Diamond Willow

by Helen Frost

  Willow didn’t leave me anything tonight. But I can always count on Zanna to start talking with her hands, and drop a lot of crumbs on the floor.

  After both girls leave the room, I scurry out to get those crumbs. I’m under the table when I hear their parents talking.

  No one shrieks, A mouse! A mouse! and jumps up on a chair. (Why do they do that, anyway? They’re so big and we’re so small.) They’re too caught up in their conversation to even notice me.

  My ears perk up when Willow’s mother asks her father, Are you going to have Roxy put to sleep?

  He doesn’t answer right away.

  I don’t know, he finally says. I hate to see her like this. When he was a child, he couldn’t stand to see an animal suffer. Once he found a nest of baby mice whose mother was caught by an owl. He brought them in and fed them. When they were big enough, he took them back where he found them and let them go. The way I heard it, all but one survived.

  The vet bill for her eyes could be over a thousand dollars, he says.

  Her mother answers, Yes, that’s true. We’d go into debt again.

  But that’s not how we should decide, her father says. Roxy won’t ever pull a sled again, and I’ve never seen a dog that loves to run like she does. What kind of life will she have?

  Her mother thinks about that. Could she be a house dog? Maybe she’d help keep the mice down. (That’s funny—who’s afraid of a blind dog? Roxy would never catch us, even if she could see.)

  It’s hard to imagine Roxy being happy as a mouser, her father answers.

  Her mother nods. Should we ask Willow to help us decide? she asks.

  I don’t think so. She already feels responsible for this, and if we decide to have Roxy put to sleep, I don’t want her to feel responsible for that, too.

  They’re both quiet until her mother says, It sounds like you’ve decided.

  Her father looks at the floor and doesn’t answer. I keep still. He doesn’t see me.

  Willow will not like this.

  How can I let her know?

  I’m

  sitting

  in a corner

  of the kitchen

  after everyone has

  gone to bed. Roxy’s finally

  asleep. I’m sanding the diamond

  willow stick with all my might, working

  on one diamond, trying to find its deep-down

  center, thinking, What would it be like to be blind?

  I hear something … What is it, scuffling under the table

  just a few feet away from this chair? I’m completely quiet,

  and a brown mouse comes all the way out into the room, stops

  and looks right at me. I’m about to tell myself to leave it alone;

  it isn’t bothering me—maybe it thinks my sawdust is bread crumbs.

  But then it does something odd: it climbs up on the telephone table!

  I get up to shoo it away. We don’t like the mice to chew up paper

  for their nests, and this one has its feet on a piece of paper.

  I pick up the paper, and it runs off. Brave little thing.

  It actually tilts its head and looks at me. (Or did I

  imagine that?) I glance down at the paper:

  Old Fork Veterinary Services.

  “Prognosis.” “Options.”

  “Probable outcome.”

  “Recommendation:

  1. Euthanasia…”

  Does that mean

  what I think

  it does?

  Here’s

  what it says

  in the dictionary—

  “Euthanasia: 1. The act

  of killing a person painlessly

  for reasons of mercy. 2. A painless

  death.” It says “person” but I bet it means

  dogs, too. How do they know it’s painless?

  Or merciful? Roxy can’t even talk! How

  can someone decide to kill someone else

  without asking? Does Roxy get a vote?

  Do I? I can’t believe they’re even

  thinking about this! How can

  I stop them? Come on, Roxy,

  you sleep in my room

  tonight. I’ll figure

  this out in the

  morning.

  I

  know

  Dad’s the one

  who took Roxy to the vet,

  but I bet anything Mom’s in on it.

  From the way they don’t look at me

  when I bring Roxy back into the kitchen,

  I can see they aren’t going to ask my opinion.

  I pick up the paper from the vet, wave it at them.

  I found this, I tell them. I know what euthanasia is.

  This means you’re going to kill Roxy, doesn’t it? Dad

  looks at Mom. It’s so obvious they think this is one of

  those grown-up, don’t-tell-the-children conversations.

  Willow, listen to me, Dad says. Okay, I’m listening.

  Even for us, this is a hard thing to decide.

  See? That’s what I mean:

  “even”!

  So

  who

  besides me

  is on Roxy’s side?

  Grandma and Grandpa

  would take care of her, I know it!

  But how can I get Roxy out to them?

  I need someone to hold on to her in the sled

  while I mush the other dogs. If only Marty

  would come home. If only Zanna were

  a few years older, and not such

  a little blabbermouth.

  There has to be

  someone …

  Kaylie?

  I

  have to

  plan this exactly.

  If Kaylie and I leave school

  right at 11:50, we’ll get home just as

  Mom leaves to take Zanna to kindergarten.

  This is the day she volunteers in Zanna’s class,

  so we’ll have time to pack the sled, hitch the dogs,

  and leave for Grandma and Grandpa’s house by 1:00.

  We can be on the trail for two hours before anyone notices

  we’re gone, and if all goes well, we can get there before dark.

  I find Kaylie beside her locker. It’s an emergency! I tell her.

  Please! You have to meet me at the back door of the school.

  Don’t say anything to anyone. Come right after math class.

  She wants me to explain everything, but there’s no time.

  It will be really hard to get her to do this. Bring your coat

  and boots, I add. She stares at me. Please, Kaylie, it’s a

  matter of life and death, I beg. It sounds so dramatic,

  but Kaylie has had perfect attendance since third

  grade, and I need her to skip an afternoon of

  school without telling her mom, and she’s

  one of those people who tells her mom

  everything. If we can just get Roxy

  out there where she’s safe, I know

  tomorrow morning Grandpa

  will bring Kaylie back on

  his snowmachine, and

  I’ll mush home.

  It has to

  work.

  We

  meet

  like we

  planned. I don’t

  go by Dad’s classroom

  on the way to meet Kaylie

  with my coat on, so nobody asks

  any questions about what I’m doing. Kaylie

  could have slipped out, too, if Richard didn’t have

  such a major crush on her. We try to distract him with a

  not-quite-lie: We’re going to get lunch at my house today.

  Kaylie’s nervous. She has been grounded exactly once in her

  life, almost two years ago now, for something like seven hours,

  and she still talks about that. This might be the worst thing she’s

  ever done. I
fill her in on the details of my plan as we walk home

  the back way, so neither of our moms will see us. But, Willow,

  Kaylie says, I’ve never mushed dogs before. It’s true, but she

  loves animals. All you have to do is sit in the sled with Roxy,

  keep her calm, and make sure her eyes are protected from

  the wind. She’s still trying to decide when we get home,

  just as Mom drives off with Zanna on the snowmachine.

  Perfect timing. When we go inside, Roxy comes right

  over to Kaylie, wagging her tail, and I’m sure I see

  them smile at each other. I find a note on

  the telephone table, Mom’s writing:

  “Vet—3:45. Bring blanket

  to wrap body. Tell the

  children? Okay,

  if old enough to

  understand.”

  Emma, Kaylie’s great-grandmother (Chickadee)

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, what are those girls up to now? I see that spruce hen waiting over there, ready to fly along with Willow. I suppose I’ll do the same for Kaylie. Sometimes she puts seeds on her mitten and holds it out to me. Chic-a-dee-dee, she says; I believe it’s her way of trying to talk to me. I like that. I hop right up on her hand and take the seeds, then fly off to a nearby tree to eat them. Kaylie keeps an eye on me. I keep an eye on her.

  I don’t like the looks of this one bit—that dog should be inside where it’s warm and dry. The girls should be in school where they belong. Don’t they see that stormy sky? Do their parents know what they’re up to?

  It looks like they have Roxy well wrapped in a dog bag and a warm blanket. Cora, Lucky, and Magoo seem eager to start out. Willow does know how to handle dogs, I’ll say that for her. If only she weren’t quite so headstrong. She gets these crazy ideas and pulls Kaylie along like this. I never know quite what will happen.

  I’m

  not sure

  about this

  weather. It’s

  that kind where

  first there’s a pocket of

  sharp cold, then a little farther on

  the air gets warm. The snow comes down

  and stops and starts again—I won’t quite say so,

  but I’m kind of nervous. Roxy is hurt—I can’t turn back!

  We have to keep moving in case anyone comes and tries to stop us.

  When Mom gets home, she’ll call Dad, who will figure out what I’m doing.

  He’ll start after me on his snowmachine. Now it looks like Kaylie’s scared;

  she keeps glancing over her shoulder at the sky behind us. When we stop

  to rest the dogs, she takes out some seeds and holds them on her

  mitten. A chickadee comes right down and grabs one, then

  flies on ahead of us. Kaylie watches it. Come on, she says,

  we should hurry, Willow. What if the snow gets worse,

  so your grandpa can’t bring me back? We’re more

  than halfway there, so I’m not too worried,

  but she’s right about the weather.

  It’s snowing harder than

  it was just a few

  minutes

  ago.

  Where

  is the fork

  in the trail?

  Shouldn’t we

  have come to it

  by now? Snow

  is coming down

  so fast and hard I

  can barely see. And

  why is Roxy whining?

  Her eyes are bandaged;

  she couldn’t know if we

  missed the fork back there.

  Could she? I’m not going to

  turn back. I’m pretty sure if we

  keep going for about ten more

  minutes on this trail, we’ll come

  to the fork. If not, we’ll have to

  go back to see if we can find it.

  Mom and Dad are definitely

  home by now. It’s starting

  to get dark, and Cora

  doesn’t know the

  way like Roxy

  did. Like

  I was so

  sure I

  did.

  We’ve

  been back and forth

  on this same stretch of trail three

  times now—I still can’t find the fork.

  Blinding snow swirls ahead of us, behind us,

  and it’s getting colder and darker by the minute.

  Now Kaylie thinks we should try to go back home.

  She doesn’t know I’m not sure where we are.

  I don’t know which way to go from here

  to get home. I taste panic rising

  in my throat. I swallow it.

  And then a spruce hen

  bursts out, right

  in front of my

  face. Do I

  know

  you?

  The

  spruce

  hen flies to a

  low branch, and

  comes to a stop at the

  point where the branch

  slopes down. You are starting

  to shiver, Kaylie says. You might be getting

  hypothermia. We need to warm up. Be sensible, Willow.

  Who made her the mother? But it’s true. All right, I agree,

  we might as well make a fire here and wait for the snow to stop.

  Kaylie looks around, then stares at me. We both know this kind

  of snow could fall all night. We start to search for dry firewood,

  and beneath the spruce tree’s low, snow-covered branches,

  we find a shelter. Kaylie, look, I say, we can cut spruce

  boughs for the floor, and lean the sled on its side

  to shield us from the wind. Help me

  get Roxy in here. Be careful

  not to knock the snow

  off that branch.

  I think the

  three of us

  can fit in

  here.

  At

  least

  we brought

  the survival kit.

  And extra salmon to give

  Grandma and Grandpa for Roxy.

  We got a fire going; we melted snow.

  We boiled water and checked Roxy’s eyes.

  We changed her bandage. We kept her warm.

  We cooked a pot of salmon stew, gave plenty

  to the dogs. Now we can eat some stew

  ourselves. Let’s not think of this as

  “We’re eating dog food.”

  We agree:

  We’re all in this

  together; we’re sharing food

  with four good dogs. We try not to think

  about the people who are worrying about us.

  We aren’t sure if it’s safe for us to go to sleep—

  if it gets colder, we could freeze to death out here.

  One thing we know for sure: if we can stay alive

  until tomorrow, when we do get home,

  we can look forward to being

  in the worst trouble

  either of us

  has ever

  been

  in.

  Here’s

  what I see

  when I light

  my candle: Kaylie in her

  dark green sleeping bag, her back

  against the sled; me in my sleeping bag, curled

  around Roxy in her dog-bag, spruce boughs under us,

  a red blanket over us. Nearby, in a snow cave we hollowed out,

  we hear Lucky breathing. Magoo whimpers in his sleep and Cora

  snores a little. The spruce tree seems like it’s as wide awake as I am,

  spreading her branches to make this cold, cozy shelter. If I can’t stay

  awake all night, I’ll wake up Kaylie, and she’ll stay awake while I

  sleep. I won’t disturb her just because I’m scared. I’m the one

  who dragged her into this. As long as everyone i
s breathing,

  I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay. It’s still snowing

  just as hard as it was

  before.

  Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

  I’m roosting under the other side of this tree, awake with Willow, though she doesn’t see me. Do I hear something? Yes, it’s the sound of someone tearing through the forest on one of those noisy things they ride on. I’ll fly out and see what I can see.

  The snow has finally let up a little, but the wind keeps blowing it around. The dogsled tracks are completely covered.

  There’s the noisy thing, moving faster than I’ve ever seen one move at night.

  Ah, yes—it’s Willow’s father driving it. His headlight shines ahead on the trail that Willow couldn’t find. If her ears are sharp, and if she can remember the direction of the sound, it could help her find the right trail tomorrow morning.

  Now her father has arrived at her grandparents’ house—they’ve kept a light on for him. No one is asleep tonight. I watch them through the window as they sit and talk. Her father drinks three cups of coffee, then heads out into the night again, more slowly this time. At the fork, he stops and looks around, examining both trails for tracks, but there’s nothing he can see.

  Willow never got that far. She took a wrong turn before the fork and got lost on an old trail no one ever uses anymore. Her father slows down when he passes it, as if he’s thinking. It would be a hard trail to travel in the dark.

  Do I hear…? Yes, the dogs are howling. Good job, Willow. If her father stops, he’ll hear them—but is there any way to stop him?

  I swoop in close and he looks up.

  What was that? he says out loud. Too small to be an owl.

  I try again. He slows down a little, but he doesn’t stop. He shakes his head and goes on home.

  I

  hear a

  snowmachine!

  I shake Kaylie: Wake up!

  Come on, we have to make noise!

  She half opens her eyes, pushes Roxy,

  and says, I wish you wouldn’t sit so close to me,

  Richard. I could tease her about it, but I don’t. I saw

  the spruce hen fly off in that direction about an hour ago

  and I thought I heard a snowmachine, but I wasn’t sure.

  It went past, and everything was quiet. Now there it is

  again. Our parents must be out looking for us, Kaylie.

  She says, I don’t know. Out on a snowmachine in the

  middle of the night? That’s crazy. That’s not even

  the direction of the trail we came on, is it? She’s

  wide awake now. Let’s wake up the dogs, I say,