Dog Driven

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  “Thank you,” I say to them. “Thank you for trusting me.” Then I search behind me. “Guy?”

  I struggle back outside. The wind almost blows me back into the cave, but I spy him bent over his dogs. I gesture for Guy to come in.

  He hesitates. “I’ll tie down the sleds out here. Just bring my dogs inside for me.”

  “What? There’s room in here!” I scream above the howling gusts.

  I tug his arm and pull him toward the entrance. Zesty leads the team through the doorway. The solid walls surround us. Again, the relief is immediate.

  The stress of being out in the crazy wind and dangerous lake and crashing my sled catches up with me. I begin to tremble. My breathing is ragged and too fast. Guy puts his arm around me.

  I shrug him off. “Don’t be a dope. I’m not cold.”

  But my limbs shake uncontrollably. The relief of being out of that incessant wind is enough to make me cry. I bite back the tears. I wouldn’t have made it without help. And suddenly I remember. Guy knows about my stupid eyes.

  Everything is piling up. I’m going to explode with it. All my emotions are spilling out like Harper’s mailbag that burst open.

  “We could’ve died out there,” I say, furious at myself for putting my dogs in this situation.

  “But you found us a cave.” Guy’s lips are chapped and raw against his white face.

  “Mustard found it.” I pull off my scarf with a jerk and shake out the snow.

  “Same thing.”

  Abruptly I notice we’re both shivering and probably hypothermic. “We need to build a fire. Have some tea.”

  This seems to snap Guy out of his daze too. He glances around. “Good idea. The roof is rock so it won’t drip on us. We can make a fire there close to the entrance. The smoke can escape. Let me grab some wood from the shore.”

  I busy myself finding my fire kit and then preparing a spot to light it. The smell of wet dog grounds me. I hear the dogs grumbling to themselves, shaking their heads, their collars jingling. Outside, the wind batters the world.

  December 29, 1896

  Dear Margaret,

  We arrived at the Michipicoten post in time for Christmas. I am still recovering from my experiences, so I have bidden farewell to my friend Mr. Miron and await the next courier to come through . . .

  I have resigned myself to Raymond’s cure for sore muscles. His special recipe for rub-on liniment is as follows: one part alcohol, one part turpentine, and an egg.

  Your loving brother, William

  Chapter 25

  Somewhere before Michipicoten, afternoon of day three

  I feed the fire pieces of driftwood, and it crackles with delicious warmth.

  My outer mitts are propped up beside it to dry. Our shivering has stopped, but the white patches on Guy’s cheeks are still there. I have a touch of frostbite too. The tip of my nose is smarting as it thaws.

  Guy stares owlishly at the cave door, muttering something about a portal.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s the portal for the wendigo,” Guy says.

  “What’s a wendigo?”

  Guy rubs his face, sheepish. “It’s dumb, I know. I grew up hearing how ice caves are doorways to the Otherworld. The malevolent spirit of the early people, the wendigo, was the bringer of winter starvation and disease.”

  “Stop that! No one is diseased. This portal saved us. You are too much, with your history and weird facts.”

  “I know. I can’t help it. I get obsessed with history sometimes.”

  “But why?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just something my grandpa got me started on, telling me old stories as he tucked me in when I was a kid. After my mom left, he helped fill the gap. We hung out a lot.”

  “What do you mean, your mom left? Like, for good?” I immediately dislike his mom.

  “I don’t see her very often. She’s always traveling or . . . off doing some other new thing. She has a lot of interests.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Yeah, well. I was a hyper kid. Maybe my mom left because I was too much work or something. Maybe my dad thinks that. I don’t know. He’s never said that,” Guy rushes to add when he sees my expression. “Grandpa died last year, and that’s when I got super-interested in this race. We’ve had sled dogs in our family for four generations. I’m running this race to remember my grandpa and keep his stories of my great-great-grandpa alive. Grandpa would’ve loved this.”

  I’m not close enough to see his eyes, but I can tell from his voice what they must look like. Full of life.

  “What does your dad think about you racing?”

  “That’s sort of another story. Dad and I have a deal. And it involves me winning this race. Otherwise, he gets rid of the dogs.”

  “Wait, what?” I can’t believe all the deals going on here; the actual dogs running this race would think we’re crazy. “Why would he get rid of the dogs?”

  “They’re expensive is the biggest reason. I’ve tried to tell him it’s our heritage and it’s important. But heritage doesn’t pay the bills. That’s where our deal comes in. Dad has a delivery business. It’s not doing so well, so he’s talking about selling the dogs. But I looked into it, and you know what? Amazon has started contracting out their package deliveries in Canada. And if my dad wins the Amazon contract for northeastern Ontario, it will save his business. It will be huge. What better way to draw interest to his courier business than for his son to win a dogsled race that celebrates couriers? I’ve got a letter to the department that hires the contractors. It’ll be stamped DELIVERED BY DOG TEAM and hopefully grab their attention.”

  “Oh.” I’m too ashamed to say anything else. Dad’s porta-potty business has always done well. There’s never been a time that I can remember when we worried about money. Dad makes enough so that Mom doesn’t need to work. She can keep all her dogs. I can run races. It’s never even occurred to me to wonder until now how much it costs to keep a yard of dogs. How have I taken it for granted?

  “So if I win, hopefully it gets us noticed, and we win the Amazon contract. Or, at the least, we win the purse, and Dad agrees to keep the dogs. But if I don’t win, I’m losing more than the race.” He rubs the back of his neck and then says in a smaller voice, “I need to win. I have to keep my dogs. Plus, winning would be like celebrating our family.”

  My heart sinks at his words. If I win, that means Guy doesn’t win. “Yeah, that would be amazing,” I say.

  Guy slaps his thighs so loud the dogs twitch. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like you.”

  “I’m not interesting at all.”

  “Right. So do you have that thing your sister has or what? Stargardt’s?”

  I pause. A gust of wind roars past the doorway. It feels as if the roar is coming from me. “I don’t know for sure. I haven’t been diagnosed.”

  “Well, if you did get diagnosed, maybe you could stop being afraid. You’re afraid while you run the dogs, I can tell.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “You ride the brake all the time.”

  “What? I do not.”

  “All. The. Time. And I’ll tell you what, that makes no sense since you have more control around corners if you go faster.”

  “Hello? I’ve been running dogs since I was born. Can we just agree that we all know how to drive a freaking dog team?”

  Neither of us speaks for a moment. The dogs shuffle around. Mustard huffs and grumbles as if he totally agrees with me.

  “We all have fears. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Guy points to the Eurohound in his team. “Take Urban over there. He’s working out some issues. Like his fear of snakes. And of sticks that look like snakes.”

  “Listen, I’ve been living with this a while now, so I don’t need you telling me I should stop being afraid and just get tested. It’s not that simple.”

  “Fear of snakes isn’t simple either. And imagine how the snakes feel. Really, t
he only thing that likes a snake is another snake.”

  I just blink at him.

  “What I don’t understand,” Guy plunges on, “is how you were able to hide this from your parents. I mean, I’ve just met you, and I can tell.”

  His words feel like a kick. I shake my head. “I work at being as normal as possible. I’ve gotten good at pretending. The trick is not to spend much time with them. With anyone. It’s just because we’re out running dogs that you noticed something wrong.”

  Guy frowns. “So you avoid spending time with everyone?” He looks sad for me. “Well, my point is that you know. You can’t hide it from yourself, right? So why haven’t you told them?”

  “The disease progresses differently for everyone. Mine could stay like this, which isn’t that bad. I’ve watched Emma living with Stargardt’s. It’s torn my parents apart ’cause my mom does everything for her. I don’t want her—or anyone—to treat me like that. Like I’m helpless.”

  He snorts. “Has she met you? You’re the least helpless person I know.”

  A strange hot feeling sinks into me. “If I tell her, she wouldn’t let me run dogs. And, I don’t know . . . I guess if I don’t get tested, I can keep thinking it’s not going to affect my life like it has Emma’s. It sounds dumb now that I’m saying it out loud.”

  He touches my knee and says quietly, “It’s not dumb.”

  “Even if it’s not, I can’t tell my parents. They’re too busy dealing with my sister to worry about me.”

  “So you mean your parents don’t want to notice. Because they can’t be that busy. You’re their daughter too. It doesn’t make sense what you’re saying.”

  Before I can respond, the dogs all shoot up at once and stare at the opening of the cave.

  A shadowy figure stands there. It looks as if it stepped out of the Otherworld. Snow howls in the background, and clouds of snow snake around the figure’s legs.

  Guy’s face drains of color. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly.

  “Who’s there?” I ask.

  The dark figure stumbles into view. “Holy snappin’,” she says. “Nice cave!”

  January 4, 1897

  Dear Margaret,

  I now accompany the mail courier Eric Skead who is famous for his record-breaking trip from Pukaskwa Depot to White River, a seventy-mile journey that normally takes four days. He completed it in a mere thirty hours. Such haste was needed when he transported the much-loved foreman Joseph Lefebvre to hospital after he had been severely crushed under a load of pulpwood . . .

  Your loving brother, William

  Chapter 26

  “Harper!” I grab for her just as she topples over.

  She’s encrusted in snow. Her lashes are frozen, clinging together with clumps of ice. Her hat is coated with hoarfrost, and her face is haggard and pale; she sort of looks like a frozen chicken. Her dogs are loose, wearing their harnesses and staying close to her like a pack of wolves around a fairy witch.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy.” She wipes her face and looks around. “I am legit freaked out. I mostly just closed my eyes and held on and let the team run. They came right here. Then I saw the glow of your fire.”

  Over by the wall, Sumo begins growling ominously. A lanky black dog of Harper’s stands stiffly, tail flagging up, body erect. The low belly rumble vibrates the ground.

  “Grab your dog!” I yell. But it’s too late.

  Sumo snatches the unlucky dog by its butt. The rest of my team immediately jump to their feet, eager to join in. My dogs. Mongrels. All of them.

  Harper’s loose dogs hurtle themselves into the fray. And then Guy’s team clatters across the cave, dragging the sled over the rocks. We hadn’t even staked them out yet. Guy tries to grab the sled to pull them back but can’t.

  Frenzied snarls echo off the walls. I can’t even see Sumo underneath the writhing pile of dogs and teeth and fur.

  Horrifying sounds of their fight seep into me and root me where I stand. Mad chaos. Dogs everywhere snapping and scrabbling, some trying to get away, some tearing into whoever appears to be losing. It’s the biggest dog brawl I’ve ever seen.

  A shrill “Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God” from Harper finally breaks the spell. I lunge forward.

  Harper’s black dogs are easy to spot; they’re the ones screaming like drama queens. I don’t know what they’re complaining about. They joined in on purpose. Dogs reflect their owners’ personalities, but since Harper hardly runs them, that makes me wonder about her dad.

  “Grab him, Guy! That black dog!”

  “Yoda! No, Yoda! Listen to me, let go!”

  “Harper, get over here! Hold this nutso out of the way! Get that out of your mouth, Damage. Drop it!”

  Shrieking, barking, snarling, roaring, yelping, wailing—it fills the ice room. The thick-walled cave amplifies the clamor. We yell at one another to be heard.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. There are almost twenty dogs in here, stuffed together in a claustrophobic chamber of ice and rock, with all the humans giving off stress vibes. We probably reek of fear. The dogs are just acting it out.

  Slowly, Guy and I get a handle on it and haul the dogs apart.

  “Grab the stakeout line from my sled!” I shout at Harper. I’m gripping the backs of three of her dogs by their harnesses, the webbing material cutting into my fingers every time they jump.

  Finally I heave the last dog off Sumo. And there he is, beaming. One of his ears is decidedly torn and bleeding. I make a tense search through his thick fur, but that appears to be the extent of his injuries. Sumo, at least, is having the time of his life in this cave. Em’s dog. He’s a lover and a fighter; whatever he’s doing, he does it with passion. I just really wish he had more manners doing it.

  “You are a bad dog,” I tell him as I wipe blood off his neck ruff. It doesn’t stop him from his saucy laughing. He’s laughing, mouth wide and panting, eyes wild and shining, looking very smug.

  “What a ninja-pig party,” Guy says.

  “Good dog name,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a surprised laugh from Guy. “Sorry about that,” I say to both of them. “My dogs are all being shipped to Siberia for remedial training in manners after this is over.”

  January 6, 1897

  Dear Margaret,

  The mountains were a monumental obstacle. How does one haul a load of three hundred pounds up mountains? Mr. Skead fashioned a pole that he called a broomstick. He sharpened one end of the broomstick and impaled that end into the trail. In this way, the sled wedged against the broomstick while the dogs took a break and did not slip backwards. The broomstick was also helpful while traveling a portion of sideways trail, the pointed end skimming the ground, thereby angling the sled in that direction . . .

  Your loving brother, William

  Chapter 27

  Once all the dogs are staked and under control, we gather around the fire.

  I pull out my cooker and make some tea, the familiar motions helping to calm me as well as the dogs. Before I drop my last tea bag into a mug for Harper, I sniff, turn my head aside, press a finger to a nostril and forcefully blow out. I do the other nostril in quick succession. Pouring the water into the mug, I catch Harper’s scandalized expression.

  “Would you rather have nose-drip in your tea?” I ask.

  She presses her lips together, then bursts into a grin. Our fingers touch when I pass her the mug and I feel a connection with her. Even though we’re probably the most opposite people ever, I could imagine being friends with Harper if she went to my school. She shakes her head at me and cackles. “What a dog’s breakfast this is.”

  “What were you doing out there?” Guy asks Harper. “Why even come out on the lake? You must’ve seen the blow before you left the trees, since you were behind us.”

  “I had to. I have to win. Didn’t she tell you?” She nods at me. “Dad’s got a lot riding on this race. He just needs this win to finish off his season, and he’ll beat out Mandy Carmichael for top m
usher and the Energence Dog Food sponsorship. He thought having me in the race would give us more media coverage. And if I win, I never have to race another one. I’m winning this thing if it kills me.”

  “Well, how are you going to do that when I’m winning this thing?” Guy says.

  He meant it to be teasing. We all see he’s got only five dogs left compared to Harper’s six faster dogs. He had to drop Captain Jack at the last checkpoint with the same stomach bug that Icon had. But his comment comes out sounding a bit desperate and strained. The words are left to hang there.

  All three of us sit around the fire and eye one another as we sip our tea.

  Each of us needs to win.

  I squeeze my mug as I realize we’re the top teams now. The three youngest mushers in the race. Bondar and Gant are still somewhere behind us. Unless they’ve passed us in the storm, which isn’t very likely.

  “Everyone has probably had to find a place to hide from the storm, right?” Harper echoes my thoughts. “So I think that means we’re ahead. Hard to know until all the times get added, but if we’re faster on this leg, that would even things out.”

  “Yup,” Guy says.

  The tension in the cave is rising. If only all of us could win. I want Harper to win so she can gain her freedom. I want Guy to keep his dogs and carry his family legacy. And I want to be able to save my independence before my world gets turned upside down.

  Who am I kidding? I couldn’t have gotten across that last bay without help. I can’t even deliver the mail.

  My missing mailbag ignites a burning hole in my gut every time I think of it. Now that Em is going to tell my secret, I really cannot lose this race. But how can I possibly win?

  “This reminds me of one of William Desjardins’s adventures,” Guy says.