White Silence

by Ginjer Buchanan

  Beyond the warmth of the fire, the cold was vicious. It snapped at his cheeks and nose. Blast! The icy crust on the snow had frozen solid. He whacked at it with the pot, to no avail. Nothing for it then but to go back for the hand ax.

  His way took him by the team, piled all together noses to tails. They were still being staked down at night, the wretched creatures. Not that they’d be likely to stray—after the wolves and the snows, they were content to stay where it was warm and safe. But the Indian was cautious about the food supplies.

  Fitz was sure mat Vixen—and Rip—would keep the others in line. But there was nothing to be gained by arguing.

  Three of them were on their feet, he saw. The fourth, a black-and-white spotted bitch, the last of the dogs they had bought in the village, still lay sprawled on the snow. The dog called Klute was pawing at her.

  As he came nearer, Klute raised his head, growling low in his throat. The other two dogs whined. One shouldered past Klute, who snarled and nipped.

  The black-and-white bitch did not move.

  Fitz shouted, and threw the pot. The dogs backed off far enough for him to kneel in the snow next to the bitch. She was as cold and stiff as the ground beneath, he could see. There was no mark on her, nor blood around her.

  A crunch of snow. MacLeod was beside him, a sharp knife in his hand.

  “Frozen, laddie,” he said softly. “The poor beastie froze to death while she slept.”

  MacLeod reached down and cut the leather traces binding the dead dog. “Pull her clear, Fitz. We can’t let the others at her.”

  Fitz looked up. His eyes were level with the dog Klute’s. The animal stared at him, not dropping his gaze, lips curled in a snarl. “Aye,” he said. “This one here looks ready for a bit of a snack.”

  Together, the two of them carried the stiff carcass across the snow to the edge of the trees.

  As they walked back toward the fire, Fitz stopped to fetch the pot. Klute snapped at him as he bent to retrieve it.

  “He’s going to be trouble, I’ll wager,” Fitz said to Duncan.

  “Dogs hungry,” Sam said, in a harsh whisper.

  “Should we let them—eat?” Duncan asked, looking back at the body of the dead dog.

  Sam shook his head, weakly. “No. They get taste, they turn on one another.” He paused for breath. “Man try to stop them and fail. They lose the fear of the whip. They turn on man next.”

  Fitz sighed.

  It had been such a beautiful dawn …

  Carefully, oh so carefully.

  Duncan held on to the sled, wary of his footing. Though it was bright and clear, the weak sun low in the sky did nothing to melt the thick ice covering the snow. It cast light, but no warmth.

  That morning, Sam had said that the wind was coming from the south, bringing with it a rise in the temperature. If that were so—and Duncan trusted that Sam knew such things—it wasn’t yet obvious. He could still feel the sting of the cold in his fingers and face, his eyes teared from staring at the bright whiteness, the tears froze on his cheeks.

  Under these circumstances, a man ahead breaking the trail was of no use. So both Fitzcairn and Danny followed behind. Even on snowshoes, the way was treacherous. Their progress was slow, their every movement cautious.

  For hours, Duncan had struggled with the sled. The dogs, their claws chipping small pieces from the frozen surface, had the best purchase. And the runnered sled glided along with ease. After days of laborious progress, foundering through old and new snow, now he had to fight to hold the team back.

  Vixen was as steady as ever, but the dogs Klute and Rip—never on the best of terms—were now harnessed much too close to one another. Again and again, Klute nipped at Rip’s flanks. When Rip tried to turn and retaliate, the sled skidded sideways.

  The fourth time it happened, Duncan was forced to use the whip.

  “Sam?” he said. The Indian more often than not spent his days and nights both in a pain-wracked half sleep.

  “We stop soon.” A whispered response. “I tell you new way to harness dogs.”

  Duncan nodded, though Sam couldn’t see him.

  Ahead lay a steeply sloping hill. A few days past, plowing upward would have been exhausting for men and dogs alike. Today, Duncan stepped on the back of the sled and whistled to the dogs. Vixen barked, and the team dug in with their claws. In an eyeblink, they had skimmed to the top, gliding easily over the ice.

  Duncan turned the sled and set the brake. The dogs dropped to their bellies, as they were trained to do. Rip growled and twisted his head to snarl at the burly gray male. The small brown bitch next to him, called Pie by Sam’s brother, whined nervously.

  Duncan spoke sharply to them. He turned to look down the far side of the slope. It was much steeper and just as icy. The going up may have been easy. The coming down would not be.

  “MacLeod,” Fitzcairn called. Duncan looked back down the hill. Fitz stood at the bottom, hands on his hips. Danny was a few feet behind him.

  “As we’ve neither wings nor claws,” he shouted, his breath steaming in the air. “Have you any thoughts on how we might join you?”

  “Hot air rises, doesn’t it?” Duncan yelled back. “That should work for you at least.”

  “It’s cream that rises, Highlander,” Fitz retorted, kicking at the snow, “but not when it’s frozen.”

  Duncan laughed. He was tempted for a brief moment simply to stand and watch his friend attempt to climb the glassy slope. But that would be time wasted. With one less dog, and the going made even slower by the precarious footing, they had no time at all to spare.

  There was a length of rope packed among the gear stowed at Sam’s feet. In short order, Duncan had secured one end to the sled and thrown the other to Fitz and Danny.

  “One at a time,” he cautioned. The sled, with Sam aboard and the dogs in harness, far outweighed the two Immortals. But Duncan had learned not to trust anything in this harsh land.

  Danny made the climb first, hand over hand on the rope, each foot carefully placed. In a few moments he stood beside Duncan.

  “Mind the dogs,” Duncan said. “They’re in a state.”

  The young Immortal looked at him blankly, then stepped to one side.

  Duncan waved his hand, and Fitzcairn began his ascent, awkward in his snowshoes.

  “Pretend you’re climbing a tower to your lady fair,” Duncan suggested. “You’ve had some experience at that, I believe?”

  Just as Fitz stopped, doubtless to offer a response, a muffled shout caught Duncan’s attention. He turned.

  “Scotsman!” It was Sam, his voice strained, calling to him from the sled. “The Irishman—look!”

  Duncan looked. Danny was nowhere to be seen.

  Sam gestured, weakly.

  The young Immortal, Duncan saw then, was tumbling down the hill—silently—his arms and legs flailing.

  Quickly Duncan turned back. Too quickly. He lost his footing and fell heavily against the sled. The impact brought the dogs to their feet. Vixen stood in place, but Rip leaped in his traces. Then Klute bit Pie, drawing blood. She yelped and flinched, jerking sharply to the right.

  That was enough. Even with the brake still set, the sled began to move, sliding sideways. The dogs, feeling the weight pulling on them, became confused and panicky. They lurched forward, then began to slide, too, losing their footing on the downward slope.

  Frantically, Duncan grabbed for the rope. But his efforts were for naught—once enough of the weight of the sled cleared the top, gravity took over.

  He was able to catch Fitzcairn, pulled off his feet and up the hill, just as he reached the crest. The two of them lay on the snow watching as sled, dogs, and—some yards distant—Danny O’Donal, all came to rest below.

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” Fitz murmured.

  “For once, Fitz, I can’t disagree.”

  “How do we get down?”

  “The quickest way possible.” Duncan replied, rolling to the edge.

 
; He sat and slid, controlling his descent as best he could with hands and feet. Fitzcairn went rolling past him, whooping aloud.

  He checked the sled first. It lay intact on one side. Fitz joined him and they righted it with ease.

  Sam had been strapped in well. But the wild ride down the slope must have been painful. Duncan leaned over him, risking his hands to the frigid air as he checked the Indian’s pulse.

  At the touch of Duncan’s fingers on his neck, Sam’s dark eyes opened.

  “See to dogs,” he granted as he handed Duncan his hunting knife. “I live.”

  “Fitz,” Duncan said, turning to the tangled heap of yelping fur and twisted leather, “go. I’ll do this. You find Danny.”

  Fitzcairn started across the snow toward his student. Duncan took the knife, cutting the traces where they joined the sled. Then he pulled at the loose ends, separating the dogs.

  When they were all free, he assessed the damage. Four of the five were fine. Vixen shook herself, and trotted after Fitz. Rip went to Sam, nosing at him and whimpering. Klute stood stiff-legged, some distance away. Bigfoot, the sometimes lazy male, simply lay down, his head between his paws.

  But Pie, the little brown bitch, was not fine. She cried as she tried to get to her feet. Her right front leg would not hold her. It dangled limply, obviously broken.

  Duncan knelt on the snow, watching as the dog struggled feebly. What had to be done had to be done. But he felt a wave of sadness.

  And then the close presence of another Immortal.

  “Would you get me the rifle, Fitz?” he asked softly. “I’d best end her suffering.”

  “MacLeod—yes, of course—” Fitzcairn replied. “But, Duncan, I—”

  Duncan glanced over his shoulder. Danny was standing by the sled, holding on as though he were about to fall again. His face was white as the snow all around them.

  “Fitz?” Duncan asked. In the hundreds of years he’d known him, he had never seen his friend look so sick at heart.

  “Danny—he walked off the hilltop because he can’t see a thing in front of him. Duncan, he’s gone blind.”

  Danny frowned. “The heathen is sure of that then, he is?” His voice trembled.

  “Have you not noticed, lad,” his teacher said, “that the Indian is right about things even more often than MacLeod here?”

  “Sam says you’ll be fine, Danny,” MacLeod repeated. “The sun’s glare on the snow is what does it.” Danny could hear a touch of impatience in his voice. “You’ll need to keep your eyes covered the rest of the day, and maybe tomorrow, too.”

  “Come now,” Hugh said. “I’ll be driving the sled. You walk right behind.” He helped Danny to his feet.

  For the next few hours, he stumbled along, tethered to the back of the sled like one of the dogs, a strip of flannel torn from a shirt over his eyes. Strange, he would have thought that being blind was a thing of darkness. But what he saw, eyes closed or opened, was white, a bright, shining white.

  The going was slower even than before, since they’d left another of the team dead at the bottom of the hill. He’d not seen it die, but he’d heard the rifle shot echo and echo in the silence.

  And he heard the awful sounds that followed, when MacLeod, on the order of the heathen, had cut up the sorry beast and fed it to the dogs that were left. It had made him near as ill for a brief time as he had been on the sea voyage from San Francisco.

  How long ago that seemed! Yet it was only a matter of a few months, no time at all, if you were one of those who would live forever.

  They stopped at last for the night, and Danny sat close by the fire that he could feel and hear but not see, lost in the whiteness and the memory of the day just gone by.

  He had walked, hour after hour across the ice-covered snow.

  One foot, then another. After a bit of time, he’d had to squint even to see his teacher’s back, but a few feet away.

  Hour after hour, and he’d begun to see things at the edge of his vision. A sparkle, like sun shining through fine crystal. Rainbow colors, shimmering just above the snow, a golden glow right under his feet.

  Were there figures there, dancing in that rainbow? The angel women from his dream house, they might be. Or the faery folk, his true parents, come to claim him at last.

  He’d thought he might be asking Hugh if he saw them, too. But when they broke their journey for a bite to eat, his teacher and MacLeod had gotten caught up in a worry about the big brute of a dog that had nipped him that morning.

  Danny had sat with his cup of tea and a bit of bread, paying no mind. He’d stared out, past the fire, past the dogs, past the Indian lying in the sled, past the other two of his kind.

  On the horizon, he could have sworn that he saw a ship, all sails rigged, cresting the pure white waves. He’d recognized it, though that could not possibly be—it was the very ship that had brought him across the great ocean when he was a wee child. He’d narrowed his gaze, and it was gone, vanished into the sunlight.

  Hour after hour, one foot at a time. Danny had searched and searched for another glimpse of the vessel. He’d seen the dancing figures again. He’d seen the wolves, loping in a perfectly straight line not more than five hundred feet away. They turned their heads, and their eyes were washed with rainbow hues. He’d seen other eyes, laughing eyes, green, blue, floating before him.

  But he hadn’t seen the ship, until he stood at the top of the hill. There it had been, all of a sudden, right before him! The gangplank lowered, and a voice bade him come aboard. He had stepped forward—and found himself falling, falling through a silent space of brightness.

  He’d lain stunned on the snow. Behind his closed eyes, rainbow colors flashed and flashed again. Like fireworks they were, exploding in his head.

  Then Hugh was there, bending over him. Danny had heard the worry in his voice.

  And when he’d opened his eyes, all he’d seen was—white.

  Siwash Sam had decided. The cheechakos must all hear what he had to say. By now he knew that they took their lead from the Scotsman. But this must be said to all, not one.

  He asked to be brought closer to the fire. Then he began to speak.

  “Four dogs we have left,” he said. “One no good. He trouble. He should be shot.” He doubted they would do that though, and he hadn’t the strength.

  “Even if he not, four dogs not enough for what is to come.”

  The Scotsman looked straight into Sam’s eyes then. Sam could read a great worry there, but no fear.

  “The wind from the south—it will bring more snow with it.”

  The Englishman swore under his breath.

  “Maybe as much as before, maybe more.”

  “When will this be?” the Scotsman asked.

  Sam shrugged, then winced at the pain.

  “After the dark comes tomorrow. After the first light of the day after. Soon.”

  “Well, what can we bloody do about it?” the Englishman said. “It’s not like there’s some snug hotel nearby that we can check into until the storm is over.”

  “I will tell you. The fort of the redcoats is not far now. If a man were to travel light, it could be reached before the snows came again.” He took a deep breath. That caused him to gasp and choke.

  “Leave me. Leave the gold. Take only what you need for four days journey. Leave at first light, and do not stop.”

  “I’ll not be a part of leaving the gold behind,” the Irishman said. “Sighted or not, I’ll fight the man who tries to do so.”

  Sam sighed. He had expected that. And what came next.

  “And I’ll not be a part of leaving Siwash Sam.”

  “My journey is about to end, Scotsman. You know that. I have seen the knowledge in your eyes.”

  The Scotsman shook his head, firmly. “We came through one storm. We can survive another. We’ll make it to the fort, all of us. Together.”

  Sam could do no more. He thought of taking the knife and opening the big vein in his throat. Even the Scot
sman would leave him if his spirit were no longer in his body. But that would not be a death with honor, worthy of his brother and of the bear.

  In Skagway, he had made a pledge to these cheechakos. Though he needed them now far more then they needed him, he had given his word. So he must live on and see this through, whatever lay ahead.

  Chapter 10

  “Well,” Fitzcairn said, as he pointed. A small log cabin lay ahead, nestled in a stand of winter-bare trees. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that not a snug hotel!”

  Duncan braked the sled. The four remaining dogs, harnessed now in a fan shape, dropped in the snow. They’d been on the move scarcely an hour, making decent time under the rapidly lowering sky.

  “Shall we check in?” he added.

  “Wait,” Sam said weakly. “It always wise to knock before opening door.”

  “I’ll go.” Duncan said. He handed the leather leads to Fitz and drew the katana from the gear on the sled.

  The one-room cabin, it turned out, was not occupied. From the doorway, Duncan quickly surveyed the interior. There was an iron cot on the right, a tangle of blankets thrown over it. The headless pelt of a white bear lay on the floor in front of the stone fireplace set in the middle of the back wall.

  Duncan entered cautiously. He bent down by the fireplace. A poker lay on the rough hearth, amid a scattering of cold ashes.

  Opposite the bed was a table, shoved against the wall. One leg was missing, and it only stood upright because it was propped on a protruding wood knot.

  There was an unpleasant odor in the air, which he traced to a half-full chamber pot shoved under the bed and fresh mouse droppings on the floor.

  Whoever had lived here had left sometime ago, he judged. The cabin seemed secure. And the wind was rising.

  In a short time, they did indeed check in. Sam was made as comfortable as possible in the bed. Fitz, holding his nose dramatically, emptied the chamber pot some distance from the cabin. Danny, who’d wakened that morning with his vision restored, found a broken broom and set to work sweeping the floor.