by Jo Storm
She went back to watching the trail and the dogs. They were moving more easily now, still struggling with the height of the snow but moving together naturally as a unit. She watched how three of the dogs shortened their strides, trying to match the Dalmatian’s gait as she plowed through the snow. The line slackened, tightened, slackened again as they figured out the best way to attack the ungroomed top of the trail. Sencha in particular was struggling; she was the shortest dog with the deepest chest, and she looked like she was swimming rather than walking.
Finally Hannah called, “Whoaa,” and the sled stopped.
“What is it?” asked Peter.
“Gotta change dogs. And here —” she pulled out their last two energy bars and gave him one. They hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was at least noon now. She debated giving him both, but she needed to be able to walk and pole and pull as necessary. It would be foolhardy to leave herself hungry and unable to do things with Peter injured.
“The Dalmatian is too short,” he said as he pocketed the energy bar.
“Yeah. I’ll switch her out.”
“Use the other husky one,” he said, pointing at Rudy. This was the first time Peter had really paid attention to the dogs. “He’s strong,” he continued, “and then you’d have weak, strong” — he pointed to Nook, Rudy — “and behind them, strong, weak.” He pointed to Bogey and Sencha in turn.
“That won’t work,” she said immediately, making a face. She sounded just like a know-it-all idiot. “I mean, it would work, but Nook is old. Rudy will pull too hard for her because he loves to pull, but she’ll try to keep up. Bogey is …”
“He’s the nice one,” said Peter.
“Yeah. The nice brown face,” she said. “He’ll listen to Nook and not pull too hard. And then I’ll put Sencha behind Bogey, because he’ll break a wider trail than Nook — won’t you, you brown tank?” Bogey’s tongue, already half out of his mouth as he panted away his excess heat, slurped her hand.
“Yeah,” Peter said after a moment. “That’s cool, too.” He shrugged and leaned back again, closing his eyes.
As Hannah redistributed the team, she checked all the dogs again and took off Sencha’s makeshift coat, which was wet from the snow and hot — the Dal was plenty warm now.
Hannah risked a glance back as they turned a corner. Behind her the sled tracks stretched out all the way back until they disappeared around the last corner. The furrows where the dogs’ paws had dug up the snow caught the afternoon sunlight. She spied another set of animal tracks off at the side of the trail, also glinting. They were deep and heavy and closely set. The dogs paid them no mind, their heads down and shoulders forward, panting.
They topped a small rise and went around another corner. Hannah saw they had been slowly climbing for a while and were on a sort of plateau now. The pines thinned out, and she saw tall poplar and maple trees and, below them, the ever-present thatch of small branches and trees that her father called scrub. There were large bare patches that tumbled and jutted like a bowl of marshmallows, though the granite boulders visible beneath the snow were decidedly not soft. The sound of the trail beneath the runners was thin and she knew they were running over rock.
The plateau started to slope downward again, and soon they were back in the dark arms of the forest. The trail swept down around yet another corner and through a heavily wooded area. The snowpack petered out until they were running over mostly ice; the snow had all been trapped in the pine boughs above.
“Easy,” called Hannah. “Easy, Nook.” They slowed to navigate the icy patch. The shade and placement of the trees made it seem as though they were underground, so dark was the trail and so still the air. She was concentrating on keeping her feet from sliding when she poled so that the sled didn’t skitter sideways on the ice, so when Sencha barked, short and tense, Hannah didn’t register it right away. The dogs slowed suddenly and Hannah had to quickly step on the brake to keep the sled from hitting the backs of Rudy’s legs.
“Nook! Get up!” she shouted, but the dog didn’t, instead placing her paws slightly wider and lifting her tail and head the way she did to signal to the team to slow down. Then one of the dark blobs by the side of the trail moved, and Hannah realized there was something else there with them. The sharp corner had hidden both parties from each other’s sight until they were almost on top of each other.
Hannah’s heart slammed into her chest as the hulking mass lurched upright in front of them. Black. Shaggy. It was a moose. It still had one side of its antlers, a huge scooped bowl tipped with hooked tines. It was massive, bigger than any animal she had ever seen in the wild. Its upper body was at least as big as their car and as wide, and when it stood up, it was easily twice as tall as her. How did it hold up those antlers? They were huge, and she knew they were made of bone, so they must be incredibly heavy.
The moose turned his shaggy head to look at them, the breath coming out of its nostrils in loud blowing noises. There was no steam because it was so warm, but Hannah knew it was clearly warning them.
Nook stood stock still. Her teeth were bared and her shoulders were straining against the traces of her harness; only Hannah’s foot digging into the brake was keeping the sled from vaulting forward. Carefully, still watching the moose, Hannah eased the snowhook out of its pocket and placed it on the snowpack, stepping carefully on the back rod to set it deeply. Although it was on a long rope, if she did lose control or fall off the sled, the snowhook would eventually stop the sled and root it, even if it tipped.
The other dogs were not behaving, either. Sencha looked at Nook and began to jump against the traces, yipping. Bogey’s hair stood fully erect all along his back and neck, though he wasn’t making a noise. And Rudy barked excitedly, a high-pitched sound. The moose stretched out his massive, thick neck and lowered it, points first, toward the dogs. Its huffing began to get louder and shorter.
“It’s going to run them, Hannah!” said Peter, then he coughed. “It doesn’t see you. Walk toward it. Wave your arms.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m standing on the brake.”
“Shit. Well, wave your arms. Shout!”
She saw the square plastic object still in his arms. “Turn the radio on!”
He fumbled with the buttons as she waved her arms, turning the radio on to static. He cranked up the volume and held the radio above his head, yelling. “G’won now, get!”
The static hissed and the movement of Hannah’s arms caught the moose’s eye. He raised his head in alarm, tilting back the massive antler rack until his throat showed — His neck is as long as I am tall, Hannah thought. Then he turned in a heaving rush of snow, his impossibly long legs growing even longer as he broke back into the forest. His antlers clack, clack, clacked against branches as he sped away.
The dogs fell silent as soon as the moose turned away. Even Sencha did not try to chase it. Instead, all four dogs stood there, their flanks heaving from tension, watching to make sure the threat had gone for good.
Hannah watched the moose disappear into the undergrowth. It was only a few heartbeats before it was obscured by the treeline, its dark flanks merging with the dark trunks. Only the distant sound of its heavy tread could be heard, as well as the faint complaint of antler-whacked tree branches now and then.
“I can’t believe he moved so fast,” she said. Even to her own ears, her voice was awed and breathless.
Peter nodded. “They can really move when they want to. I guess we caught him napping.” He laughed, coughing at the end of it. As he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, flakes of snow landed on his fisted glove.
“Great,” he said. “It’s snowing.”
The snow was a good sign because that meant it was getting colder, and it would be easier for the dogs to run. The warmth played havoc with the snowpack, making it become impassable. Finally, Hannah stopped, her legs aching and her back a steel rod of soreness. If she was this tired, she could only imagine how exhausted the dogs were.
“Why are we st
opping?” asked Peter.
She didn’t answer him but went over to the dogs, concentrating on assessing their condition; if the dogs failed, they would be in deep trouble. They would have to walk, either Timmins or back to Jonny Swede’s, hoping to break in.
“Hannah, are the dogs okay?”
“Tired,” she said, moving to the next one.
Rudy’s paw was fine. Nook, who’d lain down as soon as the sled stopped, didn’t even get up when Hannah looked her over. She could feel a slight trembling in Nook’s legs and back she ran her hands over the lead dog’s body. She was tired. Hannah smoothed down the old dog’s ruff and left her to sleep.
Bogey’s underbelly was starting to lose hair from rubbing against the harness, but otherwise, he was fine. She slapped his flanks the way he liked, and he licked her hand, his tail wagging. Many of her friends had dogs, too, but they were all special small breeds like Papillons and Schipperkes. Bogey was the dog everyone had: large and square and easygoing, obsessive about his ball. But he was solid, and had strength to spare, and did not complain; Hannah would take ten Bogeys over any of those other breeds.
Sencha’s belly was still red, but at least it didn’t seem to be getting worse. She applied more salve. Unlike the double-coated dogs, whose thick fur hid their frame, Sencha’s body readily showed the changes wrought by four days of pulling: her legs were corded with muscle and even her neck had thickened, making her small, equine head look slightly silly. Hannah chuckled as she ran her hands over Sencha’s flanks. A Dalmatian would not take kindly to being made fun of.
When Hannah had finished her dog detail, she unhooked them all, got out the camp stove, and set it up. After cursory explorations, each of the dogs lay down and went to sleep. Hannah took out her dirty clothing from yesterday and the makeshift dog coat. She covered Sencha with it, then helped Peter off the sled. He winced each time his leg bumped something.
“Do you have anything for pain?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered immediately. “Let me get it.” Why hadn’t she gotten some right away, back at Jonny Swede’s? Because she’d been thinking again.
She brought the Tylenol and the last two packets of food over to the tamped-down spot where Peter lay, nursing the stove flame. Together they checked his bandages. There was some blood spotting through from the worst part of the wound, where the shearing pin had dug especially deep, but the bandages had held up.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“How do you think? Hurts like hell.”
“The Tylenol will help. I should have given you some earlier.”
“Yeah, you should have,” he said, coughing. “And I have a massive headache, too.”
She didn’t reply, just opened the bags of food and handed him the fork to stir them.
Now, while they were waiting for food, was the time to think, to plan. With a glance up at the snowless sky, she took out all the gear they had and spread it out on the tent ground sheet.
She sorted everything into piles. The batteries, the flashlight, which they had yet to use, the radio, and a can opener went in the one pile. A small handheld mirror, the now fairly useless sewing kit, and the first-aid kit went in another. A small, rubber-banded wad of money, water purification tablets, playing cards, and a roll of duct tape went in another. The sleeping bags and tent in yet another. The supply bag was almost empty now; it just held crayons and a whistle and some toothbrushes and toothpaste. She stuck her hand in and felt around, then drew out the covered tin she had grabbed from the fridge at the last minute. When she opened it, she felt her chest expand and let out a whoop of joy.
“Kimchi!”
“What?” said Peter. He was still stirring the melted snow water with the food packages in it. The sun had disappeared completely now, and the wind had risen, flickering the stove flame slightly.
“Food!” She made sure nothing was going to fall off the ground sheet, then headed to the fire. She opened the tin and showed him.
“It’s a kimchi stew. Korean food. I thought it was spaghetti.”
“It looks like sauerkraut or something. It smells disgusting.”
She grinned. “I know, right? It’s hot.”
“How can it be hot when it’s been sitting in the sled for four days?”
“No, spicy.”
“Oh, really?” said Peter. His dull eyes lightened a bit. “I love spicy food. And I’m going to need it, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
He gestured at his leg. “Shock. I’ve seen it. My uncle got a chainsaw bite once. He was fine, then halfway out to the truck, he just sort of keeled over.” His voice was measured and even. “Spicy food might wake me up. I’m really tired. And it’s getting colder.”
“You need to sleep. We need to get to Timmins.”
“Yeah.” He gestured to the kimchi. “Well, get it in ya, then.”
“It’s better hot,” she said. “Here, I’ll clean up.”
She handed him the tin and he wedged it into the pot. Hannah repacked all the items in the supply bag. The wind gusted now, slipping under the edges of the ground sheet and lifting it.
Hannah looked over her shoulder and there it was again, the same storm she’d seen that morning funnelling toward them in great grey furrows. This was not going to be a regular storm, she could tell. These clouds were different, not the fat, snow-bearing slate-grey clouds of two days ago. These clouds roiled. They separated and merged again, mutating thus across the skyline, forming darker, uglier patches.
A storm like that would not be over in an hour. A storm like that could last for days.
She began to pack more quickly, still keenly aware of the packages beneath her fingers, the cold plastic of the radio, the lightened weight of the first-aid kit, which she kept near the top.
She called the dogs and hooked them to the line before walking over to the fire. She took out her fork as she made her way back to where Peter sat, still stirring the pot.
“Okay, let’s eat.”
“It’s not ready yet.”
“We have to eat fast and get going.”
“Well, you’ll be eating it half-frozen, then.”
“Fine. But hurry up.”
He made a face as if to say, How exactly can I hurry this? and kept stirring.
Hannah looked up at the sky again, then at the packed sled and the dogs. She felt tendrils of urgency gathering in her belly, mimicking the clouds above, making her feel slightly sick to her stomach. She took out her spoon and tried not to hover as Peter stirred the pot — their last meal.
“Does Jeb know you want to join the Army?”
“Yeah.”
“What does she think?”
“Depends. Sometimes she thinks it’s the best way for me to get out of here, like it was for her. Other times she says I should do anything but that.”
“I think you could be something else, too.”
“Nuh-unh.” He tipped one of the bags toward him and tasted its contents, frowning. “God, this isn’t ham and eggs, this is sawdust and cardboard.”
The wind gusted, yanking on the flame of their stove. Hannah watched it, hearing the hollow roar of the fuel as it sucked in more air than needed. “I think you’d be a good doctor,” she said.
She could tell he thought she was making fun of him. “A doctor, eh?” he said. He pulled the packets out of the water, then the tin of kimchi, setting them all carefully in the snow before turning off the stove.
“Yes, really.” She reached out and folded up the heat shield, which was already cool to the touch, as was the stove. She dumped out the pot, took all the gear to the sled, and put it away neatly. When she came back, Peter handed her one of the packets of food. She got the cardboard
and sawdust.
She looked at the open tin of kimchi, which was steaming. She hadn’t seen red in so long that it was almost alarming to look at the bits of hot red pepper.
“Let’s eat this first,” said Peter.
“Be care
ful, it’s really spicy.”
“Jeb and I used to put hot sauce on cornflakes,” he said. “I love spicy food.”
“Hot sauce on breakfast? That’s disgusting.”
He shrugged and they ate the kimchi in silence. The heat of the spices travelled right down her throat and into her belly, and she grabbed her bottle and choked down some water.
“Whew!” said Peter, grinning. “That is spicy!”
She took a few more mouthfuls, then handed him the tin and started on her packet. There was no seasoning except for salt, and there was way too much of that. Salt and sugar, she thought — that was what she was craving almost all the time. She wondered if that was what it felt like to have diabetes; did you crave sweet and starchy foods all the time, because you had to limit eating them? Her mom rarely talked about the disease that she had to manage daily. What must it be like to have a health problem for the rest of your life? To have to rely on medications? To have to test your own blood all the time to see how much medication you had to take? She needed to get that insulin. She thought about how long she and Peter had been away and closed her eyes, trying not to think about how worried her mom must be by now.
Hannah opened her eyes, looking up when she realized that Peter had been saying something. He was looking at her as she spun her spoon around her half-eaten meal.
“Pardon?” she said.
“I said I can’t be a doctor. I flunked science.” He looked away, his face bright red, but she couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the spicy food.
“So? I hate math, but I still want to be an engineer.”
They ate, sucking in mouthfuls of cold, windy air to cool the food down.
“There’s a big difference between me and you,” said Peter.
“Maybe. I want to help people, too.”
“As an engineer? What are you going to do, build a better mousetrap?” He chuckled at himself. “You’re fourteen. You don’t know what you want.”
“I know what I want,” argued Hannah. “I want to create buildings that don’t scare people, that make people want to go into them.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”