Running Wild

by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

“Okay, then,” I say. “New York, here we come.”

  FOURTEEN

  “WHAT IF THE pilot radios back to town?” Seth asks. “We’re in plain sight on the river if someone comes looking.”

  “He won’t, though,” I say. “I signaled that we’re fine.”

  “We’re fine,” Keith barks, as if repeating it will make it so.

  “But if Dad reports us missing—”

  Seth is right. We’re so obvious rafting down this river. But it’s by far the fastest way to travel and without food and shelter, we need fast. I interrupt the questions by singing in a loud voice: “Pole, pole, pole your raft, gently down the stream.”

  The boys gawk at me, and then glance at each other. Dad taught us to sing the original version of this song when we first arrived at Sweet Creek and he was building our rowboat. I point at Seth when I get to “merrily,” and he shrugs and joins in with, “Pole, pole, pole.” Next I point to Keith, who is wearing his fiercest scowl, but he surprises me by also joining in at the right place. We sing the round three times.

  Next I start in on one of Mama’s favorite songs, “Red River Valley.” The boys don’t know this one—Dad wouldn’t want me to sing it around him—but I remember all the words perfectly. They learn the verses and tune quickly, and we sing it through twice.

  “ ‘Down by the Banks of the Hanky Panky,’ ” Keith suggests, and Seth sings the first lines by himself:

  Down by the banks of the Hanky Panky,

  Where the bullfrogs jump from bank to banky.

  Right on top of the small raft, speeding along the river, Seth tries to get up to do the hops and claps that go with the song. He falls back down, and even Keith laughs.

  Just as we start in on the second verse, a loud creak interrupts our singing. A sharp crack follows as one of the raft’s outer deck planks pops up off the foundation logs. Seth wiggles the plank with the toe of his boot. “This board is wonky. The nails are rusted.”

  “Worse,” Keith says. “Two of the foundation logs are separating.”

  We all stare at the wobbly plank, and then at the widening gap between the planks, as the raft slides into a rougher patch of the river. The wavelets bounce us along until an eddy snatches the raft and swirls it in a swift circle. The plank and logs loosen even more. I quickly check how far we are from the riverbank—too far.

  “Deck,” Seth recites. “Hull. Bow. Stern. Oars. Rudder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Keith says.

  “Back when Dad was building our rowboat, Willa showed us that picture in the encyclopedia that named all the parts of boats.”

  I’m surprised Seth remembers this, but Keith lights up. “Yes! If we had a rudder, we could use it to steer the raft to shore.”

  I grip the bad plank and wag it back and forth, like a loose tooth, until I am able to yank it off the logs.

  “Even better than a rudder,” I say. “A paddle.”

  As the bad side of the raft starts to sink, we drag our packs to the high side. Zhòh barks at the water as if he can scare it away like he did the bear. I kneel on the tipped deck and dig the plank into the water, pulling hard. We slide a bit toward the riverbank. I stab my makeshift paddle back into the water, pull again.

  All three of us, our packs, and the pup crowd the high end of the raft. Again and again, I plunge the plank into the river and pull as hard and fast as possible. When the raft sinks farther into the river, Zhòh leaps into the water and swims to shore. He shakes himself off and yips his encouragement.

  My knees feel like they’re breaking. My arms and back strain with the paddling. But it’s working. We’re within striking distance of shore.

  Keith jabs the steering pole into the river and hits bottom. Seth starts singing, “Pole, pole, pole your raft,” as Keith pushes with all his might.

  But a countercurrent grabs the raft and pulls it back out toward the center of the stream. All my work is about to be lost with one swift play by the river. The foundation logs separate even more as another plank pops loose.

  Keith rips off his parka and hauls off his boots and jeans.

  “No!” I bellow.

  “You can’t swim!” Seth yells.

  Keith slides into the river, keeping his hands on what’s left of the raft. He pants for breath as the frigid water seizes his thin torso. Holding on with both hands, he manages to work his way around to the back. From there he kicks his skinny legs. I paddle with the board. Seth pushes with the pole, quietly singing.

  “My feet are touching bottom!” Keith yells a few seconds later.

  He pushes us the rest of the way to shore.

  Seth and I toss the packs, as well as Keith’s boots and clothes, onto land and jump off the raft. Keith collapses in the mud like a half-dead muskrat. His long underwear is soaked and he’s shivering hard. As he tries to stand, his legs buckle.

  “Quick,” I say to Seth. We each support a side of Keith, holding him up by the armpits. “Into the trees.”

  Once we get off the riverbank, into the forest where we’ll be out of sight, we drop Keith on a dry patch under a tree.

  “Fire,” I tell Seth. “As fast as you can.”

  I hustle back down to the water’s edge. Hesitating only a moment, I put a foot on what’s left of the raft and give it a shove into the river. It drifts and spins on the current. With any luck, it’ll sink soon. There’ll be no sign of us whatsoever if the chopper pilot contacts any authorities in Fort Yukon.

  I pick up our stuff and, stumbling over the shoreline rocks, carry everything up to the forest. Keith is shivering violently. As Seth kneels to light the kindling he’s gathered, I strip off my pants and long underwear, and quickly put my pants back on. Keith takes off his wet clothes and puts on my dry long underwear. I spread out the tattered plastic tarp and throw our zipped-together sleeping bags on top. While Seth builds up the fire, I climb into the sleeping-bag pouch with Keith so my body heat can warm him up.

  After about thirty minutes, Keith stops shivering and starts talking, recounting the details of his swim. I take the cooking pot to the river, fill it, and then tuck this next to the fire. Soon we’re all drinking hot water to warm us up. It’s almost dark and I’m too exhausted to build another snow fort, so I get back into the sleeping bags with Keith, and Seth joins us.

  “You said you’d tell us the ending to Jane Eyre,” Seth says, amazing me that he can think of stories at a time like this.

  “She almost died.” My voice is weak and hoarse. “She wandered around in the wilderness, hungry, tired, and cold. But she never compromised on doing what she knew was right.”

  I wait for one of the boys to ask, What is right? But we all pass out.

  FIFTEEN

  I WAKE UP at first light. When I climb out of the sleeping bags, the air is so cold it feels like my bones will crack. I stuff my feet into my boots and shake the boys awake.

  Seth sits up. “Where’s Zhòh?”

  “I don’t know. Please just pack up. Let’s go.”

  “But—”

  “No arguing. We need to make tracks.”

  “He’s probably hunting,” Keith reminds Seth. “He won’t be far. He’ll find us.”

  I wrap Keith’s frosty long underwear in the shredded tarp and stuff this lump, and the sleeping bags, into the packs. The trick will be to stay in the woods, where we can’t be seen by boats on the river or helicopters in the sky, but close enough to the creek so that we can follow the shoreline.

  A ways past our camp we enter a clearing scattered with camping debris. In the dim light of early dawn, I make out buckets, two camp chairs, strewn beer bottles, and a big bear-proof food locker. Embers still glow red inside the fire ring. From the big tent comes a loud, rumbling snore.

  We all stare for a moment until I jerk my head to the side, meaning that we need to keep moving. But Keith heads for
the food locker. I wave my arms in a big X over my head, trying to stop him. He unlatches the bear-proof lid.

  “Keith, no,” I say as loudly as I dare.

  A man’s voice in the tent mumbles something.

  After only the briefest pause, Keith turns back to raiding the locker. He grabs candy bars and packages of jerky. He stuffs as much as he can in his pockets. He tosses more to Seth, who looks at me and, even though I vigorously shake my head, holds on to the food. The crackling of candy wrappers sounds extra-loud in the early-dawn stillness.

  I gesture for them to stop, to come on, now.

  The snoring grows louder, and more irregular. Two big snogs, and then silence.

  I run to the food locker as silently as possible and try to drag Keith away from the cache. The long tent zipper opens.

  “What the heck?” The man’s rumbling voice sounds sleepy.

  “I’m sorry,” I cry, trying to take the food from Keith’s hands. “We’ll give it all back.”

  Unbelievably, Keith twists away from me, wearing his defiant face.

  The man grunts as he shoves out of the tent and stands. He has long stringy hair and a big belly. “I thought you was bears.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “Seth, Keith, put it back.”

  “You little thieves.” The man gestures at Keith’s stuffed pockets and Seth’s armful.

  “Apologize,” I say to my brothers.

  “Sorry!” Seth shouts but Keith tears the wrapper off a candy bar and takes a bite.

  “We’re leaving now,” I sputter. “Keith. Put the food back.”

  “They have a whole locker of food,” Keith says. “He’s already fat.”

  “What?” the man says, slitting his eyes.

  “He said he’s very sorry.”

  A younger man, with shaggy hair and a big mustache, emerges from the tent, holding a rifle. “Who are they?” he asks.

  The gun scares the boys into finally dropping most of the food on the ground, though Keith stuffs the rest of the partially eaten candy bar in his mouth. Just then Zhòh trots into the clearing. He stops, looks around, and starts yapping.

  “That a wolf?” asks the big stringy-haired guy.

  “He’ll attack anyone we tell him to attack,” Keith says.

  The young guy laughs and points his rifle at Zhòh.

  “No,” Seth cries.

  Gripping the boys by their arms, I drag them away from the camp.

  The gunshot tears a hole through everything.

  I drop onto the ice-crusted soil, covering my head with my arms. Keith and Seth topple next to me. Pain courses through my bloodstream, flows everywhere, but it’s a general pain, not a bullet-hole pain. I squeeze a fistful of frozen leaves. I’m alive. I roll over and check each of my brother’s faces. Terrified, but they’re alive, too.

  “For crying out loud, Lloyd. You just shot at kids.”

  “Nah,” Lloyd says. “I shot at the wolf.”

  Seth lunges to his feet and screams, “Zhòh!”

  “Zhòh!” Lloyd imitates in a falsetto voice, and laughs so hard he has to bend over and hold his knees.

  I scan the clearing but don’t see a wolf corpse.

  “Let’s go,” I say quietly to my brothers. “Come on. Please.”

  “Zhòh,” Seth sobs again, but both boys follow me out of the clearing, trailed by the men’s laughter.

  We walk along the edge of the forest in silence, keeping Aurora Creek in sight. A wind whips the shiny gray surface of the river, making small whitecaps. A thick cloud cover, heavy with moisture, hangs low in the sky.

  “Wait,” Keith whispers. “Listen.”

  A familiar rustling scamper. Followed by a yip. A moment later, the pup is running toward us, his pink tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, his hot breath steaming the air. We all drop to our knees to hug Zhòh. Seth scratches his ruff and promises him all the meat he wants when we get to Fort Yukon.

  Then Seth tearfully attacks me with a hug. I gesture for Keith to join the hug and he does. “Don’t you ever steal again. Do you understand?” I brush Keith’s long, tangled hair out of his face. “I know you’re hungry. But there is no situation, ever in life, when stealing is a good idea. Do you hear me?”

  “You promised pizza,” he says, as if that has anything to do with stealing.

  “I asked if you heard me.”

  Keith nods. “When do we get pizza?”

  “Say, ‘Yes, I hear you.’ ” I sound like Dad. But I’m about to take these boys into civilization. If they steal there, bad things will happen to them.

  “Yes,” Keith says, “I hear you.”

  “Good. It’s not far.” Once again, I try to sound confident. “Just a few hours.”

  “Piece of cake,” Keith says, using one of Dad’s expressions.

  “I’d like a piece of cake,” Seth says.

  “What flavor?” I ask as we all start walking again. There’s actually a trail now, through the sparse forest and following Aurora Creek. That means we’re getting close.

  “Zucchini,” Seth says.

  I laugh. “Just wait. When we get to New York, you’ll learn about caramel and strawberry and vanilla.”

  “We already know about chocolate and cinnamon,” Keith says.

  “You won’t believe the possibilities,” I say, and for a moment, I feel it: a big blooming hope.

  Aurora Creek widens, the flow breaking into five channels, separated by gravel bars. As we pass through another spruce forest and emerge onto a large stretch of grassy tundra, we see at last the confluence of the Aurora with the mighty Yukon River.

  SIXTEEN

  A LIGHT SNOW begins to fall again as we walk. We pass into an aspen forest, the sky visible through the naked branches. A flock of migrating geese honk and flap overhead. For a while we follow lynx tracks on the trail.

  “Zhòh would like a lynx kitten,” Seth says. “For a friend.”

  “You mean you’d like a lynx kitten for a friend,” Keith says.

  “Yes,” Seth agrees.

  In the early afternoon, I tell the twins to go ahead and that I’ll catch up. Once they’re out of sight, I quickly empty my bladder, noticing with relief that there is no more blood. Just to be safe, I put another gauze patch in my underwear, and then run to catch up. The boys sit on a fallen log, gaping out at the river, waiting for me. Even though they’re so skinny, their bodies look heavy with exhaustion. I hope we can reach town before nightfall.

  Keith picks up a rock and tosses it toward the river, as if to prove he still has strength. Seth begins to copy his twin, choosing a stone and cocking back his arm, but he freezes mid-throw.

  I follow his gaze upriver.

  From this distance, it’s just a speck on the water. But it’s a moving speck, full of intense energy, dark against the light gray surface of the river, open to the massive sky overhead.

  A rowboat. I can see the rocking motion of the rower, leaning forward as he dips in the oars, and then backward as he pulls them through the water, over and over again.

  Robert Slone-Taylor once told me that your whole life passes before your eyes in the moment before you die. It feels just like that now, only not my whole life, just my life with Dad. Riding on his shoulders. Maple-walnut pancakes. The alpine blue in his eyes as he reads stories. Felling trees for our cabin. Stuffing the seams of the rowboat with tree pitch. And more recently, burning my journal. Shooting a rifle into the sky. The sickening sound coming from the woodshed.

  Keith runs down to the water’s edge. He raises his arm, about to beckon Dad to us.

  I understand. Dad looks so lost, rowing hard in the cold northern air, bucking the wind and waves, alone, desperate. He probably rowed all night.

  But I won’t go back. Not now, after all we’ve been through to get this far. I won’t st
and by while he continues to drink. Continues to hurt Keith. Forgets about our education. Lets us starve to death over the winter. I won’t do it.

  If the boys want to flag down Dad, I can’t stop them. But I’m heading for New York.

  I run back into the forest and crouch down in some thick brush where I can still see the river but can’t be seen. The boys understand their choice. In unison, they look over their shoulders at me. Still in unison, they look back at Dad rowing down the river. Finally they look at each other and make one of those twins decisions where they don’t even have to speak.

  Like puppies, with Zhòh at their heels, they skitter up the rocky embankment, running to join me in my hiding place. Together we watch as Dad grows bigger and bigger. Soon we can see his long, thick black beard and his red fleece hat, both dusted with snow, his strong arms working the oars, rowing as if his life depended on it.

  “He’s going to kill us,” Seth whispers when Dad is directly across from us.

  “He’ll get to Fort Yukon before we do,” Keith agrees.

  “Shh,” I say, even though Dad is at least fifty yards away. We watch as he rows right by on the big wide river. Soon we see only his back, his strong rowing rhythm, the clunky homemade boat mowing through the Arctic water as he grows smaller again. We wait until he is out of sight.

  Seth takes my hand. Even Keith leans against me. My legs feel wobbly.

  “Here’s the plan,” I say, making it up on the spot. “We’ll find a hiding place outside Fort Yukon. Somewhere we can stay until I can get us plane tickets for New York.”

  “He’ll find us,” Seth says.

  “How will you get plane tickets?” Keith asks.

  “Let’s walk,” I say, my mind buzzing with their worries and about twenty more of my own.

  SEVENTEEN

  JUST AS I think I can’t take another step, I see through the trees what looks like…yes, it’s a cabin. We could stop and ask for food, but we’re so close, and I can’t risk us being turned in to the authorities.