Diamond Willow Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Square Fish ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For

  Glen,

  strong and

  brave, whose

  eyes shine like

  blueberries

  in warm

  sun.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Diamond Willow takes place in Old Fork, a fictional town of about six hundred people, located on a river in interior Alaska.

  There are no paved roads in and out of town; people travel by airplane, boat, snowmachine, and dogsled. They drive around Old Fork in cars, pickups, and four-wheelers, which are brought into town on a barge during the summer months when the river is not frozen.

  Willow, the main character, is part Athabascan. Through her mother, she is descended from people who have lived in Alaska for many centuries. Her ancestors on her father’s side came from Europe and migrated across Canada and the United States for about 160 years before her father settled in Old Fork.

  Most of the story is told in diamond-shaped poems, with a hidden message printed in darker ink at the center of each one. I got this idea from a lamp and a walking stick, both made of diamond willow. The lamp was made by Dr. Irving Preine as a wedding gift for my parents; I remember it from my childhood. As an adult, I lived in Telida, a small Athabascan community in interior Alaska, on the Kuskokwim River, near Mount McKinley. I taught all the students in Telida School, five to ten students in kindergarten through sixth grade. When I left, Deaphon Eluska, the grandfather of two of my students, gave me a diamond willow walking stick that he found near Telida and peeled, sanded, and polished to a beautiful finish. That stick hung in my study as I thought about this story and composed the poems.

  Diamond willow grows in northern climates. It has rough gray bark, often crusted with gray-green lichen. Removing the bark and sanding and polishing the stick reveals reddish-brown diamonds, each with a small dark center.

  Some people think that diamond willow is a specific type of willow, like weeping willow or pussy willow, but it is not. The diamonds form on several different kinds of shrub willows when a branch is injured and falls away. The dark center of each diamond is the scar of the missing branch.

  The scars, and the diamonds that form around them, give diamond willow its beauty, and gave me the idea for my story.

  7

  a.m.

  Twenty

  below zero,

  ribbons of white

  and green and purple

  dancing in the blue-black sky.

  I’m up with Dad as usual, feeding

  our six dogs. I climb the ladder to the cache,

  toss four dried salmon out to Dad. He watches

  me as I back down: Be careful on that broken rung.

  I pack snow into the dog pot; Dad gets a good fire going

  in the oil-drum stove. He loves these dogs like I do. We’re

  both out here on weekends, as much as we can be, and every

  day before and after school. He loves Roxy most. Willow, go

  get the pliers, he says, showing me a quill in Roxy’s foot.

  (It’s surprising that a porcupine is out this time of year.)

  I bring the pliers; Dad pulls out the quill, rubs in salve;

  then we go from dog to dog, spreading fresh straw.

  Hey, Magoo. Hey, Samson. Roxy, you stay off

  that foot today. Dad pats Prince on the head.

  Lucky sniffs my hand—she smells salmon.

  I find a bur in Cora’s ear and get it out.

  The snow melts into water, simmers

  in the cooking pot. I drop in the

  salmon, add some cornmeal.

  The dogs love that smell.

  They start to howl

  and I howl

  back.

  I

  was

  named

  after a stick.

  The way Mom tells it,

  she couldn’t get Dad to agree

  on any names: Ellen, after Grandma?

  Sally, after Dad’s great-aunt in Michigan?

  No, he wanted something modern, something

  meaningful. It will come to us, Dad kept saying.

  Let’s hope it comes before the baby learns to walk,

  said Mom. Always does, said Dad. That’s how they

  argue, each knows what they want, but neither seems

  to think it matters much who wins. Since Mom gives

  in before Dad most of the time, Dad gets his way a lot.

  He told me that just before I was born, he found a small

  stand of diamond willow and brought home one stick.

  That’s it! Let’s name our baby Diamond Willow!

  Mom had to think about it for a few days.

  I can see it now: They’re on the airplane

  flying to Anchorage. Mom’s in labor,

  she’ll agree to almost anything.

  Okay, she says. So Dad puts

  Diamond Willow on my

  birth certificate, and

  then Mom says,

  We will call

  the baby

  Willow.

  If

  my

  parents

  had called

  me Diamond,

  would I have been

  one of those sparkly

  kinds of girls? I’m not

  sparkly. I’m definitely not

  a precious diamond—you know,

  the kind of person everyone looks at

  the minute she steps into a room. I’m the

  exact opposite: I’m skinny, average height,

  brown hair, and ordinary eyes. Good. I don’t

  want to sparkle like a jewel. I would much rather

  blend in than stick out. Also, I’m not one of

  those dog-obsessed kids who talk about

  nothing but racing in the Jr. Iditarod.

  I like being alone with my dogs

  on the trail. Just us, the trees,

  the snow, the stories I see

  in the animal tracks.

  No teachers, no

  parents, no

  sneak-up-

  on-you

  boys.

  In

  the

  middle

  of my family

  in the middle of

  a middle-size town

  in the middle of Alaska,

  you will find middle-size,

  middle-kid, me. My father

  teaches science in the middle

  of my middle school. My mother

  is usually in the middle of my house.

  My brother, Marty, taller and smarter

  than I ever hope to be, goes to college in

  big-city Fairbanks. My sister, Zanna (short

  for Suzanna), is six years younger and

  twelve inches shorter than I am.

  She follows me everywhere—

  except for the dog yard.

  I don’t know why

  my little sister is

  so
scared of

  dogs.

  What

  I love

  about dogs:

  They don’t talk

  behind your back.

  If they’re mad at you,

  they bark a couple times

  and get it over with. It’s true

  they slobber on you sometimes.

  (I’m glad people don’t do that.) They

  jump out and scare you in the dark. (I know,

  I should say me, not “you”—some people aren’t

  afraid of anything.) But dogs don’t make fun

  of you. They don’t hit you in the back

  of your neck with an ice-covered

  snowball, and if they did, and

  it made you cry, all their

  friends wouldn’t stand

  there laughing

  at you.

  (Me.)

  Three

  votes! Did they

  have to announce that?

  Why not just say, Congratulations

  to our new Student Council representative,

  Richard Olenka. Why say how many votes each

  person got (12, 7, 3)? I don’t know why I decided to

  run in the first place. A couple people said I should,

  and I thought, Why not? (I don’t like staying after

  school, and no one would listen to me even if

  I did have anything to say, which I don’t.)

  Now here I am, home right after school,

  and as soon as we finish feeding

  the dogs, Dad says, Willow,

  could you help me clean

  out the woodshed?

  I say, Okay, but

  it feels like

  I’m getting

  punished

  for being

  a loser.

  We’re

  cleaning

  the woodshed,

  and I lift up a tarp.

  An old gray stick falls out.

  Just a stick. Why does it even catch

  my eye? Dad, what is this? I turn it over in

  my hands a few times; Dad studies it for a couple

  minutes, and then he gets so excited he almost pops.

  Willow, let me tell you about this! What you have

  found is more than just an old stick. This is the

  diamond willow stick I found that afternoon,

  just before you were born! Can it be—

  let’s see—twelve years ago already?

  All this time, I thought it was lost.

  He hands it back to me like it’s

  studded with real diamonds.

  This belongs to you now.

  Use your sharpest knife

  to skin off the bark.

  Find the diamonds.

  Polish the whole

  thing. It will

  be beautiful,

  Dad says.

  You’ll

  see.

  I

  came

  out here to

  the mudroom

  so I could be alone

  and make a mess while I

  think my own thoughts and

  skin the bark off my stick. But it’s

  impossible to be alone in this house.

  Mom: Willow, don’t use that sharp knife

  when you’re mad. I say, I’m not mad, Mom,

  just leave me alone! and she looks at me like

  I proved her point. Then, on my very next cut,

  the knife slips and I rip my jeans (not too bad;

  luckily, Mom doesn’t seem to notice). Maybe I

  should go live with Grandma. I bet she’d let me

  stay out there with her and Grandpa. She could

  homeschool me. I think I’d do better in math if

  I didn’t worry about how I’m going to get a bad

  grade while Kaylie gets her perfect grades on

  every test, then shows me her stupid paper,

  and asks how I did, and, if I show her,

  offers to help me figure out where

  I went wrong, “so you can

  do better next time,

  Willow.”

  I

  want

  to mush

  the dogs out

  to Grandma and

  Grandpa’s. By myself.

  I know the way. I’ve been

  there about a hundred times

  with Dad and Mom, and once

  with Marty when he lived at home.

  Their cabin is close to the main trail.

  I know I’m not going to get lost, and I

  won’t see a baby moose or any bears this

  time of year. Even if I did, I’d know enough

  to get out of the way, fast. But Mom and

  Dad don’t seem to see it this way. What

  do they think will happen? Dad at least

  thinks about it: She’s twelve years old;

  it’s twelve miles. Maybe we could

  let her try. Mom doesn’t

  even pause for half a

  second before

  she says,

  No

  !

  Maybe

  they’ll let me go

  if I just take three dogs,

  and leave three dogs here for Dad.

  I’d take Roxy, of course—she’s smart

  and fast and she thinks the same way I do.

  Magoo is fun. He doesn’t have much experience,

  but if I take Cora, she’d help Magoo settle down.

  Dad would want one fast dog. I’ll leave Samson

  here with him. Lucky might try to get loose

  and follow me down the trail again, like

  the last time we left her, but this time

  Dad will be here to help Mom

  get her back. Prince can be

  hard to handle; it will be

  easier without him.

  If Dad sees how

  carefully I’m

  thinking this

  through, he

  might help

  convince

  Mom.

  I

  beg

  Mom:

  Please!

  I’d only take

  three dogs. You know

  I can handle them. You’ve

  seen me. She won’t listen. You

  are not old enough, she says. Or

  strong enough. I make a face (should

  not have done that). Mom starts in: A moose

  will charge at three dogs as fast as it will charge

  at six. A three-dog team can lose the trail, or pull you

  out onto thin ice. What if your sled turns over, or you lose

  control of the team? (Mom really goes on and on once she gets

  started.) Willow, you could be alone out there with a dog fight

  on your hands. (Oh, right, Mom, like I’ve never stopped a

  dog fight by myself.) When Mom finally stops talking

  and starts thinking, I know enough to quit arguing.

  She looks me up and down like we’ve just met,

  then takes a deep breath. You really want to

  do this, don’t you, Willow? It takes me by

  surprise, and I almost say, Never mind,

  Mom, it doesn’t matter. But it does

  matter. I swallow hard and nod.

  Mom says, I’ll think about it

  and decide tomorrow.

  What if she says

  yes?

  You

  would

  trust her

  to take Roxy

  by herself? Mom

  questions Dad. They

  don’t know I’m listening.

  I know my dogs, Dad answers,

  how they are with Willow. It’s more

  that I’d trust Roxy to take her. Honey, if

  it’s up to me, I say let’s let her do this.

  I slip away before they see me.

  I’m pretty sure they’re
/>
  going to say yes.

  (Yes!)

  I go out

  and talk to Roxy

  and Cora and Magoo.

  I think they’re going to let us go

  to Grandma and Grandpa’s by ourselves!

  I get out at noon on Friday—it’s the end of the

  quarter. We’ll leave by one, and be there before dark.

  We’ll have almost two days out there, and come home

  Sunday afternoon! Even as I let myself say it,

  I’m trying not to hope too hard.

  I know all I can do now is

  wait. It will jinx

  it for sure if

  I keep on

  begging.

  Yes,

  I have a

  wool sweater

  under my jacket.

  Extra socks, gloves,

  and, yes, I have enough

  booties for the dogs. I have

  my sleeping bag and a blanket,

  in case I get stranded somewhere

  (which of course won’t happen). Yes,

  I have matches, a headlamp, a hatchet.

  Dad keeps adding things to his checklist.

  Zanna comes up as close as she dares, keeping

  her distance from the dogs, to give me a card she

  made for Grandma. It’s cute, a picture of an otter

  sliding down a riverbank. Okay, Dad says, it looks

  like you’re all set. I know you can do this. Take it

  slow. He keeps on talking as I take my foot off

  the brake and let the dogs go. He might still

  be talking even now, yelling out last-

  minute warnings: Don’t forget to

  call us when you get there!

  Watch where the trail …

  And I can picture Mom,

  standing beside Dad,

  her arms folded tight,

  like she’s holding

  me, wrapped

  up inside

  them.

  Fox

  tracks,

  new snow,

  red-streaked sky

  and full moon rising.

  I know this trail, know

  where it gets scary. I know

  where it sometimes floods and

  freezes over. And I know Grandma

  and Grandpa will love it when they hear

  the dogs, knowing that it’s me mushing

  out to see them. I’m almost there.

  Can’t be more than half an hour

  to go. Down this small

  hill, past the burned

  stumps. There—I

  see the light

  by their

  door.

  John, Willow’s great-great-grandfather (Red Fox)