairs. I used much of it already on various jobs that needed putting together.

  It wasn’t until I banked the stove and laid down that I noticed my hat and bonnets were not on my head. They must have slipped out of my coat when I ran. So careless of me. The day had rattled me, for I am not one to forget nor lose things. Now here in one day I lost what might be my most valuable possession, the shotgun, and I lost my hats. I had one other stocking cap and ways to mend up still more, but that is not the point.

  I lay in bed knowing but not wanting to think about what I had to do the next day. I cried myself into sleep. It has been a long while since I’ve done that.

  The day was made worse because I had been having a nice time, enjoying my walk in the countryside. But that is the way of things here. This life is feast or famine.

  JANUARY ?, 1850

  * * *

  This morning, I talked to myself while I made breakfast, which wasn’t more than a bite of meat I’d saved from my meal last night. I try to leave a mouthful or two from the previous day’s food, plus I have a cup of tea of a morning. I’d long since drunk through all the coffee. That was a sad thing to have to give up, and soon enough my tea rations would wither, too. Despite that I have been using the same leaves for nigh on a week. It is the memory of tea I recall when I drink the hot water with limp leaves floating in it.

  I told myself how foolish I had been the day before. Then I strapped on my knife, and forced open the door of the nest. It was bright, had been for a couple of hours. I breathed deep and headed out. I don’t want to give the idea that I was doing anything brave. I took every step back along my trail as if it was a bitty piece of chocolate worth savoring, slow, slow, slow.

  I hoped to find the gun and my hat and bonnets. But if the hats weren’t near the gun, I decided I ought not go beyond that point. I figured I’d know where it all was, by the blood on the snow.

  As I walked closer to the spot, I slowed my pace, and pretty soon I slipped that knife out of the sheath and waved it like I expected to be ambushed by cutthroats at a strange, foreign seaport.

  I was breathing hard when I finally stepped from the trees. The flat ahead was mostly open and level, enough that I saw a dark spot. It had to be the dead wolf. I swallowed, looked left and right, and was about to step forward when I heard a scratching behind me. I spun, stifling a scream down to a whimper.

  Watching me from atop a lump in the snow—a rock, maybe— sat a long-eared rabbit, his coat mostly white with gray-brown along the edges. One ear twitched, and its nose worked the air.

  I let out a stuttery sort of breath, turned, and walked forward, careful to watch ahead and to my sides for any movement. But I saw none, not even curious rabbits. Soon I found the shotgun, triggers skyward, as it had fallen from me, its barrels pointed toward that dark spatter and smear on the snow less than fifteen feet behind where I’d fallen. I did not know it had been that close to me.

  I grabbed up the shotgun, brushed away snow,
and dragged a sleeve along it, as if that would help any damage that had been done by it lying out there all night. And that’s when I saw the left-side hammer. It looked bent. I tested it, and it was indeed bent. And what’s more, something looked to be missing. I held it close and squinted at it. Yep, something had snapped off. I knelt, pawing away snow gently, looking for something, but what I do not know.

  I glanced up often, like a bird will do while it eats. Always on the lookout for a threat.

  This entire occurrence with the wolves is one more thing that sets me up as the biggest fool that ever drew a breath.

  FEBRUARY ?, 1850

  * * *

  I saw a pretty fox yesterday morning. I knew it was morning because my stomach was still growling like a baby bear hungry for a mouthful of anything at all. I have taken to eating no breakfast, a pinch of food at midday, then a little more along about sundown. I lessened my meals, as my greatest fear is to run out of food.

  I do not believe I will be much of a hand at snaring rabbits, and I have not nearly enough shotgun shells to kill game of any size. That does not mean I don’t still try to hunt. I attempted to make a bow and arrows, and while I managed something that worked, I lost two of my three arrows in the snow. One loss I can understand, accept it as the lack of skill of a beginner at something. But two is stupidity on my part.

  I poked around in the snow, scuffing up a sizable patch, but the snow is deep, and in places the land slopes. For all I know those arrows are a good five, six feet down. After too much time spent rooting for them like a pig after acorns, I was out of breath, tired and shaking. I must learn to go about my days at a slower pace, lest I burn up the scant amount of food I take in to survive.