Running Wild

by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

“They have skyscrapers—big tall buildings where people live stacked on top of one another. It’s very cozy.”

  “Does the food there really give you cancer?” Seth asks.

  “No.” The word cancer causes a tremor of fear to zing through me. But the blood has almost stopped. Maybe it’s just some kind of short illness.

  “Dad doesn’t lie,” Keith says.

  “Of course he doesn’t.” I pause, choosing my words. “But he only sees a sliver of the whole truth.”

  “A sliver is just a little bit,” Seth says tentatively, as if it has never occurred to him that Dad doesn’t have all the answers.

  “That’s right. How could anyone see all the truth in the world?”

  Keith grunts and I take that to be some form of agreement.

  “Are there bears in New York?” Seth asks.

  “No. Only people. Lots of people, and they’re all really friendly.”

  “What will we do there?”

  “We’ll go to school. We’ll play kickball on the playground.”

  “What’s kickball?” Seth asks.

  I describe the game, and answer about twenty questions from Keith, before moving on to trick-or-treating, telling them how every child gets a bag of candy. I also tell them about libraries, where there are entire walls, whole rooms, filled with books.

  “I remember Halloween,” Keith says longingly.

  “Will we eat lots of candy?” Seth asks.

  “Mainly we’ll eat pizza.” I remember Aunt Frances saying that you haven’t had pizza until you’ve had New York pizza.

  “What’s pizza?”

  “It’s the best food in the world. It’s a big round flat biscuit with tomato sauce and lots of cheese. You can put pepperoni on it, too.”

  “What’s pepperoni?” Seth asks.

  “Spicy meat.”

  “I like meat,” Seth says.

  “Stop talking about food,” Keith says.

  “Guess how we’ll get to New York,” I say.

  “Helicopter?” Seth tries.

  “Better.”

  Keith kicks his legs with excitement and shouts, “Airplane!” We see airplanes all the time, flying high in the sky over our cabin, but the only time we’ve ever been on one was when we flew from Fairbanks to Fort Yukon.

  “Yes.” I hope I can deliver on this promise.

  I reach out and place a mitten against the interior wall of our fort. On the other side of that packed snow are the beginnings of an Arctic winter. Falling snow. Blowing wind. Cold air. Freezing waterways. And we’ve floated down the wrong creek. We’ll have to get our raft back upstream so we can find the real Aurora Creek, and that’s going to be hard work. It’s going to burn lots of calories. And we have no food.

  For now, though, we’re warm. We’re together.

  TWELVE

  IN THE MORNING, we squeeze one by one out of the snow-shelter door. The sky is gray, swirled with dark clouds, but the snow has stopped falling and the gale has lessened to a breeze. We overnighted in a sparse forest. Broken tree branches, covered with snow, litter the ground. I pick up a stick and crack it in half. The wood is still autumn dry.

  “Where’s Zhòh?” Seth asks.

  “I heard him leave the shelter earlier,” Keith says.

  The quiet warmth of our snow fort caused us to sleep late. It’s just as well. We needed the rest.

  “Zhòh!” Seth cups his hands around his mouth as he calls.

  The wolf pup comes running through the trees and sits at Seth’s feet. Blood reddens the fur around his mouth.

  “You’re right, Willa,” Seth calls out. “He does know how to hunt. Good boy.”

  “At least someone got a meal,” I say.

  A snowshoe hare bounds by our camp. Its coat is half dusky brown, its summer color, and half white, its winter color. Zhòh shoots out after the hare.

  “Still hungry, I guess,” Seth says.

  We all are. We need food if we’re to continue.

  “I’m going to try to get us a ptarmigan for breakfast,” I tell my brothers as I fill the pockets of my parka with rocks from beside the creek. “Build a fire.”

  “But you don’t have a gun,” Keith says.

  “You worry about getting a fire going,” I say. “Look under the trees where there will be dry kindling. There hasn’t been enough snow yet this year to soak the wood.”

  “I know how to find dry wood any time of year,” Keith says.

  “Prove it, then.”

  Seth begins clearing a patch of ground for the fire, and I set out into the woods, trying to remember exactly what Dad told me about hunting ptarmigan without a firearm. Like the snowshoe hares, ptarmigan are brown in the summer and white in the winter. Now, between the two seasons, they have feathers of both colors. Year-round they forage for seeds and buds, so they tend to sit on branches close to the ground. They’re big birds with dim brains. Back when Dad had a sense of humor, he’d joke that they look like they’re trying to figure out where they are.

  There are plenty of ptarmigan in Alaska. I see one right away. The difficult part will be killing it.

  “They don’t even know to be afraid,” Dad told me. “They don’t fly away, if you approach slowly. All you have to do is throw a rock at their heads and knock them out.”

  The problem is, ptarmigan have tiny heads. You have to have good aim. You also have to be strong. The rock needs to at least stun the bird.

  I stand very still and size up my prey. Just as Dad said, it sits there on its tree branch, oblivious. I stalk a few steps closer. Still it sits, blinking its beady little eyes.

  Careful to make no sudden movements, I reach into my pocket and close my fingers around a rock. I withdraw it and cock back my arm.

  The ptarmigan fluffs up and looks around.

  I fire the rock with all my might. It sails a foot to the right of the ptarmigan’s head and the bird flaps away.

  I soon find another ptarmigan, and this time my rock hits the bird right in the chest, making a little thud. Even if my throw had hit the bird in the head, it wouldn’t have been hard enough. Discouraged and suddenly more exhausted than I’ve ever felt in my life, I lean against a tree trunk and want to just give up.

  “Willa!” Seth’s voice snakes through the cold air, through the tree branches, to my ears. He sounds as if he’s miles away, not just a couple hundred yards. But I hear him. My sweet little brother. My charge, along with my other cross little brother. I push off the tree trunk and follow my own tracks back to our camp.

  The boys have made a blazing fire. The sight of those hot flames gives me a jolt of strength. I sure wish I had a ptarmigan to cook on them.

  “Shh,” Seth warns me as I approach.

  Keith stands next to a tree, holding the tattered food bag. Seth grips the cool end of a stick from the fire and uses the burning end to soften the pitch on the tree trunk. He uses another stick to scrape up a glob of the gooey hot pitch. He paints the inside of the food bag with the pitch.

  “Okay,” Seth says. “Put them in.”

  Keith takes some needles, buds, and catkins from his pockets. He puts these in the food bag, now sticky with pitch. “Ptarmigans’ favorite snacks!”

  “But what’ll make them eat the ones you collected, instead of just getting their own?”

  “A big pile in one place is a lot better than having to peck all around the forest,” Seth whispers.

  “The ptarmigan’s feathers will stick in the pitch.” Keith speaks loudly, enthusiastic about his brother’s inventiveness. “It won’t be able to get out.”

  “If we’re lucky,” I say, feeling doubtful.

  “Shh,” Seth says again. “Keep your voices down. You’ll scare them away before we even set up the trap.”

  “We have to put this near the fire so the pitch stays stic
ky,” Keith says, his eyes lit with hunger and excitement. “If the pitch gets cold and hardens, it won’t trap them.”

  “Hopefully they won’t be frightened by the fire,” I say. Just the thought of roasting ptarmigan meat lights my mind and makes the juices in my cheeks water.

  “Actually,” Seth says, “our bigger problem is Zhòh. He’s off hunting. But if he comes back, no ptarmigan will come near.”

  Seth sets up his trap with the back end of the sack near the fire. He’s threaded a bendy willow switch through the sleeve where the drawstring used to be. He’s placed another willow switch circle in the bottom. These two hoops hold the bag open. Seth scatters a handful of needles and catkins on the snow, near the opening of the trap.

  My brothers pull me away from the fire and we wait, at a distance of about twenty yards, for ptarmigan. Keith keeps whispering things like, “We have to be ready to seize the bag if one goes in,” and, “The ripped bag is weak,” and, “Even with sticky feathers, the ptarmigan might be able to work its way out pretty quickly,” until Seth hushes him. We stand, eyes pinned on the ratty bag, waiting and waiting.

  Keith elbows me hard when a speckled ptarmigan hops into view. It skitters across the snow to the bag and looks inside. I hold my breath.

  The bird pecks at the bait scattered in front of the bag. When this is gone, it pokes its beak into the bag opening. The fire pops and the ptarmigan hops a few feet away, turns and stares at the bag, and then hops back. At that moment, somewhere in the not too distant forest, Zhòh howls. The ptarmigan scares off to a nearby tree branch.

  Keith groans and starts to talk, but Seth swats him and places a forefinger against his mouth. As I strain my ears, listening for the sound of Zhòh returning, I worry that we’re losing precious travel time by indulging Seth’s scheme.

  All at once, the ptarmigan flaps down off the branch. Hops to the bag. Pushes inside to get the seeds and catkins.

  Seth sprints. He grabs the bag by its opening. The willow twig loop makes it hard to close up the top and the bird flaps against the inside of the flimsy fabric. Seth fumbles and the bag falls to the snow.

  “Get it!” Keith shouts.

  “You do it!” Seth yells back.

  The ptarmigan is vocalizing and thrashing.

  Keith runs and snatches the bag. He manages to shake the bird down to the bottom and closes his fist around the fabric just below the top willow hoop. “What now?”

  We all know what now. We also all know that, even though we’re starving, neither I nor Seth can do it.

  Keith walks the bag over to a tree trunk. He swings the bag to the side and with all his force—

  I look away but can’t help hearing the dull thud of the bird hitting the tree trunk. When I look back, the bag is motionless.

  We are still, too, for a moment, realizing the miracle of breakfast.

  I send up a cheer and do a little dance right there in the snow. When I stop twirling, I see, sitting in a tree branch not ten feet from me, another ptarmigan. This one must be extra-dumb, because even my cheering and twirling hasn’t startled it.

  I take a rock from my pocket, cock back my arm, and fire.

  The rock hits the bird right in its head. It falls to the ground.

  “Keith!” I can’t bear to touch the scaly little legs or feel the oily feathers. “Get it!”

  Here comes Zhòh, running at full speed, headed for Seth. But when he sees the fallen bird, he changes course.

  Zhòh and Keith arrive at the same time, on either side of the stunned but not dead ptarmigan. The wolf pup closes his jaws around the feathered bulk. Keith backs up, looking over his shoulder at us. Seth runs to his pup. He crouches down and says, “Drop it,” as if the wolf were a trained house dog.

  “Don’t!” I cry out as Seth reaches for the ptarmigan still in Zhòh’s jaws. Coming between a wolf and meat is as dangerous as coming between a brown bear sow and her cub.

  Even from where I stand, I can see Seth and Zhòh gazing into each other’s eyes. Zhòh widens his jaws and lets the ptarmigan fall to the snow. He backs up several steps and lowers his tummy to the ground, his paws stretched in front. He whines.

  “Thanks, Zhòh,” Seth says, and he picks up the twitching bird. To his brother he says, “It’s not dead yet.”

  Keith hands the bagged ptarmigan to me and takes the stunned one dangling from Seth’s hands. A moment later it, too, is dead.

  “Good boy,” Seth says to Zhòh, and scratches the pup behind the ears.

  It takes us well over an hour to pluck the birds. My hands shake from hunger, but we work next to the fire so we’re warm enough. I make sure we have very sharp, sturdy sticks for roasting. We can’t afford to lose a single morsel.

  I let the boys choose the parts they want. Keith starts with a leg, Seth with breast meat, and I spear another hunk of breast meat. I hold the stick over the fire and listen to the sizzle and hiss as the meat browns. My stomach wrenches with hunger, and it takes a lot of willpower to not eat it raw. But the wait is worth it. The roast ptarmigan is succulent and flavorful. We lick our fingers. We scrape our teeth along the bones. Then we break the bones and suck out the marrow. I even sneak a bit of roasted meat to Zhòh.

  Strength courses into my arms and legs. My brain feels as if it’s been turned on again.

  “You guys are awesome,” I say.

  “You too,” Keith says.

  “Yeah, you too,” Seth agrees.

  I figure this is a good time to tell them about my mistake. I explain that we’ve floated down the wrong stream and that we’re going to have to go back. I brace myself for their reaction, but with meat in their stomachs, the boys take the news in stride. They wade upstream in the shallow creek, their high rubber boots keeping their feet dry, dragging the raft. I wade behind, pushing, and Zhòh trots along the shore. We reach Sweet Creek by early afternoon.

  We climb on board with Zhòh and begin floating once again. Not even an hour later, we come to the confluence of a much larger tributary. This, I am sure, is the Aurora Creek turnoff.

  I look around to get our bearings. Sweet Creek spills into the bigger waterway, both streams slate gray, a few shades darker than the sky. I can practically see the ice crystals in the air. The water is a degree or two warmer than slush. The surrounding trees hold their loads of snow from last night’s dump. From this intersection, I can’t see any mountains at all, and I miss them, their stalwart show of strength. It’s just dark, flowing water, endless snowy forest, and the three of us.

  THIRTEEN

  DESPITE ITS NAME, Aurora Creek is wide, fast-moving, and deep. Our raft swirls in the churning mix of currents at the meeting of the two waterways. I jab the steering pole, trying to gain purchase, but it no longer reaches the bottom. The current sucks us right out into the deep flow. We speed along, at the mercy of the rushing water.

  “Good,” I say to the boys. “Nice and fast. We’ll be at Fort Yukon soon.”

  “Soon?” Seth says, his voice reedy with worry.

  I look into the distance, as if I can almost see the town. The sun is low. A flock of geese fly overhead in a V formation. Their wings flap against the deepening sky.

  “If we don’t stop for the night, we’ll get there faster.”

  “How will we know when we’re there?”

  “It’s a town. There’ll be lights.”

  Seth puzzles what this looks like.

  Keith says, “But how will we even get the raft to shore?”

  I’m saved from answering this question by a faint rumbling. The sound scares me at first, as if the earth itself is letting out a low growl. Motion in the sky, over the trees to the east, catches my eye.

  A helicopter. My mind skids on the enormity of what this means. Helicopter means people. People mean rescue. The chopper changes course and heads in our direction. The pilot has spotted us.

&
nbsp; For a moment, the idea of being rescued, being safe, fills me with relief.

  But what if it’s Dad? He probably would have left the moment he got back from hunting. He would have rowed all night, not even stopping to sleep. He may well have passed us up while we were sidetracked on the wrong stream. He could have gotten to Fort Yukon ahead of us.

  We are dead center in the pilot’s sights, three children and a wolf pup coursing along on a rustic raft in the middle of a swift river. Dad might be looking at us through a pair of binoculars right now. When the helicopter is almost overhead, the pilot banks the chopper so it flies almost sideways. He’s dropped so low that the wind off the propeller blows our hair.

  The boys huddle on our raft, Keith with his hands over his head and Seth with his face buried in Zhòh’s neck fur, but I kneel, my head craned back, and gape at the people in the chopper. It’s not Dad. Besides the pilot, there are two passengers, a man and a woman, both wearing knit hats and big parkas. They look like a couple of flight-seeing tourists. They point and stare at us.

  I know the international signal of distress, standing and waving my arms up and down. The pilot would be obliged to call the authorities in Fort Yukon. A rescue team would be dispatched. They’d give us food. I could see a doctor about my bleeding. Tonight we’d sleep in beds. My brothers would be safe.

  And…we’d be returned to Dad’s custody.

  He’d take us back to the cabin on Sweet Creek. With his drinking, anger, and failing dream. And the long, dark days of winter.

  I stand up and give the pilot the A-OK sign by making a circle with my thumb and forefinger, the other three fingers splayed up. I force a smile and wave him off, communicating that we’re just three Alaskan kids out on a lark.

  Sure enough, he banks his helicopter and flies off toward the interior.

  I check the boys’ faces to see if they’re okay with this decision. Keith clenches his shoulders and touches the bruised place on his jaw.

  “He’ll hurt Zhòh,” Seth says, understanding my silent question.

  “I want pizza,” Keith says.