Diamond Willow Page 4

  get them howling loud enough so whoever is

  out there will hear us. We start howling

  and the dogs raise their voices too.

  The snowmachine doesn’t stop.

  It’s moving farther away.

  We stop howling, and

  silence closes in.

  It’s darker than

  before. I can’t

  seem to get

  warm.

  Willow,

  you sleep now,

  Kaylie says. I’ll stay

  awake. We’re not freezing.

  I trust her to wake me up if …

  If what? That’s what I don’t know.

  I lie down with Roxy and doze off.

  Then, deep in her throat, Roxy growls,

  and I’m wide awake. Her ears perk up.

  Is Roxy scared? Should we be? Kaylie

  says, Want to make another fire? We

  could freeze to death out here. We

  make a small fire, but we don’t

  want to go out in the dark

  to get more firewood.

  What did Roxy

  hear?

  Out

  here in

  the middle of

  the long cold night,

  under the snow-covered

  spruce tree, Kaylie and Roxy

  and I lie awake, keeping each other

  warm. Like a steady heartbeat, Kaylie

  speaks a few words to me and I answer.

  The night has a heartbeat of its own,

  and somehow we’re inside it. Kaylie

  says, When I held Roxy in the sled,

  it seemed like she was watching

  where we were going, even

  though she’s blind. I know

  just what Kaylie means.

  Willow, she whispers,

  I’m scared. Are you?

  I don’t try to deny it.

  Maybe a little, but

  look—it’s almost

  morning. Roxy

  sniffs at the

  first hint of

  light, and

  stretches.

  It’s

  morning,

  and Roxy’s eyes

  are no worse than they were

  last night. I think I know where we

  went wrong, I say. If I’m right, it won’t be hard

  to find our way back to that trail and take it to my

  grandparents’ house. Kaylie says, No way, Willow. We’re

  going home. (Not me, I’m not giving up. But I don’t argue yet.)

  We feed the dogs, pack the sled, hitch up Cora, Lucky, and Magoo,

  and start down the trail, heading in the direction of the snowmachine

  we heard. It’s so much easier to find our way this morning. But—

  what are these big tracks? Look, we have a lynx around here!

  We study the tracks, trying to figure out which way it went.

  Kaylie says, Let’s get going. Save all this talk for later.

  So we set off together. But I look at Roxy, thinking:

  She warned us, maybe scared off a lynx that came

  too close. We thought we were taking care of

  her, and all the time she was taking care

  of us. Hike, Cora! Hike, Magoo!

  All right, Lucky! It’s time

  to be on our way—

  to Grandma’s

  house.

  We

  have to

  go about a mile

  on the wrong trail before

  we come to the right one. I see

  what happened: Cora hasn’t been

  to Grandma and Grandpa’s house as often

  as Roxy has. She made a wrong turn down the

  old trail. The snow was falling so hard by then, we

  couldn’t see past the dogs. That’s why we didn’t notice

  we were headed in the wrong direction—everything is

  so clear this morning. Hey! Is that what I think it is?

  Kaylie, look! I think the lynx was here not long ago.

  All around the intersection of the old trail and the

  new one, we see tracks of a large lynx, fresh this

  morning. We both sink in up to our knees,

  but the lynx walked on top of the snow

  no more than an hour ago, I bet.

  The fork we should have

  come to yesterday

  can’t be much

  farther now.

  This time

  I know

  I’ll

  see

  it.

  I

  can’t

  believe this!

  Kaylie is stressing out

  about missing half a day of

  school! She wants to go home

  instead of keeping on and trying to

  get Roxy to Grandma and Grandpa’s.

  We’re almost there! I’m afraid one of

  our dads is coming, not far behind us.

  I know we’re giving everyone a scare.

  Maybe they’ve been up all night, but

  we still have to keep going! Listen!

  I hear dogs on the trail behind us.

  At least it’s not a snowmachine.

  If it’s Dad, he’ll have Prince and

  Samson. They aren’t as fast as

  these three dogs, but his sled

  will be lighter than ours—

  he could catch up. Hike,

  Cora! Good job, Lucky!

  Roxy barks twice, like

  she’s cheering us on.

  Magoo barks, too,

  and then even

  Kaylie yells,

  Go!

  Look!

  Where?

  What is it?

  An animal …

  a streak of gold.

  Roxy growls deep

  in her throat, like she did

  in the middle of the night.

  We slow down and stare into

  the forest—the lynx stares back

  at us. When we move on and speed

  up, so does it. It’s sleek, graceful,

  moving beside us and keeping up.

  I know we’re strong enough

  to outrun it if we want to,

  but I don’t think

  I want

  to.

  Albert, Richard’s grandfather (Lynx)

  There’s no doubt about it—Richard is smitten with this Kaylie. I remember being thirteen and in love. The girl’s name was Celina, her hair was black, her laugh reminded me of northern lights. I’d try anything to make Celina laugh. She paid me no more mind than Kaylie pays to Richard, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to protect her—whether or not she wanted my protection. Or so I told myself. Truth was, I just wanted to be near her.

  Yesterday, when word went out that the girls were missing in the blizzard, Richard strapped on his snowshoes and headed down the trail. He would have loved to find those girls—especially Kaylie—and help them get to safety. But the storm grew worse, and he turned back—the boy does have some sense.

  I went out to see what I could see.

  That dog they call Cora (I knew her as Mary; as I recall, she was Willow’s grandpa’s auntie) can remember when the old trail was the only trail. It didn’t surprise me to see her lead them that way, but I was afraid it would mean trouble. I decided to follow and stay with them.

  Roxy doesn’t miss much—she heard me in the night and growled, so I moved on. The snow had stopped by then. I left a few tracks for them to find this morning, and a few more by the trail where they took the wrong turn yesterday.

  This morning, before the crack of dawn, Richard hitched up his four dogs and came out looking for the girls. If he’d left home a little earlier, he would have seen my tracks before they did; he might have met them as they came back down the old trail. But Willow and Kaylie passed that place before he got there. He’s on the trail behind them now. His sled is almost empty, s
o he’s moving faster than they are. He may yet be of some use.

  As for me, I’m teasing them a little. Willow doesn’t mind if I run along beside them, and if Kaylie is a little scared, well, that will give Richard something to protect her from.

  If

  we go

  too fast,

  we could

  have another

  accident. If we

  don’t go fast enough,

  the dogs behind us will

  catch up. They’re getting close.

  I hear a musher’s voice, but I can’t tell

  for sure if it’s Dad. Kaylie is holding Roxy

  securely in the sled. There’s a good trail packed down

  just right. (Thank you, whatever friend we heard in the middle

  of last night, out on a snowmachine, packing the trail for us.)

  Okay—I’m going to go a little faster, be as careful as I can.

  If the trail is good all the way to Grandma and Grandpa’s,

  we can make it in another fifteen minutes. If it’s Dad

  behind me, we might be able to get there before he

  catches up. Kaylie turns around in the sled so she

  can watch the trail behind us. Whoever it is,

  they’re getting closer—it sounds like

  they have more than two dogs.

  What! Kaylie almost falls

  out of the sled—

  Richard?

  Kaylie

  and Richard

  are ridiculously

  happy to see each other.

  The lynx comes to the edge

  of the trees to look out at us. Richard

  roars at it, making this wild face. Kaylie

  laughs. Just before the lynx runs off, it gives

  the two of them a look—is it chuckling at them?

  I hold the two dog teams apart and keep Roxy quiet.

  Richard wants to take Kaylie home. Don’t you know how

  worried people are? If she does leave to go with him, what

  will I do without anyone to hold Roxy? It’s Kaylie’s choice,

  and I can’t stop her. She looks at Roxy and me. She asks,

  Could you take Roxy the rest of the way alone? I think

  so—I’m almost there. If they go back, they can tell

  Mom and Dad I’m okay. Kaylie will miss only

  half a day of school. Sure, I say. I turn away.

  I tuck our two sleeping bags around Roxy.

  I’ll be fine. Go ahead. Roxy whines

  a little as we watch them go.

  I put my arms around her.

  Snow falls from a

  branch onto her

  face and mine.

  I brush it

  off.

  All

  my doubts

  come circling in

  as soon as I’m alone.

  It’s like I’m a mouse and

  they’re hawks that have been

  watching, out of sight, and now

  they see their chance to swoop down

  on me. What if Roxy gets worse from

  being on this trip? She needs her bandage

  changed, and she has to stay warm and dry.

  Kaylie and I kept her with us in the shelter

  all night, but I know she should have been

  indoors. I didn’t even leave Mom and Dad

  a note—I couldn’t think of what to say

  that wouldn’t make them mad, so I

  just left without saying anything,

  which will make them madder.

  And there’s this problem:

  Grandma and Grandpa

  might say no. What if

  they already have

  too many dogs,

  and can’t

  keep our

  Roxy?

  Oh,

  Roxy,

  look at you,

  keeping your head tucked

  down in the sled, so the cold wind

  won’t hurt your eyes. I love how your right

  ear perks up like that. What do you hear? Dogs barking?

  Maybe Grandpa’s. (Come on, Roxy, we’re waiting for you!)

  I love how, when we first hear the thwack of Grandpa’s ax,

  you lift your head a little and turn to me, like you used to

  when you could see. It’s early for Grandpa to be out

  chopping wood. I bet he’s been up all night,

  waiting for us. Now we’re almost there.

  Grandma and Grandpa will feed us.

  No one will get mad. They’ll

  take care of you, Roxy.

  I know they will.

  They have

  to.

  Here

  is what is

  so great about

  Grandma and Grandpa:

  They don’t ask a single question

  until Cora, Lucky, and Magoo are tied

  and fed, and I’m inside wearing dry clothes,

  too big, but clean and warm, and Grandpa has

  brought Roxy in so she’s safe, too, and now she’s

  eating beaver soup, and someone must have changed

  her bandage and Grandma puts a plate of pancakes

  in front of me and fried moose meat and potatoes.

  I’m more hungry than I have ever been in my life.

  I finish eating and slump in my chair, and then

  Grandma picks up her sewing and says,

  Willow, you want to talk—even

  then it’s not exactly

  a question. Yes, I

  say, I want

  to talk.

  To you.

  About

  Roxy.

  See,

  I say.

  I struggle

  for words and

  Grandma listens

  with her hands and ears

  and eyes, and that’s exactly

  what I want to tell her, how Roxy

  does that, too. Grandma, Roxy doesn’t

  need her eyes—she still sees me. Or maybe she

  knows me without seeing. She trusts us! How can

  Dad and Mom just let her go? I can’t let them do that.

  So I brought her here to you. If you can keep her, I’ll

  bring food for her. I’ll come out every weekend and

  brush her coat. When her eyes are better, I’ll take

  her out and let her run. Grandma doesn’t

  answer for the longest time, and I try

  to think of something else to say,

  but I can’t, so I just stop.

  Grandma looks at me,

  she looks at Roxy.

  Finally, she says,

  Maybe this dog

  doesn’t want

  to stay with

  us. I bet

  she wants

  to stay

  with

  you.

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

  What’s become of Kaylie and Richard (and Albert, that old lynx)? Let me see what I can see.

  There they are. Richard’s dogs are well behaved. He lets Kaylie drive them for a while, standing on the runners in front of him, so happy, like she’s forgotten all about the mischief she’s been making, the trouble she’ll be in when she gets home.

  I fly to the place where the old trail meets the new trail. It looks like half the town is here, reading the tracks in the snow.

  They went this way, down the old trail, says Kaylie’s mother.

  No, that’s where they came from, Willow’s dad points out. Then they turned this way … Look.

  Little Zanna is walking around by herself, off to the side. What’s this big track? Kind of like a cat, only bigger.

  Lynx! says Willow’s mother. I haven’t seen a lynx around here for thirteen years!

  Prince and Samson look down the trail and bark. Everyone looks up.

  Listen! Willow’s father says. Dogs in the distance … coming this way.
Willow and Kaylie!

  When Richard and Kaylie come down the trail, everyone stares at them like Kaylie is a ghost and Richard has brought her back to the land of the living.

  Now listen to them, all talking at once. I’ve never seen so much hugging and handshaking. It looks like Richard is meeting Kaylie’s parents for the first time—he has that proud I-saved-your-daughter look. If Kaylie is in trouble, her parents forget to tell her. Everyone stops talking and lets her tell her story.

  Soon everyone but Willow’s family heads back into town.

  I

  hear

  something,

  Grandma says.

  Our snowmachine!

  Dad’s driving it, fast.

  Even though I’m glad he’s

  here, and I know I’m lucky to be

  alive, I’m still a little scared. But when Dad

  comes in, it is amazing—he is way, way

  more happy to see me than he is mad

  about what I did. He comes in and

  hugs me hard, for a long time.

  His first question takes me by

  surprise: not, How is Roxy?

  but, How is your leg? I

  haven’t thought about

  it since yesterday. Fine,

  I say, and I realize it’s

  true. After a while, I

  hear Mom coming

  with the dogs. She

  doesn’t really like

  dog-mushing, but

  she can do it when

  she has to. Zanna

  is fast asleep in

  the sled, so

  warm, so

  safe.

  They’ve

  already heard most

  of the story from Kaylie:

  the blinding snow, the wrong trail,

  the shelter under the spruce tree. And Zanna

  found the lynx tracks, so they know about that.

  What’s left for me to say? I know I have to tell

  them I’m sorry, and I am, and I do. But Roxy

  is older than Zanna! Part of the family!

  Shouldn’t they be a little sorry, too?

  Why did they think it was

  okay to make such a

  huge decision

  without

  me?

  Dad

  starts to say,

  Willow, why didn’t you—

  I interrupt: You can’t blame it

  all on me, Dad. Then they give each other

  that look, like all the adults trust each other

  and none of them want to know me, I mean really

  know me, who I really am, what I really think, why

  I do what I do, or don’t do what they think I should.

  Dad starts to answer, looks at me, closes his mouth.

  He doesn’t want to fight about it any more than I do.