Diamond Willow Page 2

  Willow saw my tracks and looked around, but I didn’t show myself to her. Don’t want to take a chance that her dogs would see or smell me, and take off running after me.

  Old times, they wouldn’t let a girl go off alone like that. I don’t like to see it. That’s why I followed her, made sure she got to her grandma’s house. (Think of it, my little grandchild someone else’s grandma now.)

  Lots has changed round here since I was Willow’s age. Everyone talks that English now, kids go to school all the time, instead of being out here learning to get food. They should think about what happens when those airplanes don’t come in. They should teach the kids how to keep warm, how to feed everyone when it stays cold a long, long time. Hungry times could come again, and what will they do then if they don’t learn the old ways now?

  I wasn’t too sure about that man Willow’s mother married. When he first came here, he smiled too much, lots of times for no reason—he’d start smiling when he just met someone, before he even got to know them. He’d put out his hand that way they do, smile, say his name, try to make people talk too much. But he turned out okay. He learned how to hunt and fish, made himself some pretty good snowshoes. That takes patience.

  I’ve been watching him teach Willow how to run the dogs. She’s a quiet one. She knows how to listen to those dogs, so they listen to her, too. They’re patient with her. Sometimes when she does something wrong—gets their harnesses all tangled up or something—I’m pretty sure I see them barking inside, but those dogs are polite to Willow. They give her a lot of chances. After a while she always gets it right.

  I see her through the window now, with her grandpa and grand-ma. They love that girl; she’s safe here. I’ll go back upriver to my den.

  All

  my life,

  this has been

  my favorite place.

  Grandma’s beadwork

  on the table, Grandpa’s furs

  stretched out to dry, the smell of

  woodsmoke mingling with the smell

  of moose meat frying on the stove.

  As soon as I walk in, I see that

  Grandma’s made a batch of

  doughnuts. It’s how she

  tells me, without

  saying much,

  she’s happy

  that I’m

  here.

  I

  tie

  the dogs,

  and Grandpa

  helps me feed them.

  We look at Roxy’s foot.

  I tell Grandpa she had a run-in

  with a porcupine. Oh, he says, that nuné.

  It’s one of our Indian words. Or, as we say,

  Dinak’i. I know some, from bilingual class,

  but not as much as Grandpa and Grandma, not

  even as much as Mom. Sometimes, when we’re

  dropping off to sleep out here, I hear them talking

  Dinak’i, chuckling together, and I feel a little bit

  left out. Not that I would like to go back to

  the old times I hear the two of them talk

  about—back when people didn’t have

  TV, computers, telephones, or

  snowmachines and airplanes.

  I’d miss all those things.

  But I like to listen

  to their stories.

  I know if I try,

  I can learn to

  understand

  them.

  Grandpa

  gets up first

  and makes a hot

  birch fire in the stove.

  When the house is warm

  Grandma makes a pot of coffee

  and cooks pancakes. Grandma, I ask,

  can I move out here and live with you?

  I give her all my reasons. Well, most of them.

  She looks down at her sewing. I do know what

  you mean, Willow. We’d like to have you here.

  I’m surprised! I was expecting some argument

  about my family, or all the friends she thinks

  I have at school. Then she goes on: Could

  you and your dad take care of all

  those dogs if you’re here and

  he’s there? Maybe you

  shouldn’t split up

  a dog team like

  that, Willow.

  Those dogs

  get used

  to each

  other.

  Early

  evening,

  snow starts

  falling, burying my

  tracks from the trail up to

  the dog yard and into the house.

  Snow covers all the yellow circles

  the dogs have made around their houses,

  and half buries the firewood stacked outside.

  Grandma stands beside me; we’re looking out

  the window, and she tilts her head the way she does

  when she’s thinking of a riddle: Look, I see something …

  She squints her eyes a little. Someone outside is wearing

  a sheepskin coat. I look around and figure out what

  Grandma means: Over there—I see snow piled

  on top of an old stump. Inside her warm

  kitchen, Grandma nods. She

  smiles a little. That’s

  right, Willow,

  that’s

  it.

  Sunday

  morning, the

  snow is deep, but

  not so much that I can’t

  make it home. Grandpa and Dad

  go out on snowmachines, meeting halfway

  to pack the trail. It’s time to leave. If I start now, I’ll

  have plenty of time to get home before dark. I feed the dogs

  a little extra, and Grandma says, Here—put this in your pack.

  Smoked salmon! Looks like she’s feeding me a little extra, too.

  Then she gives me the mittens she just finished, beaded

  flowers on her home-tanned moose skin, beaver fur

  around the cuffs. She could sell them for a lot

  of money, and she’s giving them to me

  when it’s not even my birthday.

  I put them on, put my

  hands on her face.

  We both

  smile.

  It’s

  warm

  today,

  almost

  up to zero. I

  see something:

  White clouds blow

  across the sky. Too bad

  I’m out here alone, with

  no one but that spruce hen

  to tell my riddle to. (It’s the dogs’

  breath I see, white puffs going out behind

  them as they run.) Here comes the halfway point,

  where Grandpa met Dad this morning. They warned me

  about this part of the trail; this will be the stretch to watch,

  this bumpy part coming up. Take it easy there, Grandpa said.

  Okay, slow down, Roxy. Good, we’re past that rough spot,

  now we can go as fast as we want. And I love to go fast!

  So does Roxy. She looks back at me and I swear

  I see her grin. Let’s go! we tell each other.

  Cora and Magoo perk up their ears

  as if to say, Okay with us!

  I knew I could do this.

  Hike, Roxy!

  Haw!

  Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

  Oh, my land! Look at this child flying down the trail!

  She comes from people who like to keep moving—my family moved across an ocean when I was about Willow’s age; her grandfather hitchhiked across Canada the summer he turned twenty; her father came north on the Alcan Highway—on a motorcycle. Now look—when Willow and Roxy get moving together, I don’t see any way to stop them.

  Usually, I wouldn’t want to stop them, or even slow them down. I fly faster than that myself.

  But I’ve seen what’s ahead. At the bottom of
this hill, just around the curve, a dead tree fell across the trail, not too long after Willow’s father went past this morning. Broken limbs are sticking out all over it.

  If she were coming from the other direction, she’d see it in time to stop. But from this direction, at the speed she’s going, Willow won’t have time to stop her dogs.

  The

  dogs love

  going fast as much

  as I do. When we come to

  the curve at the bottom of the hill

  I’ll slow them down a little. But not yet—

  this is too much fun! Here’s the curve. What?

  Whoa! Easy, Roxy! I brake hard, the dogs stop—

  but not fast enough. Roxy’s howl cuts through me.

  I set the snow hook, run to her—as fast as I can

  through the deep snow. I stumble; a branch

  jabs into my leg. Oww! It’s my own

  voice I hear, like the fault line

  of an earthquake, with

  everything breaking

  around it. Roxy

  sticks her face

  in the snow.

  The snow

  turns

  red.

  Roxy,

  look at me.

  I hold her head

  and stare at her face.

  She’s bleeding from her eyes

  and she won’t stop yelping. I pull the

  tarp off the sled—oh, I don’t believe this!

  I kept saying, Dad, I know I have everything!

  But I didn’t bring the first aid kit! I don’t have

  any bandages, or anything like a dog bag to carry

  Roxy in the sled. I’m about two hours from home.

  It’s too far to turn back. This is serious. Hush, Roxy.

  I’ll think of something. My shirt. It’s clean enough.

  No one’s around, and I won’t freeze to death while I

  take it off and put my sweater and jacket back on.

  Okay. I think I can do this. I have to. Roxy,

  just let me hold this on your eyes. Please

  trust me. Thank you, Roxy. Good dog.

  There, I finally stopped the bleeding.

  Now, I have to get her in the sled.

  I can lift her. But how can I

  keep her from shivering

  in this bitter

  wind?

  I

  kick the

  side of the sled.

  How could I be so

  stupid? Dad will kill

  me! Calm down, my dear.

  Weird—it seemed like I heard

  those words. I look around: Who

  said that? All I see is a spruce hen

  sitting on a low branch just ahead,

  quietly preening her feathers. I watch

  her for a minute, take a few long, deep

  breaths, let my heart slow down a little,

  and then it comes to me: Feathers—use

  my down sleeping bag. I manage to get

  Roxy into it and strap her to the sled.

  I give the dogs some of my smoked

  salmon and eat some myself.

  (Thank you, Grandma!)

  Cora—you’ll have to

  lead us home. I’m

  counting on

  you.

  Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

  By the time they pull into the yard, the sun has set behind the mountains. Willow’s mother and her father and her sister, Zanna, all run out to meet her. Her mother is all smiles; Zanna’s jumping up and down.

  Her father looks at Roxy in the sled.

  Before he has a chance to say a word, Willow’s mother takes her daughter in her arms and pulls her close.

  Willow’s shoulders start to shake. Her mother makes a gesture to her father: You take care of Roxy. I’ll take care of her.

  My

  leg is

  bruised

  pretty badly.

  Mom says it’s lucky

  I didn’t get hurt worse.

  We shouldn’t have let you go.

  At least, someone should have gone out

  this afternoon to be sure you were okay. It sounds

  like Mom is mad at Dad or herself, but not sure which.

  She fusses over me, covering me with a warm blanket,

  making me hot chocolate, telling Zanna to turn

  down the TV so I can rest. She doesn’t

  say a word about Roxy. When Dad

  comes in, they go into their

  bedroom to talk. I want

  to hear what Dad

  has to say, but

  he doesn’t

  seem to

  want

  me

  to.

  Roxy’s

  eyes have

  always been so

  beautiful—deep,

  clear brown. Intelligent.

  I call it dog-love, that way

  she looks at us. Now her eyes

  are crusted with—with what? They’re

  all bandaged, and when I lift a corner of the

  bandage, I see a bloody mess. When Dad took her

  to the vet, he didn’t even ask me to go along! And now

  he hasn’t told me what she said. He was silent when he

  brought Roxy in and made her bed beside the stove.

  Dad’s not exactly accusing me out loud, but

  everything he does says, Willow,

  how could you? I trusted you!

  Roxy was our best dog.

  You knew that.

  Yes, Dad—

  I knew

  that.

  I

  don’t

  get up early

  like I usually do.

  I stay in bed when Dad

  gets up to feed the dogs. Mom

  comes in to see how I’m doing, and

  I say, Mom, I think I better stay home

  from school today. I can’t walk

  too well. Her face tells me

  she’ll tell Dad for me,

  but she’s not sure

  I’m telling

  the entire

  truth.

  Dad

  changes

  Roxy’s bandage and

  makes sure she’s comfortable

  before he goes to work. After he’s gone,

  I go in to see her. She can’t see me, of course,

  but she whimpers when she hears me coming, so I

  kneel down beside her. I might cry, and I don’t want her

  to hear me do that. I’ll try to be as brave as she is. Oh, Roxy,

  I’m sorry! I knew that blind curve was coming up.

  I should have slowed down sooner.

  Roxy licks my face,

  sniffs my leg

  where I’m

  hurt,

  too.

  I

  know

  Kaylie must be

  wondering where I am.

  At 11:48, when we have lunch, she

  calls from school. (We always eat together.)

  Willow, what happened? Your dad said you got hurt!

  I don’t want to hear about my dad right now. All the kids

  think he’s so great—they can’t wait to get to eighth grade and have

  him for science. I’m dreading that. What if he gets mad at me at home,

  and then at school I have to sit through science class with him? Thanks,

  Kaylie, but you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I say, What Dad meant

  was, Roxy got hurt. You know—his favorite dog? He’s had her since I

  was Zanna’s age! Oh, Kaylie, he’s been training her for … forever,

  to be his lead dog! And now I think she’s blind! Nobody

  will say so, but her eyes are all bloody and gross!

  Kaylie interrupts: What about you, Willow?

  What happened to your leg? Why

  aren’t you here today? I don’t

  have a
nyone to sit with.

  She’s good at changing

  the subject. Sit with

  Richard, I suggest.

  Make someone

  happy.

  Dad

  comes home

  right after school

  and goes straight to Roxy.

  I go to my room and close the door.

  Willow, he calls to me, but I can’t tell if he’s

  going to get mad (Willow, get out here and look

  at the once-beautiful eyes of my best dog) or be nice

  (Please, can we talk about this?). Probably, he’s mad.

  Who wouldn’t be? Zanna comes in and sits on the

  edge of her bed, looking at me like, Boy, are you

  in big trouble. I start to say shut up, but at the

  last second I realize she didn’t actually say it.

  After a while, Mom knocks. I let her in; she

  sits beside me, asks if she can see my leg.

  It’s not too bad, I say. I roll up my jeans

  so I can show her where the bruise has

  turned some ugly shade of purple-

  brown. She touches the swollen

  place with her cool fingers.

  Bad enough, she says.

  And here’s what’s

  so great about

  my mom:

  that is

  all she

  says.

  I

  can’t

  avoid Dad

  forever. We do live

  in the same house together,

  after all. When Mom calls me

  for dinner, I take a deep breath and go

  out to the kitchen. Dad’s with Roxy, and I

  don’t look at either of them. Well, I try not to.

  Dad calls me over. Can we talk about this, Willow?

  He’s looking at Roxy’s face, not mine. Shall I tell you

  what the vet said? he asks. It isn’t really a question, and

  I can’t exactly say, No, Dad, don’t tell me. I just shrug.

  Dad says, Roxy is blind. There’s nothing they can do.

  The exact two sentences I do not want to hear. I know

  I should say I’m sorry. I try, but the words get stuck.

  I turn away from Dad and Roxy. Mom lays her arm

  across my shoulder for a second, and I twist out

  from under it, heading for the door. Sit down

  and eat, now, Willow, Mom says, so I sit

  down, but I can’t eat. I stare at my plate

  and push some beans from one side

  to the other. Nobody but Zanna

  says much of anything

  the whole entire

  meal.

  Isaac, Willow’s great-grandfather (Mouse)