Wilderness

by Roddy Doyle

  She closed the door.

  She didn’t want to.

  She closed it. She let go of the latch. She stayed still.

  She heard the car, the bleep of the lock. She heard the car door.

  She walked away from the door. She went down to the kitchen.

  She saw her dad putting the phone down.

  He turned. He looked frightened, or something.

  “They’re missing,” he said.

  He looked as if he was listening to himself, like he was testing what he’d said.

  “They’re missing,” he said, again. “Sandra and the boys. They’ve gone missing.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They woke in painful cold. They woke together. So quickly, so cold – they couldn’t know they’d been asleep. They were fully awake, and cold. They moved – both boys moved; they heard each other. They were stiff, and numb, and hungry, and shaking.

  They were covered in snow. They were under a layer of snow. They could feel it, stiff, even on their eyes. They felt it when they blinked. Johnny moved, his arms and knees. It fell away – his knees and elbows broke through the snow, and he got on to his hands and knees, and stood.

  It was still dark but something about it, the grey shape of each tree, the dogs standing all around them, told the boys that it was morning.

  Their mother was still asleep. She was covered in snow. She was asleep –

  They got down quickly, back down on the snow. They tried to wake her. But she was stiff, and didn’t move or wake when they nudged and pushed her.

  They didn’t speak – they were afraid to. They didn’t want to speak before she did.

  Tom brushed all the snow off her, from her cap to her boots. Johnny rubbed her face. He took off his gloves and rubbed both her cheeks. Tom watched him. He watched her; he watched her eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders. He watched her eyes. He rubbed her shoulders. He heard the dogs. He rubbed. And Johnny rubbed. They didn’t know what else to do. There was the fire and the wood, but they had to hear her first; they had to see her open her eyes. Tom heard the dogs. Whimpering, prowling, pulling against their straps. He looked at Johnny. He looked at his mother.

  They opened.

  Her eyes were open.

  She was there. Her eyes were open. She was looking at nothing.

  The dogs were howling and whimpering. There was another noise.

  Her eyes were open but she didn’t move. Then she started to shake. It was terrible – electric. Like a shock going through her that wouldn’t stop.

  The noise – Tom knew it. He didn’t look. He couldn’t take his eyes off his mother. The shock ran through her, and through her. She didn’t blink. She stared at nothing. Her face was dirty white. Johnny kept rubbing.

  She moaned.

  She moaned. They heard her. Tom heard it now – the engine. Aki’s engine. The snowmobile.

  His mother moaned. Her mouth must have moved, her lips. They heard her teeth.

  They heard her.

  “God.”

  They heard her again.

  “Boys.”

  It didn’t sound like her. It wasn’t just her shivering. It sounded like she couldn’t see them, like she was looking into total blackness and she couldn’t see.

  Tom did it – he had to. He stood up. He knew he had to do it; he had to start the fire. He had to find the wood. She needed heat. She needed fire. He could hear the engine, but he didn’t know how far away, or where. Tom and Johnny were still on their own. The dogs were howling but Aki wouldn’t hear them.

  There was new snow, loose and high. Tom had to climb through it. He couldn’t hear Aki’s engine. His own breathing and gasping were all he could hear. He could see his breath; he walked into it. He went past the trees they’d reached the night before. He had to go further. He found more wood, branches that weren’t soggy. He gathered up a pile of needles and twigs. He went back to the fire. He didn’t rush; he tried not to. He’d fall. He’d have to start again. He wouldn’t be able to hold the lighter properly, or spark the fire. His hands were numb; they were sore. He could hear the engine.

  Johnny heard it too. He was at the fire, on his stomach. There was a small flame, a tiny, really tiny, orange light; it was going out, getting even smaller. He heard the engine. He was going to run, and shout, to where he thought the sound was coming from.

  But he didn’t. He stayed where he was.

  He knew. He could get up and run and pretend he was going to the rescue. But, really, he’d be running away. Running would be easier than what he had to do. He had to stay. He couldn’t wait or run for adults.

  The pile of branches, the tepee they’d made over the fire the night before, was partly burnt, but it had stayed standing and acted like a roof when the snow was falling. The fire had survived. The tiny flame – the spark.

  He had to blow. But he was afraid to. Too strong, he’d blow it out. Too weak, he’d watch it die. It wouldn’t be easy to get a second fire going. His face was in the ashes.

  He blew. Nothing – it did nothing. He blew. The orange flickered, but it didn’t seem to change. He found some needles beside his chin. They felt hard and dry. He brought them slowly to the flame, just beside it. And he blew. He watched the flame shift. He watched a needle light, and curl. His free hand felt for more.

  He saw Tom’s feet. He heard, then saw Tom stretch down beside him.

  “Good job,” said Tom.

  Johnny held some needles to the flame. It grabbed them. He held more. And more – a bigger bundle. It was a fire now, nearly a proper fire. He stood up, carefully. He didn’t want to move too fast, create a breeze and put the fire out.

  Tom was dropping needles on the fire. He got up on his knees and started adjusting the wood. He wouldn’t have to pass the test; he wouldn’t have to do it. That was what Tom kept thinking. He wouldn’t have to start the fire. It had scared him, all the way back from the trees. But he could feel the heat now. He could hear Aki’s engine. He thought it was nearer – he wasn’t sure. The fire would be roaring when the snowmobile slid over the hill, and down the slope. He’d adjust the logs and branches, before he went back for more. He lifted one – and the tepee collapsed.

  He couldn’t believe it. The fire was gone – dead, under the branches. He pulled them away. He didn’t care – he didn’t care if he burned himself. He pulled them away. He saw the flame. He got down on his stomach. Ashes blew into his face. He could taste it – them. He didn’t care; he didn’t cough. He kept his eye on the orange flame. He found some needles that hadn’t been burnt. He held them in his fist.

  Johnny rubbed his mother’s face.

  Her eyes opened.

  They saw nothing. They closed.

  Tom watched the flame. And then it wasn’t there. It was a while before he realized. The flame wasn’t in front of him. There was no little orange flicker.

  Johnny rubbed his mother’s face.

  Tom took off his gloves. He got the lighter from his pocket. He could hardly feel it; his hands were freezing. He put it down – he kind of dropped it. He rubbed his hands; he blew into them. He stretched his fingers. He rubbed and blew again. He picked up the lighter. He could feel it now. He could feel its shape and plastic. He put it beside the little pile of needles. The side of his thumb was on the wheel. He could feel the metal, pressing, biting into his thumb. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He pulled his thumb down, hard, against the wheel.

  Nothing.

 
He did it again.

  He heard Johnny.

  “What happened to the fire?”

  Tom did it again. Nothing – no flame – came from the top of the lighter.

  “What happened to the fire?”

  Again – he did it again. He shoved his thumb right against the wheel. He felt the burn – he smelled his skin – before he saw the yellow flame pour sideways from the lighter. The flame licked over his thumb. He didn’t care. He held the lighter under the needles. Johnny was beside him, and he helped. He built up the needles. The flame grabbed at needles and twigs and bigger twigs. It began to jump and climb.

  Tom took his thumb from his mouth. He put it into the snow. It didn’t take the pain away; it wasn’t fading. It was horrible.

  He stood up. He had to get more wood.

  Johnny tried to lift her, so she’d face the fire. His hands kept slipping. He got her up a little bit, enough to get his knees against her, so she was tilted towards the heat.

  He watched Tom put branches, criss-crossed, over and around the fire. He felt the heat on his face. He felt his mother’s face. He looked at his fingers. He pressed. He lifted his hand. He pressed again. His hands were sore; he couldn’t feel anything else. He looked at the skin on her cheek. There were no marks where his fingers had pressed.

  The fire was big now.

  Tom started to cry.

  Her eyes were open before Johnny noticed.

  She was looking at the fire. He saw her eyes move. She was looking at Tom.

  “What’s wrong, Tom?” she said.

  “Nothing,” said Tom.

  He sat beside her. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his suit. He felt the dirt and ashes drag across his face.

  “Sure?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  They watched the fire.

  And that was how Kalle found them. He saw the fire and, as he brought his sled down the slope, he saw the family beside the fire. The boys looked at him and waved.

  He liked those boys. He waved back.

  Aki was behind Kalle, on the snowmobile, and there were other people too, on sleds. It all began, the action. Their camp was full of people who knew exactly what to do.

  But, really, it was over. The boys were on Kalle’s sled, covered in blankets. They watched as their mother was lifted on to a special ambulance sled.

  Aki was standing beside them.

  “They bring her to the lake,” he said. “Very slowly, I guess. Carefully. The helicopter will lift her. To the hospital. We’ll bring you there.”

  They heard her.

  “Lads?”

  “Yeah?” Tom shouted.

  “See you in a little while,” she said.

  They saw her hand wave. They saw the ambulance woman put it back under her blanket.

  “See you,” said Johnny.

  “’Bye,” said Tom.

  He wanted to go with her. But he wanted to stay. He wanted to be here. He wanted to go back with Kalle, through the wilderness.

  The rescue woman and man climbed the hill, on each side of their mother’s sled. They held it straight as the dogs – there were ten of them – pulled it slowly up the slope.

  “Guys.”

  It was Aki.

  He sat on the snowmobile. The engine was off. He waited until both boys were looking at him. Then he spoke.

  “She would have died,” he said. “You saved her life.”

  He bowed his head. He smiled.

  “I salute you.”

  He turned on the engine. He turned the snowmobile, and they watched him climb the hill, after the ambulance sled. He went over the top. They could see the lights, then he was gone.

  They felt the weight behind them. Kalle had stepped on to the runners.

  Johnny shifted a bit, so he could look back, and up, at Kalle.

  “How did you find us?” he asked.

  Kalle said nothing at first. Johnny watched him put his hand into his pocket. Tom was watching too.

  Kalle took his hand out.

  They saw it. His hat.

  Kalle pointed in the direction Aki had just taken.

  “I – find – it,” he said. “I – know.”

  “Cool,” said Johnny.

  He looked at Tom.

  Tom was asleep.

  Johnny felt, and heard, the sled begin to groan and move. He watched the dogs, Rock at the front, climb the slope. He held on as the sled climbed behind them. He felt the sled speed up when they got to the top. He felt the wind on his face. He watched the dogs. He wanted to shout. Wilderness! He wanted to shout it. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to wake Tom.

  The Airport

  The plane had landed – it was up on the screen: LANDED – but her father still looked worried. Gráinne wanted to say something. She felt sorry for him, and embarrassed. There was a ketchup stain on his jumper and a bit of hardened shaving foam on the lobe of one of his ears. He watched the people coming through the arrivals gate. He moved again, and Gráinne had to follow him. Two boys walked through, but they weren’t Tom and Johnny.

  “What’s keeping them?” he said.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee or something?” said Gráinne.

  “What?”

  He shouted it. Then he smiled.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Did you say something about coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” he said. “I’d better not.”

  He looked at the arrivals gate again, and so did Gráinne – and they were there. Johnny and Tom. They were looking at the waiting faces.

  Gráinne laughed.

  She was surprised. She’d wanted to see them, but she hadn’t expected it to fill her like this. She watched her father rush at them. They disappeared behind him – Gráinne couldn’t see them for a second. Then she could, because her father was on his knees with his arms around them, and she could see them both talking before she could hear them, telling him about the holiday, and the snow, and the accident.

  And then she saw her stepmother. Gráinne didn’t know her at first, the woman in the wheelchair, in the big bubble jacket. Then it made sense, and she saw it was her stepmother. She watched her father stand up and walk to her stepmother, and he bent down, and they hugged. The crowds of people coming out had to go around them. There was a woman there who’d been pushing the wheelchair; and she stood, and waited, and looked a bit embarrassed. Then her father straightened up. He said something to the woman who’d been pushing the wheelchair. She shook hands with Gráinne’s stepmother, and her father started pushing.

  Gráinne waited.

  Her brothers had seen her, and they were charging at her. Tom was holding something out. He stopped right in front of her and pushed it into her stomach.

  “Here.”

  “What is it?” said Gráinne.

  “Your present,” said Tom. “It’s cool.”

  “Hi, by the way,” said Gráinne.

  “Yeah, hi.”

  It was a small toy dog, wearing a T-shirt with “Where’s The Beach?” on it.

  “It’s a husky,” said Tom.

  “Cool.”

  “It didn’t cost that much,” said Tom.

  “Fine,” said Gráinne.

  She looked at Johnny.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Good time?”

  “Yeah, cool.”

  “Mam broke her leg in two places,” said Tom.

  “I know,” said G
ráinne.

  “Two places,” said Tom. “And I burned my thumb. See?”

  Her stepmother was looking at her. She smiled. She looked tired.

  “Hi, Gráinne,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Gráinne.

  “Thanks for coming,” said her stepmother – Sandra. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  Gráinne shrugged. She nodded at the leg, the way it was stretched out stiff in front of Sandra.

  “Is it sore?” she said.

  “No,” said Sandra. “Actually, yeah. It’s bloody killing me.”

  But she smiled. And Gráinne smiled. She tried to keep looking at Sandra.

  “Hey, Gráinne. Guess what?”

  It was Tom.

  “What?”

  “We’re getting a husky.”

  Gráinne held out her toy dog.

  “Like this?”

  “Yeah, but real.”

  Gráinne said nothing.

  “Real, Gráinne,” said Tom. “We’re getting a real one. For Christmas.”

  Gráinne spoke.

  “Big deal,” she said.

  And she heard her father laughing.

  First published in the US in 2007 by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.

  First published in the UK in 2007 by Scholastic Ltd

  This electronic edition published in 2011 by Marion Lloyd Books, an imprint of Scholastic Ltd

  Scholastic Children’s Books

  A division of Scholastic Ltd

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  SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  Text copyright © Roddy Doyle, 2007

  The right of Roddy Doyle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him.

  eISBN 9781407131078

  A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.