The Starlight Claim

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  It’s all good, he told himself, shaking with the cold. That’s what Dodge said all the time, even if it wasn’t — even if they were in trouble over one of his crazy schemes. “It’s all good, buddy.”

  Well, what could he do? If the message didn’t go through, then nothing had changed, really, other than that he’d lost his not-fully-paid-for cell phone and a three-hundred-dollar quadcopter all at the same time. He’d get out of here tomorrow. That was still the goal. By this time tomorrow night, he’d be sleeping in his own bed. All he had to do was hang tight. Nothing was going to go wrong. Nothing else.

  He could hear the drone in his dream. Or was it a dream? In his vaguely conscious mind, he imagined the Seeker had somehow come back to life, its four rotors desperately trying to drag the copter and its electronic cargo up, up, up out of the grip of the snow. The sound grew louder and louder, as if it had made it — was even now floating up into the air! Closer still! The noise rattling the air above his head as if it had somehow found its way right into the camp, until at last Nate was awake enough to realize it was not a drone but something much bigger. A chain saw? No. A rescue plane? No. Something drawing near.

  A snowmobile.

  He scrambled out of his tangle of covers. He raced in his socks to the kitchen window, slipping on the laminate floor, his feet going out from under him and hitting the mousetrap, which sloshed. He got up again: seven dead mice.

  At the window, he couldn’t see a thing. He hauled himself up onto the counter and opened the window, only to be blasted by the cold, as solid as a slap across the face. He thrust his head outside, blinking furiously in the bright reflection of the sun off the snow, and craned his head toward the lake. It was no use; he couldn’t see enough of it from here. Couldn’t see the narrows. Anything coming this way from the south had to pass through the bottleneck of the narrows.

  He threw on his boots, and in only his long underwear and turtleneck he stepped out the back door into the deep freeze. He cocked his head, listening. The noise was coming down the trail.

  He hustled back into the cabin and closed the door. For one shaky, optimistic moment he wondered if it was his father. He couldn’t have come by train, but there were logging roads and other trails that he’d never been on but his father probably knew about. His father had known these woods all his life; if anyone knew how to get here in an emergency, it would be Burl.

  The message had gotten through. It had to be that!

  If it was his father, and if that meant he had gotten the text, he would come directly to the Hoebeeks’. Nate listened and then dropped his head in dismay. The snowmobile had already passed the turnoff. And moments later he heard it come to a stop at the other camp. Would his father do that? Challenge the intruders? No. Which meant that somebody who didn’t know better had arrived. Or somebody who knew perfectly well who was there.

  Which is when Nate went cold all over. The newcomer knew something Shades and Worried Man didn’t know: a lone traveler on snowshoes had made his way in from the tracks to the north end of Ghost Lake and then disappeared.

  Get dressed.

  After the drone incident, he’d again laid out his clothes on chairs around the fire, just like he had earlier last evening. They were warm, even though the cabin was rapidly losing heat. There was no time to mess with a fire right now. Was it worth trying to get the shutter up over the kitchen window and pretend there was no one here? No. If they came this far, they’d see the stoop. There was no way he could disguise all the coming and going betrayed by the little porch.

  So?

  He dressed. Clear this place up? Forget it. Hide. Now. Upstairs. Even better, there was an attic. It was reached through a trapdoor right above the top bunk in Dodge’s room. He collected his wallet and Swiss Army knife on a bureau in the living room; there was pocket change on the table and the Seeker’s transmitter on the counter in the kitchen. And there was a pot with congealed macaroni in it in the sink, the woodstove still hot to the touch even as the air grew colder with every moment. His presence here was everywhere.

  And then there was a knock on the door.

  He stood stock-still.

  A louder knock. He thought of the two men he’d seen. He glanced at his pocketknife. Forget it. He raced silently to the kitchen, opened the utensil drawer, saw Dodge’s filleting knife in its sheath with dh engraved badly in the leather. He drew the knife out of the sheath and —

  “Kid?” The voice was low. “I’m guessin’ you’re nothin’ but a kid.”

  Guessing?

  “These are, what . . . twenty-five-inch Bigfoots out here?”

  His snowshoes.

  “Now, they’ll take somewhere ’round a hun’red ten, hun’red fifty pounds. Somethin’ like that. So maybe you’re a woman.”

  How could he have left his shoes outside?

  Bang!

  The hand that smashed the door made Nate jump. Did he cry out? Maybe.

  “Stop bein’ a damn fool and open up. You really don’t want me to huff and puff.”

  The voice sounded tired. Old and tired. A voice pitted and ragged from years of cigarette smoke, by the sound of it.

  Nate held the knife at stomach level. He and Dodge had filleted a lot of fish in their day. Could he use it on a human?

  Bang!

  And the door flew open, smacking hard against the closed door of the bathroom.

  A man stood there, silhouetted in the wintery light, his body clothed from head to foot in snowmobile gear — black boots, black bib and turtleneck, an open black parka — his face covered with a black ski mask. There was yellow piping on the ski mask around the mouth, nose, and eye openings. He looked like the villain from some Marvel comic. Snow Fiend. His hands were bare and looked as if they’d been fashioned out of wood. They were knotty and gnarled with age. It wasn’t either of the guys Nate had seen yesterday. Under all the quilted garb he was probably wiry but no less frightening.

  He took a step into the house and Nate backed up. The stranger faced him, less than three paces separating them. He reached for his ski mask, as if he were going to take it off, and then suddenly dropped his arm to his side. His body tensed as if whatever he’d been expecting wasn’t this.

  “What are you doin’ here?” he said.

  There was something in his voice — surprise?

  Nate said nothing.

  “Hah!” the masked man said, and shook his head. Then he looked hard at Nate again. “A filletin’ knife, eh? Good choice. Now be a good boy and put ’er down.”

  Nate responded by darting it out toward the man, trying hard not to make his hand shake as he did. The man didn’t so much as flinch. He turned and leisurely closed the door behind him. Then he leaned his back against it, crossing his arms. “I’ll give you a count of five to put that thing down. Di’n’t your daddy teach ya nothin’?”

  Nate lowered the knife a little but wasn’t ready to give it up. “What do you want?” he managed to say.

  “I’ll ask the questions, boy. And it’ll go a lot better for you if I don’t have to break your arm first.” He chuckled grimly. “I always find it’s hard for a person to answer questions any good when they’re writhin’ on the floor.”

  Nate put the knife down on the counter.

  “Smart lad,” said the stranger. “Now, tell me what you’re doin’ here.”

  “This is my camp,” said Nate.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Art Hoebeek’s my dad. I’m Dodge.”

  The man stared at him. His eyes, what Nate could see of them, were as dark as his mask. Then he nodded slowly and looked around. “Long way to come in the middle of winter . . . Dodge. . . . Was that what you called yourself?”

  Nate swallowed. “We . . . we always come up at March break.”

  “We?”

  “My friends and I.”

  The man made a big deal of looking around. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Anyone in there?” he said. Then he walked toward the staircase and glanced
up into the gloom. “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?” He turned back and eyed Nate.

  “I got here early,” said Nate.

  “Ah, that’s it. So they’re . . . what . . . comin’ in on the Budd?”

  “No,” said Nate, thinking quickly. “They’re flying in. From Lauzon, up on 144. They should be here anytime now. Soon.”

  The man took two steps toward him and Nate backed up until he was leaning against the sink.

  The stranger looked around the place, taking it all in. “You got a radiophone here, Dodge Hoebeek?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you tellin’ the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. It’s about time.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what this is all about,” said Nate. “And I don’t care. My friends and I, we’re just up until Sunday and then we’re out of here.”

  “Is that so?”

  “They’re coming —”

  “Today — Friday — and heading back Sunday. Not much of a holiday, if you ask me.”

  “They’re flying —”

  “Nobody’s flyin’ in!” said the man, gruff and impatient suddenly. “You got that?” Nate nodded. Again, the hidden face examined him. “There’s a huge damned weather front movin’ in from the northwest. It dumped somethin’ like two feet on Hearst. It’s clobberin’ Timmins as we speak, and we’re next. No one’s flyin’ anywhere today. You got that?”

  Nate nodded.

  The man walked to the front room, took one of the dining room chairs, and brought it back, trapping Nate in the kitchen. He straddled the chair, resting one arm along the back of it, his eyes on full blast. He stood again and peered over the mousetrap. “Looks like you caught yourself some dinner,” he said. Maybe he smiled. It was hard to tell, but it didn’t last. “This weather has screwed up our plans, too — my friends and me. Big time. But we’re all just gonna have to ride it out. You got that?”

  Nate nodded.

  “So, here’s what’s gonna happen,” said Masked Man. “You’re gonna find a coupla buckets and get yourself some water from the hole out there on the ice. You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout?” Again, Nate nodded. “Don’t go anywhere near the other cabin, you hear me? Don’t come lookin’ for a cup of sugar or nothin’ neighborly like that. Those lads are not happy about you being here, a fact they only just learnt.” He snickered. “Not all that observant,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re not all that happy about bein’ here themselves. Believe me, they’d just as soon shoot you and leave your carcass out in the bush for the wolves. Do not give them any excuse to do it. You got that?” Nate nodded a third time. “Anyway, get your water. Then get yourself a good big load of firewood — enough to get you through a coupla days — maybe more dependin’ on how big this storm is.”

  Nate nodded solemnly.

  “I’m gonna assume you’ve got food to get you through until Sunday, like you said, unless that was also a lie.” Nate shook his head. “You don’t got food?”

  Nate nodded. “No. I mean, yeah. I’ve got some.”

  The man looked around. Saw the folding doors beside the bathroom. Got up from his chair and marched over. He opened the door to shelves of dry goods. “Well, lookee here,” he said. Then he closed the doors and turned to face Nate. “You ain’t gonna starve.”

  Nate nodded yet again, and the man suddenly rushed him and grabbed a mitt full of his turtleneck in his fist. “For God’s sake, boy, don’t stand there bobbing your head like some dashboard Jesus.”

  Nate’s jaw locked tight. His fists curled.

  The man let go of him and stepped back, one, then two paces. He made to lunge toward Nate again. This time, Nate stood his ground.

  “That’s more like it. Show a little gumption, for God’s sake. I hate a pussy.”

  The man clumped toward the door. He had a slight limp. He turned, with his hand on the doorknob. “I’d advise you to get a move on,” he said. “Those yahoos over there are simmerin’; you don’t want them to come to a boil.” He paused as if he were waiting for Nate to nod. Nate held his head perfectly still. The masked man seemed to smile. Nate saw a flash of gold tooth. “Once ya done all of that, lock this door and stay put. Ya hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good.” He opened the door and then turned once more, with the snow blowing in around him. He gazed at Nate for a good long time while thick flakes whirled into the room. “You don’t look all that bad,” he said, “for a kid who went missin’ last fall and is presumed dead.” Then he closed the door quietly after himself.

  He got the water first. There were two green plastic buckets, big ones, under the sink, so he filled them at the water hole only three-quarters full. There was an old tin dipper attached by a length of yellow rope to a spike set in the ice. Nate splashed himself a fair bit, he was so nervous, feeling the eyes of the criminals up in the camp as cold as the wind on his back. In seconds, the freezing water had soaked through his socks, the cuffs of his sweater, sneaking out from under his jacket. He moved the three-quarter-filled buckets out of the way and hauled the plywood back over the hole. He stood up, not daring to face the Crow camp, but as he picked up the buckets to head back to the Hoebeeks’, he noticed something odd. Just beyond the hole was a giant circular pattern in the snow, with the ghostly remains of snowshoe tracks leading away from it toward the shore. It was like a shallow crater, maybe seven or eight yards across, as if someone had started to make a small skating rink but had given up. There was a kind of ridge around the perimeter, like a frozen wave.

  He shook his head and started back toward the camp. He carried one bucket in each hand for balance. The extra weight made slogging through the snow harder. As the stranger had noted, his snowshoes weren’t rated for much more weight than himself. He didn’t dare to even look up in case the men were there. But he did dare to look out toward where he figured the drone had crashed last night. By now the wind swooping down over the hill was playing havoc with the snow, and there was no sign of the Seeker or its expensive cargo.

  He got the wood. There was a toboggan in the woodshed and he loaded it up, but by then his mind was elsewhere, thinking about a whole other kind of sled. The one in the locked shed: the Polaris. Nate’s father prided himself on keeping his eighties vintage ’Doo in good shape. It worked just fine, managed to put out around fifty-five horsepower. But Dodge could literally ride circles around Nate when they were out on the flat of the lake. He was good about sharing his toys; Nate knew how to operate the Polaris. He also knew where the keys were.

  As he unloaded the first pile of firewood inside the cabin and went back for another load, he developed a plan. He’d have to work fast, but it was only about ten o’clock now. He’d wait until it was just about time for the Budd to arrive at Mile 39, with the full knowledge that it would probably be late. How late could be critical. If it was really late, he might have to take evasive actions. He was definitely not going to hang around at the trailhead now that there was a pursuit vehicle parked next door.

  He’d have to book it out of camp, knowing that ski-mask guy would give chase, but Nate’s brain was churning now. He remembered the tree that was already half down across the trail. He’d take an ax with him. If he got a good enough jump on the guy, he’d have time to chop the tree down behind him. There wasn’t much trunk left. It would only take a swing or two.

  The tree was ready to go in a strong wind — it might be down already. That would be disastrous: to get halfway up the trail and then have to veer off into the bush. Not good. The bush was too thick most places.

  It was a half-assed idea, but the desire to get out of there was strong. He decided to just pray the tree was still standing and ready to fall — with him on the other side of the trail. It would give him some time. It could work. Whatever the man said about the coming storm, the Budd would get there eventually.

  “It’s a quarter-assed plan,” said Dodge in his head. “Maybe an eighth-assed plan.”

  Fo
r a boy filled with crazy-ass ideas, Dodge was quick to judge.

  “Here’s how we’ll do it, Numbster,” said Dodge.

  Nate swallowed hard. He listened to the wind, wanting to hear Dodge Hoebeek explain a better way out of this mess. Nothing came, just the bite of a storm front moving in.

  The alternative to making a run for it was staying here, next door to two criminals who apparently weren’t happy with him being around — as in existing. They’d been in jail. He wasn’t sure for what. Didn’t want to think about it.

  He piled a third load of wood inside the cabin. He filled the box and was stacking the logs against the wall, just about finished, when the stranger appeared again. He entered without knocking, his ski mask still in place. One of his eyes was red and watery, but the other was sharp as flint.

  “Looks like you’re set up good,” he said.

  Nate glanced at what he’d done. “Yeah, this should be okay.”

  The man looked toward the kitchen, saw the water buckets by the sink. Nodded.

  “Uh, thanks,” said Nate.

  The man chuckled darkly. “Don’t thank me yet, boy,” he said. He looked past Nate at the boarded-up picture window. “Since you’ve got no reason to be hidin’ no more, why don’t you take down them shutters — get yourself some real honest-to-God sunlight in here, what there is of it.”

  “Yeah. That would be good.”

  “Okay,” the man said. He almost sounded friendly. He stood there looking around, taking in the camp. “Amazing you survived that boating incident,” he said. Nate didn’t speak. He wasn’t about to tell the man who he truly was — where he truly belonged. “Yep, your family — what’s left of it — must have been real relieved to see you.” He stared at Nate, sticking out his chin in expectation of a response. None came. He shook his head. “Damn fool gamble, if you ask me.”

  Nate cleared his throat. The guy wasn’t going to quit until he said something. “Yeah. My dad really blew it.”