Wilderness

by Roddy Doyle

  Then he couldn’t feel as much snow on his face. They were in thick trees again. He could feel the branches brush his shoulders. He didn’t like it. The dogs slowed, and speeded up, like they were fighting their way over snow that no sleds had gone over before. But he couldn’t see much. It was the darkest yet.

  Tom could hear the trees breathing – he was sure he could. And he could feel their fingers. The dogs were slow now, so it felt like the twigs and pine needles were pulling at Tom’s sleeves and hat. The trees were close, and they were closing in. The path was getting narrower, and he wondered if it was a path at all. They’d soon be stuck under heavy branches and thorns. There were snakes in Finland. There were wolves; there were bears.

  Needles swiped his face. He cried out – he thought he did. He wasn’t sure. He tried not to – the needles did it again, across his face, like a prickly cloth. The old hot chocolate charged up his throat. He swallowed it back. He felt horrible; he wanted it to stop. He wanted Aki’s lights to charge right up to him, and then the trees would just be trees, and the bad things would be pushed back by the light. He wished he’d never come here.

  Then the sled wouldn’t move. They were stuck. They were caught. He wanted to call out to Johnny, but he didn’t know if he could. His throat was dry and sick. He heard a dog bark, somewhere.

  Rock barked.

  Just once.

  And Johnny felt the pull. He felt his sled move, only a tiny bit, a couple of centimetres. But he could feel the strength and effort. Rock’s bark had been an order. Pull. Johnny was sure of it. Siberian huskies hardly ever barked; Aki had told them that. Johnny got off the sled. His legs went deep into the snow, way over his boots, over his knees. The sled moved forward. He could hear the dogs pant. He held on to the sled, and the stick with the hat. He pushed. His boots got sucked into the snow. He thought they’d come off as he pulled them out. He curled up his toes. He tried to grip the inside of the boots; his socks had slid down. He pushed. Forward, two more steps. He called to Tom.

  “OK?”

  Tom didn’t answer. Johnny looked back. His sled moved. He had to turn back again. His face went right into a line of snow and pine needles. He kept pushing. He pushed his face out of the needles. He called again.

  “OK? Tom?”

  Tom still didn’t answer.

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “OK?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  “Where?”

  Rock barked.

  “Hear that?” said Johnny.

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “I can see you.”

  Johnny’s sled moved forward a metre, and stopped. He felt the dogs strain; he felt it in his hands, through his gloves. He pushed. He heard the dogs scrabble and pull.

  Tom was off his sled too. It was like pushing straight into a nightmare, going further asleep instead of waking up. He wanted to pull back, even to just let go. Let Hupö and Pomp and the sled go ahead and turn back, to the adults. He heard himself groaning. He sounded like an engine. He pushed, so hard he lifted the sled off the snow. His boots were stuck. He thought he was going to fall forward; he was falling. But his foot came out of the snow; he got it out – theboot was still on it. He stepped forward, and the other foot came out. He kept groaning. It was easier that way. It stopped his teeth from chattering. It helped him feel stronger. He pushed again. He felt the dogs pulling; he heard them panting. He pushed. He felt the sled move. He heard Johnny.

  “OK?”

  He couldn’t see him. But he sounded near.

  “Yeah,” said Tom.

  But it didn’t sound loud enough. He took a huge breath and said it again.

  “Yeah.”

  He felt his hat being lifted by the branch right over his head. He felt the sudden cold on his forehead. He could feel the cold on his nose, pushing against it, like a slow fist. He let go of the sled. He grabbed his hat just as it came off his head. He pulled it back over his ears. He could feel loose hard needles in the hat, sticking into his skull. But they didn’t hurt too much, and the cold was off his forehead and ears.

  The sled slid away before he could grab it. He had to run – he tried to run. He tried to reach the handles of the sled. It moved further. He was being left behind. There was a branch in his way. The sled was gone. He couldn’t get past the branch; he couldn’t get through. It wouldn’t give; it was solid – it wouldn’t bend forward. It was like a wall. He couldn’t see. He was trapped. He pushed. He groaned. His face was frozen. The branch lashed ice at him; it rubbed the ice right into his skin. He couldn’t hear the dogs. He couldn’t hear Aki’s engine. He hadn’t heard it for a good while. Aki and Kalle weren’t coming up behind him. There was no one to rescue him. All he could hear was his own breath and the wind. There was wood in his mouth, and dirty ice, and spikes and needles jabbed at his lips and nostrils. He pulled his head back. He put his hand in front of his face. He shouted.

  “Johnny!”

  He pushed.

  He shouted again.

  “Johnny!”

  “What?”

  “I’m stuck.”

  He cried then. He pushed. He called out to Johnny again.

  “My sled’s gone.”

  He heard Johnny.

  “I have it.”

  And that gave him strength; he could feel it. He tried to push a different part of the branch. The tree must have been on his left, because he moved a step to the right and pushed, and the branch wasn’t as powerful. It must have been narrower there. He felt it bend; he could feel it give.

  He pushed. He even used his face. He pushed straight into the needles and ice, and now he couldstep forward, and he felt the branch bend and pull back the side of his face as he pushed through it. And then it was gone, behind him. He was out.

  The branch sprang back and smacked him hard. He was on his knees. He’d fallen forward. He was gasping. But he was free. He wasn’t crying now. He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have breath for it. He tried to stand up. He put his hands on the snow, but they sank. His nose touched the snow. His hands, arms, his feet, legs, were in it. He could feel the cold pull his face.

  He got one leg up. He was able to get his foot flat on the ground. He could feel it solid under his boot. He pushed, he straightened the leg. He lifted the other leg. He straightened his arms. He rose over the snow, still on all fours. Then he pushed his hands off the ground. His balance was good. He stood; he stayed standing.

  He could see Johnny. He thought he could see him – and the sleds and dogs. He wiped the snow off his face. He pulled his feet out of the snow. It was a path again. The trees were apart. The branches and needles weren’t touching him.

  Johnny was standing on his brake, leaning over a bit. He was holding one of the straps that held the dogs to Tom’s sled. The dogs were quiet. They weren’t trying to get away.

  “OK?” said Johnny.

  “Yeah,” said Tom.

  The dogs were looking at him. He could see that. Two more deep steps, and he was back on the sled. And he knew – he suddenly remembered – they had to find their mother. That was why he’d been fighting through the trees. That was why Johnny was waiting for him.

  They were alone. There was no one behind them now. They were way off the safe paths, and their mother was even further away. It was only them.

  He heard Johnny.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Tom filled his lungs, and let go.

  “Wil-derness!”

 
It sounded brilliant. It sounded big and funny, like the first time they’d shouted it.

  He heard Johnny.

  “Wil-derness!”

  They were moving again, in a straight line. Tom could feel the snow, brushing against and rushing past his face.

  He called out to Johnny.

  “Maybe she can hear us.”

  And he heard Johnny shout it again.

  “Wil-derness!”

  And then it was Tom’s turn.

  “Wil-derness!”

  And Johnny’s turn again.

  “Wil-derness!”

  “Wil-derness!”

  They stopped for a second. They put their feet on the brakes, and listened. They heard nothing. They lifted their feet, and the dogs went again. They were moving nicely, and evenly. The boys kept listening, but they heard nothing.

  Tom heard Johnny.

  “Wil-derness!”

  And Tom did it again.

  “Wil-derness!”

  They kept on doing it, together and apart, in deep voices and cartoon voices, and back to their own voices.

  “Wil-derness!”

  And the dogs kept running.

  And they heard it.

  They thought they did.

  Johnny put his feet on the brake. Tom waited till his sled was beside Johnny’s, then he put his feet on his brake. They could see each other now.

  Johnny called out.

  “Wil-derness!”

  They listened.

  Tom called out.

  “Wil-derness!”

  They listened. And they heard it. Far away, but they definitely heard it.

  “Wil-derness!”

  It was their mother.

  The Kitchen

  It was a fight. Two arms, two fists joined, inside her chest. Both pulling, straining. Pushing against her ribs.

  She sat still. She concentrated.

  “Are you OK?” said her mother.

  Gráinne waited a bit. Then she nodded.

  It wasn’t true, but it was the answer she wanted to give.

  “Are you sure?” said her mother.

  Gráinne nodded again.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look a bit pale.”

  “No,” said Gráinne. “I’m fine.”

  And she began to feel that what she’d said was true. The fists in her chest were fading away. She was still sitting at the table. And her mother was just sitting down, with a fresh mug of tea.

  “It’s lovely to have decent tea again,” she said. “The Americans don’t really understand tea.”

  She looked at Gráinne.

  “Will I go on?” she said.

  “Not about tea,” said Gráinne.

  “No,” said her mother. “Not tea. I must have sounded like my mother there. Tea, tea, tea.”

  Gráinne said nothing. The fists were hardly there now. They were there; she knew that. But she’d made them move away. Gráinne was controlling it.

  “I’ll go on?” said her mother.

  “Yes,” said Gráinne.

  “Where did I stop?” said her mother.

  That annoyed Gráinne. She knew exactly where her mother had stopped. I knew what I had to do – what I was doing. And that was what I did. I went. Word for word, Gráinne knew it. She always would. She knew it, and her mother should have too. Or she was pretending, trying to be casual about it. And that annoyed Gráinne too, because it wasn’t honest. But she said nothing. She didn’t answer.

  “So,” said her mother, in a drawn-out way that sounded quite American. “So, I left.”

  She shrugged.

  “And I have to say two things here, and one of them might sound ugly. OK?”

  Gráinne nodded.

  “I don’t regret it,” said her mother.

  Gráinne could feel the fists again, a sudden burst to the front of her chest. She hoped her face was blank and normal. She could feel sweat, cold, on her forehead. She stayed still.

  “I don’t regret it,” her mother said again. “I feel disgusted, now, saying that. But I have to tell the truth.”

  Gráinne nodded.

  “It was the right thing to do at the time,” said her mother. “I’d have done something – I don’t know. It couldn’t have stayed as it was.”

  She sighed.

  “I don’t regret it.”

  She held her cup. But she didn’t drink.

  Gráinne waited for the fists inside to get smaller, to retreat. She could hear the clock on the wall. She could hear the fridge. She heard a door upstairs pulled quietly closed. Her father. He was wandering around.

  “You said, two things,” she said.

  She was glad she spoke; she wasn’t just waiting. She looked at her mother.

  “You said you had to say two things.”

  “Yes,” said her mother.

  “Go on.”

  “Right,” said her mother. “Like I said, I don’t regret going. But there are lots of things I do regret, because I went.”

  Her hands on the table opened and closed.

  “I regret not being with you,” she said. “It sounds so lame, I guess. But it’s true. I regretted that even before I left. I remember it, exactly.”

  She put her hand to her chest.

  “It’s still in there,” she said. “The feeling when I was leaving. Like my ribs were being torn.”

  She sucked in air; she was trying to keep talking.

  “I always felt it.”

  Gráinne watched her mother’s hands. Opening and closing, opening and closing.

  “I look at you now, and it’s great,” said her mother. “I’m here. And you’re here. And it kills me.”

  She cried then. She couldn’t talk. She lifted her hands and waved them, as if to say, I’ll be back in a minute. Then she put her hands to her face and cried. She bawled. Gráinne hadn’t seen an adult cry like that before. Her mother was crying like a child. Her face was very white, and blotchy. She looked like she was in pain, like her face was badly made and the different parts didn’t fit or match up right.

  She rubbed her face with both hands. She stood up. She went across to the counter, beside the cooker. She picked up something. It was the kitchen roll, a big roll of paper. Gráinne watched her blow her nose. She blew twice, then she dropped the paper into the pedal bin. She came back to the table. She sat down.

  She looked at Gráinne. She smiled. Her face was normal again, but she looked nervous.

  “I feel better,” she said. “Will I go on?”

  “Yes,” said Gráinne.

  Her mother put her hands flat on the table.

  “So,” she said in that American way again. Soo-ooh. “I can hardly cope with it. Seeing you. No, it’s great.”

  She lifted her hands.

  “It’s wonderful. You can’t imagine how wonderful it is.”

  Gráinne said nothing.

  “It’s so great,” said her mother. “But I missed so much. Do you understand, Gráinne?”

  Gráinne liked her mother – she knew that now. But she didn’t like this – the way she’d said her name, the way she’d asked Gráinne if she understood.

  “Yes, I understand,” said Gráinne. “How do you think I felt?”

  Her mother stared at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you visit?” said Gráinne.

  “I should have.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Guilt,” said her mother.

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes.”

 
“Are you serious?” said Gráinne.

  Her mother was surprised; Gráinne could see.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  The fists were beating at Gráinne’s chest, trying to break out. They were good now; they were like a warning. Calm down, calm down.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Well,” said her mother. “I did the right thing, leaving. But it was a terrible thing to do. I know that. And that was how I felt. It was bad. I was bad. Abandoning my child.”

  “Me,” said Gráinne.

  “You.”

  “Why did you go so far away?”

  “It had to be far,” said her mother. “That was what I thought. I felt that you’d be better off without me. You and your dad. Especially you.”

  “You didn’t even visit,” said Gráinne.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you could,” said Gráinne.

  “You’re right,” said her mother. “I was dying to see you. To be with you. But I couldn’t do it. I felt so guilty. I thought it would be better if it was like I was dead.”

  “But you weren’t dead.”

  “No.”

  “So, it was just stupid,” said Gráinne.

  She didn’t shout; she just said it.

  Her mother opened her mouth. But she didn’t speak.

  “I knew you weren’t dead,” said Gráinne. “And there’s no such thing as ‘like dead’. I knew you were alive. And you never came to see me. You never asked for me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said her mother.

  “OK.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I always thought it was because of me.”

  “What?” said her mother.

  “Why you left,” said Gráinne. “I thought it was because of me.”

  “No,” said her mother. “Believe me, Gráinne. It was never like that.”

  “And you never came home,” said Gráinne.

  “It’s a mess,” said her mother.

  She sighed.

  “Your grandmother sent me photographs, and she told me how you were doing in school.”

  A snort came from Gráinne’s nose. She nearly laughed.