Me too, I said too quick, it was only a little after eight, but he didn’t seem to notice how eager I was.
I followed him up the stairs, the house going dark behind us as he clicked off lights one by one. Water running in the bathroom, toilet flushing. Scott, in his room reading, calling good night to us. The floorboards creaking as Dad trudged past my room.
Night, Trace.
Night.
I lay on my bed, still dressed, door cracked. Listening. Waiting. Fretting over a set of footprints and what they might mean.
It was only a handful of minutes before I heard his snores rumble up the hallway, but I made myself wait more than an hour before I got up, long enough to be sure Scott was asleep, too. Old Su and the retired dogs lifted their heads when I come back down the stairs. I crept across the kitchen. At the door, clicked my tongue at Su to follow me.
The second I drug the small sled out of the kennel and the dogs seen it, they started barking. I held my breath and watched the house. Expected a light to shine from Dad’s window, him looking down to see what was all the ruckus. But the window stayed dark.
I fastened the snow hook round the trunk of a tree and laid out the rigging, then harnessed the dogs, Zip and Flash, with Su on the lead. One more check to make sure the sandbags in the basket was strapped down tight. Then I stood on the runners, reached back and pulled the snow hook loose. The dogs bolted forward, and the three of us sailed across the yard, onto the familiar trail and into the night.
We run. The air cold against my face, like glass in my lungs. The snow flying up from the ground as the dogs galloped, breaking the trail easier than I expected, sending stinging needles against my cheeks and forehead. No sound except the runners over the new snow and the breathing of the dogs. The moon overhead painted the snow with the slender shadows of bare branches. We passed the tree where Tom Hatch’s handprint had long since faded. Bypassed the lake on the alternate trail, the water likely not frozen enough to hold us. Crested the hill with the two boulders on either side of the trail. Come to the place where the trees started to thin out before the river, and that’s when a feeling hit me, come down so hard I lost my breath and my eyes welled up. Like someone had took away my heart but I didn’t know it and had been walking round empty but not understanding why, till right then, as I stood on the runners of the sled, it come back to me. I felt it inside me, beating strong in my chest for the first time since Mom died. Alive, every speck of me. It wasn’t just about the race. I hadn’t run the dogs in weeks, and the previous winter I’d spent most of my time alone in the woods, no dog by my side, only the memory of Mom to keep me company. A season without my heart was long enough.
We sprinted into a clearing and I called out, Come gee! to bring the dogs round in a wide U-turn, got them back on the trail. Headed home, slower now. I hopped off the sled from time to time and run alongside it, then worked the dogs to a stop when I come to a spot where I’d set a trap the day before when I managed to sneak out while Dad was plowing. I’d left a figure-four deadfall where a set of ermine tracks made a path near a hollow log. I liked this kind of trap on account of all you need is two heavy rocks and three sticks, you carve notches into the sticks and assemble them so they hold up one rock and when an animal come along to take the bait you have laid, it triggers the trap and the first rock falls and crushes the animal against the other rock.
The deadfall was triggered, but there was no critter. The sticks was broken and scattered, and the rocks should of been one on top of the other with the ermine dead in between. But they was apart, and no ermine in sight. Could’ve been a marten or a wolf, I had lost plenty of catches to bigger critters hungrier than me. The snow round the trap laid thinner on the ground here where the tamaracks grew close together. I waited for the moon to duck behind a cloud, my eyes grew sharper in the dark, and I studied the places where the snow was trampled. Not by four paws, but two boots.
I stood real still and listened to the night. Watching from the sides of my vision, concentrating on the spaces between trees, the deep pockets of shadow that might hide someone. But he wasn’t there. If he was nearby, I would of known. I would of felt him.
I kicked the snow clear of the blurry footprints and scattered what was left of my deadfall, my mind gnawing away at the evidence. So he had come south. Helped himself to whatever he could use in Jim Lerner’s unlocked house then laid down, exhausted, in front of Jim’s woodstove before getting chased off. Farther south, he didn’t bother knocking on our door but headed straight for the kennel, left footprints going in that we would find the next morning. Dad hadn’t bothered to look for a set of footprints leading away from the kennel, but he wasn’t the one concerned about strangers trespassing, and I hadn’t thought of it till later, when a new snow had already fallen and erased any tracks that might of been. Why hadn’t we checked to see if anything was missing, one of Dad’s tools or the wood axe, or the last hunk of meat in the freezer? A man hungry enough will eat just about anything, including a critter caught by someone else’s trap.
But if Tom Hatch come to the woods without stopping by the house first, odds was, all he wanted was his pack. Not to confront me about what I done or turn me in to the village safety officer. Tom Hatch didn’t want trouble, he just wanted what was his.
Except he wouldn’t find it. If he was this far out, he surely didn’t remember where he’d dropped his pack. But the man who’d taught himself enough to survive days, maybe weeks, in the Alaskan wild from just a book was smart enough to figure out someone had stumbled across it and took a look inside. That the most obvious someone was the last face he seen before his fortune changed.
I got back on my sled, aware that I had already been gone longer than I’d planned. I run the dogs hard back the way we come, and when we spilled off the trail into the yard, I was certain down to my bones Dad would be there, hands on his hips, waiting to give me a talking-to. Even when I seen he wasn’t, every sound in the yard as I took the dogs off the line—every bark, every tree limb creaking, even the crunch of my own boots—made me jump. Till I realized it wasn’t the house I kept glancing at. It was the trees. The kennel. The empty space of our yard, where I swore I did see him, a man taller and broader than I remembered, but him just the same, his hand still plastered over his gut, my knife still stuck in him, the hilt of it glimmering in the moonlight. I blinked, and he was gone.
I rubbed Flash’s feet, then Zip’s, then Su’s, scratched their bellies and give them each a treat. Then reversed everything I’d done to start the night, drug the sled back into the kennel and covered it, hid the rigging and harnesses so I’d know which ones to use for my next run. My ears twice their normal size, the scurry of mice in the kennel amplified and transformed into the heavy, careful footsteps of someone who didn’t belong, a figure waiting for me to be gone, or to come close enough to touch. When I was done putting gear away, I run outside and slammed the door behind me, forgetting all about my worry that Dad would wake, only wanting to be back inside the house for once, behind locked doors.
We was almost at the house when Old Su suddenly peeled away, reenergized as she galloped toward the road with her ears perked, like she was expecting someone to pull up to the house.
Come back, girl, I called to her.
She turned and trotted to me, brushing past a shadow. A dark shape, facing the road. I jumped when I seen it, my mind still on Hatch. But the longer I stared, I realized it was Mom. My memory of her, anyway. Standing at the head of the driveway, looking toward the road.
Turn around, I thought but couldn’t make myself say out loud. She stayed where she was, shivering under her heavy coat, till the moon come out again and shone down on the empty place where she’d stood.
Come back, I said again.
Upstairs, I shucked off my clothes and crawled into bed. But even though my arms and legs was worn out in that pleasant way that comes after you have been outside and active for a spell, my brain kept me awake with its chattering. I turned on the ligh
t and reached under my bed, pulled out the pack. I had smoothed out the money and separated the bills, bundled it all. Surprising how small a stack that much money made, even when a decent portion of it was ones and fives. Surprising how something so small could feel so heavy.
My stomach growled, and I thought about the deadfall, the catch that ought to of been mine but had fed Tom Hatch instead. Wondered how long he would haunt our woods before he showed up on our doorstep.
5
When Scott got old enough, he would ask could he come along when I ventured into the woods with my knife and my rules and no warning from Mom other than Be back by dinner or Don’t go any farther than the lake today. Sometimes Mom would distract him with her camera, the two of them would go on their own adventure round the yard, snapping pictures, or they would stay inside and bake cookies or play their own secret games. But other times she would tell me, Let him tag along today, Trace. You can wander around on your own tomorrow.
So I would try and show Scott how to set a simple trap or explain to him that even the tiniest movement would spook most animals. But he fidgeted and whined that he was bored. So we would go walking up the trail till his legs was tired, then turn back round and head home with no catch.
Usually I tried to talk him out of coming with me, instead I would promise to show him something cool if he would agree to stay back. I taught him how to spark a fire with flint and steel, same way Dad had showed me, and how to blow across a sharp blade of grass to make a whistle. I showed him tricks with my knife.
What’s blood brothers? he asked.
It’s just a little cut, I told him. Then we shake hands, and we’re blood brothers.
But you’re a girl, he said.
My stomach growled. It’s just a name, I said and grabbed his hand.
But Dad heard the little yelp Scott give when I cut into the meat of his palm, he chased us both inside asking, What the hell were you thinking?
What’s going on? Mom asked. She was setting the table, it was nearly dinnertime.
So Dad tattled on me and Scott showed her the shallow cut bleeding on his hand. Mom give me a look. I braced myself for hollering. But she said, That doesn’t look too bad, Scotty. Go wash up and put a bandage on it. You’ll be all right. Can you give him a hand, Bill?
Dad nodded. Told me, And you get yourself upstairs till dinner, young lady.
Wait, Trace, Mom said. Why don’t you go check your traps? Just the ones nearest the yard.
Dad threw his hands in the air. Didn’t you hear me just now, Hannah? I told her to get upstairs.
I heard you just fine.
Then maybe you could back me up instead of telling her the opposite of what I just said.
Tracy, Mom said. Go on outside.
I let the door fall shut behind me and sprinted for the trailhead, left behind the sound of the two of them bickering through the open kitchen window. They was still at it, though, that night when I got home after the house was dark. I walked past their bedroom and heard their voices muffled behind the closed door.
She could’ve really hurt him, Dad said.
But she didn’t, Mom said and her voice sounded tired.
So next time when he comes in bleeding to death, you going to reward her again instead of sending her to her room?
Mom sighed. Bill, I’m sorry. But you’ve got to understand, sending her to her room doesn’t work. I’ve tried it. You’ve got to redirect her.
Redirect, he muttered. I don’t need a lesson on how to discipline my kid. I swear, Hannah, sometimes you act like you’re the only one responsible for raising her.
Sometimes I feel like I am.
What’s that supposed to mean?
They both went quiet a spell. I stood outside their door, my head bent. Moonlight spilled across the floor through the window at the end of the hall, bluish-white, it coated everything, the floorboards and the bookshelf and my own bare feet.
Dad spoke real soft. Hey.
I’m trying to think of what to say that won’t make me sound crazy, Mom told him.
The bed creaked.
I don’t think you’re crazy, Dad said.
She give a laugh. Not yet, she said and sighed again. It’s just when it comes to Tracy, it’s—different. We need to—
What? Dad said.
Mom went, Shh. Then called out, Tracy?
I froze. I could feel her listening for me. I crept away from the door silent as I could. Mom’s ears was nearly good as mine, keen enough to hear my bare feet shuffle away from their door, to hear the tiny click of my own door closing.
Next morning, she was waiting for me, boots on.
Let’s go, she said.
Where?
Hunting.
She might of suggested we shave our heads and fly to the moon. I stared at her as she tucked herself into an old pilled sweater, then moved toward the door.
Well, she said. We doing this, or what?
We followed the trail into the woods, walking but not speaking. A quarter mile in or so, she grinned at me, then bumped me with her hip before she took off, sprinting through the woods.
I run after her. The two of us bounding over the packed dirt, me in my bare feet, her in her clunky boots. But she was faster than she looked and I stretched my legs and pumped my arms to keep pace with her. My heart sending blood surging through my veins, it warmed every part of me and I felt stronger and faster than ever, but still she pulled away. She disappeared round a bend and when I followed, she was farther and farther ahead.
When she finally stopped and I caught up, the two of us laid on the ground beside the trail, catching our breath.
She sighed, then sat up. That felt good, didn’t it? she said. I miss this.
It hadn’t occurred to me, till she said it, that this was the first time I ever seen her in the woods without Dad. She always come on family walks, or the two of them exercising a new pack of pups together, but she never explored the woods with just me or Scott, and definitely never on her own.
Come on, Trace, she said. You’ve got your knife, right? Show me what you know.
So we pushed through the woods, looking for a good spot for me to set a snare. Then we was quiet a long time, sitting close enough together I could feel the heat coming off her body. Till a marten come along and found itself caught. I showed Mom how I used the knife she’d give me, where I knew to cut and let the blood out till whatever I caught was dead and ready to bring home to skin and butcher.
Go ahead, she said as I bled the marten.
I hesitated. It wasn’t hard to recall how she had hollered the one time she caught me with Scott’s blood on my mouth.
It’s okay, she said.
So I held the critter close. A warm, metallic flood over my tongue, and in my head I went scurrying down the trunk of a tree to where I knew voles nested and made their burrows, I sniffed the air and smelled something curious and trotted past the vole place and into a cluster of birch trees, closer to the scent, like sticky sweet berries, and took a final step forward to taste the bit of jam smeared on a rock before the snare closed.
Most animals I found in my traps was hours, maybe days dead. When you have an animal that is dying as you hold it in your arms, rather than one that has been dead a spell, it is hot, you can feel the heat of it spread through you, and what you learn from it is as clear as if you’re seeing with your own eyes. Any taste will give you a moment. But in the drink that comes with a critter’s last breath, you get a whole history. Everything it has done and felt comes to you like it is happening at the exact moment you are learning it. You take in a whole life with the killing drink.
I finished. My skin buzzing with another creature’s death and life, I felt I could run another ten miles and this time keep up with Mom no matter how fast she went. But I stood there, waiting to see what she would do.
She said, Leave the carcass. We’ll come back for it.
We went deeper into the woods, stopping by a slender branch of the river so I c
ould wash the blood from my hands and face. As we walked, she didn’t say much, except to quiz me on the plants we found. Back then, I couldn’t identify too many, I was more keen on pointing out animal tracks and piles of scat.
You need to know these things, Mom said and showed me a patch of monkshood, which looked a little like wild geranium, same color only the buds was more clumped together. You can eat the flowers and leaves of the geranium, but the monkshood is poisonous. There are all kinds of plants and roots you can eat, but you have to be able to tell the good ones from the dangerous ones.
I don’t see the point in eating a plant, I said. You don’t get nothing from it the way you do a critter.
No, Mom said. But it’ll keep you going if you’re hungry and there’s nothing to hunt.
We walked a good bit, then turned round, made our way back to the marten. I slung it over my shoulder to take back and have Dad show me how to skin it.
Mom smiled.
What? I said.
It just reminds me, she said as we made our way to the trail again. There was this day, earlier this summer, you were here in the woods. Of course. I was in the kitchen. Making bread, I think. But mostly watching for you. You were gone all morning. When I finally saw you come into the yard, you had some dead thing slung over your shoulder. You’ve gotten so good with traps. The sun was shining in your hair, and you were already tan from being outside all the time. You looked like the healthiest person alive.
She looked down at me. Right then, she said, more than anything, you know what I wanted?
What?
I wanted to let you be, she said.
There was a churning in my head, her words tumbling over themselves and rearranging till they lined up another way. I began to lay each moment of the day next to another, like building a lean-to, at first all you have is separate branches but when you connect them, they create something whole, a safe place for you to stay. My surprise at Mom wanting to come into the woods with me. How her face hadn’t changed when she watched me drink. Her own words when I told her a plant wasn’t any kind of substitute for an animal. You can learn plenty of things just by watching and thinking. But certain things you can only know because you experienced them yourself.
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