Hear the Wolves

by Victoria Scott

“You don’t have to tell him,” Pilot says.

  “Oh, yes she does.” Elton grins. “A secret for a secret. That’s the deal.”

  “I didn’t ask about your name,” I mumble. But the longer everyone waits, the bolder I become. Maybe it’s the warmth from our bodies after being so cold. Or maybe it’s boredom. Or maybe it’s because we’ve been in this shelter for three hours, and everyone’s colors blend together so brightly it causes my brain to ache.

  “I got invited to the Junior Art Competition in Anchorage. Someone sent in photos of my work, I guess, and they thought it was good enough for me to come out.”

  “When is it?” Pilot asks.

  I swallow. “March.”

  “Don’t they give like millions of dollars to the winner?” Elton says.

  “Not sure it’s quite that much,” Mr. Foster says. “But it’s probably a good bit of money. If you won, you could use it for proper schooling when you get older. Go to college. You could get accepted as an art major, and then transfer to something else once you got in. Maybe agricultural science or rangeland ecology.”

  “Or you could buy all your friends a satellite TV,” Elton supplies with a grin. “That’s what a good friend would do.” Elton says the word friend like he’s afraid I’ll bite him.

  “Your daddy gonna go with you?” Ms. Wade asks softly.

  I shake my head. “Nah, we don’t have the money for that. I got a scholarship for the flight, and they said I could stay with this woman volunteer for a night.” I look at Mr. Foster. “She’s like you. A teacher.”

  “We’re all the same,” he says with a wink.

  “So you’ll go,” Elton says firmly.

  My silence says everything.

  “You too chicken to go alone?” Nash says. “Because of getting lost in the woods?”

  I bite my lip and turn away, and no matter how hard I fight it—Don’t you do it! Don’t you dare do it!—I feel a burning at the back of my eyes. Not because the memory upsets me that much, but because it’s mortifying when every last person knows your shame.

  “It’s time to get over that, if you ask me,” Nash says, leaning back on his elbows. “Wise of your pop to leave you behind. You need to grow up. So you spent a few days alone out there. So what?”

  In that moment, three things happen—

  Mr. Foster pulls his arm back to bust Nash’s nose.

  Pilot lunges across the shelter like he’s going to take that honor himself.

  And I beat them both to the punch and throw my fist into Nash Blake’s teeth.

  His head snaps back with a satisfying pop, but I’m not done with him yet. I’m tired of the way he treats everyone in our group. I don’t care that he hasn’t visited a bar in days, or how he came to be the way he is. I only care that he’s a bully.

  “I may be a coward,” I tell him. “But you’re spoiled on the inside. You’re rotten, and you don’t deserve a son like Pilot. You deserve to be all alone!”

  Nash fingers a bit of blood from inside his cheek. “Did I just get hit by a twelve-year-old girl?” He laughs, and the sound makes me furious. “Felt like a swat from a kitten.”

  His words burrow into my brain, but I also see how Pilot is biting back laughter. And then suddenly, he’s not. Pilot roars, rolling onto his opposite side and gripping his stomach as he hoots. Elton joins him, and even Mr. Foster laughs.

  “You should have seen your face,” Pilot says to his father, barely able to get the words out. He imitates his dad’s surprised face, and then breaks into another round of body-shaking laughter.

  Ms. Wade smiles, bringing color to her cheeks. Even me—I start to smile too. Nash chuckles like he’s in on the joke. And Pilot’s basset hound jumps with excitement at the sound. And then the dog, he …

  The worst smell I have ever smelled in my entire life wheezes through our shelter. We stop laughing and howl in disgust.

  One by one we zip from the shelter and into the open air, away from that horrible stink. Away from a dog named Farts who loves the taste of cabbage and can clear a room in a matter of seconds.

  “I’ll never breathe through my nose again!” Elton screams with half disgust, half delight.

  “I’ve smelled skunk spray before,” Mr. Foster says. “But that dog could stink a skunk to high heaven.”

  “Might as well keep moving since we’re out here,” Ms. Wade adds. “I’m not sleeping inside that thing now.”

  “You wanna walk in the dark?” Elton asks, his laughter fading.

  I’m thinking the same thing, but when I see the concerned press of Ms. Wade’s lips, I say to her, “It’ll be harder going at night.”

  Indecision twists her face as we war against moving now for her sake, and sticking with the shelter’s warmth for our own. Finally, she says, “I’ve got to move when I have the strength. And right now I’m invigorated by that dog.”

  “Well, someone’s got to go back in and get the guns at least.” Pilot scratches at his wind-chapped cheek, knowing that person will be him. And when no one offers to do the job, he sucks in a deep breath and rushes inside. He reappears seconds later, cheeks puffed out, two guns held under his arm, and a basset hound gripped between his hands—rear end facing out.

  “Oh!” we all yell as he nears us.

  “You know where we’re headed?” Mr. Foster asks Pilot.

  “Him?” Nash interrupts. “That boy would lose his own head if weren’t attached to his body. He’s fooled you if you think it’s him who found the first three shelters. I’m the one who knows the way to the river.” The man smiles at me until my skin crawls. “Pity to think what would happen without good ol’ Nash around.”

  “We’d manage,” I say as nerves knot my insides, because, yeah, I did think Pilot knew where we were headed.

  “I’ve made the trip once,” Pilot mutters.

  I think about adding that I’ve made the same trip myself, but I don’t want to talk about my mom, or share the other reason I’m longing to see the river.

  “Enough chitchat,” Ms. Wade says, stepping between Nash and me. “You two have just about worn me out.” Then she adds, much quieter, “Is everyone okay with this? We don’t have to—”

  “We can do it,” Mr. Foster says.

  Pilot and I nod, and eventually, Elton does too.

  Nash continues to glare at me, his upper lip pulled away from his teeth. Then he bends over, spits into the snow, and takes the lead.

  Before I follow him, I notice there’s a bit of blood mixed with his saliva. I don’t feel bad about hitting Nash. I know I didn’t hurt him much, but I popped him good enough to draw blood. My father may not be the best there is, but he’s a better sort than Nash Blake. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that if he saw me take a fist to that man’s mouth, well, that’d make my daddy smile something fierce.

  We’ve been walking for hours—much too far to retrace our steps—when we realize we’re lost. It’s dark in the forest this late at night. The kind of dark that seeps into your ears and taps on your brain. It whispers in the quiet as you crunch through the snow.

  I am here, behind the trees.

  I grow closer though you cannot hear.

  Did you feel that? I just brushed your cheek.

  I spin around, heart pounding, searching for whatever I felt. But there’s nothing there but dead leaves clinging to branches. They take on the shapes of yellow claws and hungry jaws and monsters with bottomless bellies.

  “We’re going to have to stop and rest,” Mr. Foster says, rubbing that aching arm of his.

  “What, here?” Elton asks.

  “I know I can find it,” Nash growls. “Stupid woman must have moved it or something.”

  “We’ll freeze.” Elton crouches down to pet the basset hound, and that dog is all too happy to bury his head into the boy’s chest. “We have to keep looking. Right?”

  Even in the dark, I can see how Ms. Wade hunches over, gloved hands on her knees. I’d hoped we would make it to the river tomorrow.
If we’d waited until daylight, when Nash could see better, maybe we would have. But now we’re off whatever path he remembers, and who knows how long it’ll take to find our way. I gaze skyward, and notice the snowfall has slowed. Even the wind seems to have slowed. We’d celebrate if we weren’t facing a night spent outside, exposed.

  When I drop into the snow, and Pilot does the same, Elton sighs. “Okay. Okay, I can help.” The boy disappears into the forest even as I yell for him to return. Pilot yells too, mostly for Elton to bring back his dog. Elton reappears a few moments later with an armful of dried bark and leaves, Farts yapping at his heels.

  Elton drops the kindling and rocks he collected, then waves his arms toward the snow. “Clear it down to the dirt, then cover it with dry clothing.”

  Realizing what he’s aiming at, Pilot jumps to attention. He cups his hands and rakes away the snow. Then he opens his jacket and, before anyone can object, pulls off his sweater, long-sleeved thermal shirt, and finally, the thin long-sleeved shirt beneath that.

  I can’t drag my eyes away from Pilot’s bare chest, though my face reddens at the sight of him partially undressed. When Ms. Wade sees me staring, I turn away, embarrassed.

  “Pilot, you’ll get hypothermia,” Mr. Foster says. But he doesn’t offer to spare any of his own clothing.

  “It’s just a shirt.” Pilot lays the cloth over the ground, and Elton puts the dry twigs he foraged on top as Pilot re-dresses. Then he begins cutting the rocks against each other. The sound echoes through the clearing, and I can’t help wondering what animals it might attract.

  “I can do that,” Nash says, moving closer. “Here, I’m stronger.”

  “No, there’s an art to it.” Elton keeps striking the rocks. “Well, that and some patience. Pilot, hold your jacket around my hands so the wind doesn’t steal my spark.”

  It must take Elton two hundred false starts before those crispy leaves start to singe. Elton bends low and cups his hands around them, blowing gently. “Grab the bark chips. Dry them in your gloves and then rub them between your bare hands. Quick!”

  Pilot does as he says, snatching up the dead bark, and I jump in to help. When I tear the gloves from my hands, I gasp from the cold.

  Before long, a humble fire springs to life. Elton leaps back and gives the fire room to breathe.

  We dive forward, warming our hands, whooping with joy at this small miracle.

  Mr. Foster rubs his hands before the flame and looks at Elton with wonder. “That was fantastic. A shining example of science at work. You’re a bright kid, Elton Dean Von Anders.”

  “It’s not science; it’s survival,” I say. “There’s a difference.” I look from Mr. Foster to Elton and add, “But either way, it was wicked cool.”

  Elton beams, and I scoot closer to him. Bump his shoulder with my own as something passes between us. The makings of a friendship, my heart says hopefully. From someone who understands what you’ve been through.

  “We need dead branches,” Elton says, snapping back into survival mode. “We can dry them over the fire and use them as torches. The fire won’t stay on the ground long.”

  “How’d you learn to do this?” Nash asks.

  Elton shrugs. “My brother wanted to be a marine before he decided on college. Said you had to know how to survive in enemy territory as a soldier. After he left, I read all his books.” Elton glances at the rocks he cast aside. “Those are quartz. Not too hard to find near water. We must be getting close to the river.”

  His words ignite hope in my chest. It remains there as we light the torches. As we settle our backs against tree trunks and decide on watch shifts.

  “We should watch in pairs until the sun rises,” I suggest. “I can go first if someone wants to partner with me.”

  “I can go with you,” Elton says.

  I smile.

  I move close to Elton as silence settles over bent heads, blistered mouths buried into scarves. The others fall into a restless sleep as I work to find a way to talk with Elton.

  Eventually, I decide to simply say my thoughts outright. “Must have been hard when your brother left, huh?”

  Elton’s eyes snap to mine, cautious.

  There’s that yellow.

  Elton crosses his legs. Rubs his hands over his knees. “He was my best friend.” The boy releases a long, tired breath. “He was my only friend, I guess. He took care of me.”

  “You have your mom though, right?” I ask gently.

  “As much as you do.”

  His comparison stings, but I find myself nodding. “She that bad?”

  Elton smiles, but it isn’t a happy smile. “It’s like she only had enough love for one kid, and there’s no way I was winning that contest. She’s mad he left, which makes it worse.” Elton frowns, and I can tell he’s fighting pain as big as my own. “I’m mad he left too. He knew how she was to me. He knew.”

  I try to puzzle out how to make Elton feel better. In the end, I say, “I think … I think it’s hard to see ourselves different than how our parents see us. I didn’t know your brother, but you seem pretty cool to me.”

  Elton squints and looks away like he’s trying to find something in the distance. After a quiet moment, he glances at me and says, “Well, I think you’re really brave, and smart too.”

  Intuitive and vulnerable.

  I grin. “When this is all over, maybe we should hang out. I could show you how to hunt squirrels.”

  Elton nods, eyes dancing. “And I could show you how to spit-fish. It’s a way of fishing using only your shirt and the saliva in your mouth!”

  I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Sounds good to me.”

  Elton looks at a sleeping Pilot. “Maybe we should let him hang out with us too. I like his dog.”

  My eyes fall on Pilot, on the angles of his face, both hard and soft at once. “That’d be okay, I guess.” I grin at Elton. “Then there’d be three of us. We could make a lot of trouble.”

  “We’ll drive Mr. Foster crazy,” Elton says through a giggle.

  “Excellent.”

  I stare up at the trees, and Elton does the same. After a long while, the boy says with a sigh, “I miss him so much.”

  I bite my lip. “He’ll be back, Elton.”

  He nods, head still tilted upward. Then he asks, in that quiet voice I’ve learned to like, “Do you think your mom will come back?”

  I bite down as tears sting my eyes. “No,” I say softly. “No, she won’t come back.”

  Despite struggling to keep his eyes open, Elton falls asleep. Without our conversation, the forest grows quiet. What happened to the hooting of those great horned owls? What happened to the black spruce trees that moaned under the weight of winter?

  The silence is terrifying. Not because I’m afraid of what lies beneath it, but because it offers my mind room to spin.

  Pilot wakes up, shivering so hard it looks as if he’s shaking his head no. If I were the girl I was before I got lost in the woods, maybe I’d hold his hand and say that I was only ever angry with him because he reminds me of what a coward I am. Because out there all alone, with my left ear pressed into the snow, I was empty. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t angry. I was just done.

  I’d spent the first three days searching for town, humiliated that I ever believed I could find the river on my own. Or that my mother would return if I did.

  It was the fifth day that I gave up.

  When I first heard Pilot’s voice it sounded so distant I was terrified he’d slip away. But I didn’t move. Even as hope burst through every cell in my body. I lay there, numb and dumb and crying so hard my body shook as Pilot’s does now.

  I wanted him to find me.

  And I didn’t.

  Pilot scoots toward me. When I don’t say anything, he takes it as an invitation and moves so that we’re side by side, my good ear facing his cheek. Our arms press together, and he begins to calm. But after only a few minutes of silence, a noise startles me. It’s a ligh
t crunching sound. A shuffling between bushes. The hair on my arms rises.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask Pilot.

  He nods.

  We hold our breath and my scalp tingles, waiting to see what made that sound. It comes again, faster. The sound of light footsteps. Of webbed paws.

  I see them before Pilot does.

  Those eyes.

  Those eyes staring at us from behind a wall of darkness. There are no growls or barks or excited yips. Wolves are not dogs. They are quiet, patient. They creep silently—noses low—upon their prey. Just as they have done to us now.

  Pilot races toward a set of eyes and swings our torch in their direction. “Get back! Get out of here!”

  Almost immediately, the rest of our camp is on their feet. Elton screams and Mr. Foster nearly falls into the fire and Nash demands to know why everyone is carrying on. I’ve got my father’s gun poised before another word can leave another mouth.

  Three bullets left in this gun.

  Three in the other.

  Is it worth it?

  Yes.

  Pilot swings the torch, yelling and stomping his feet. The wolves back away, but they don’t flee. We’re too exposed out here. The smell of blood on Ms. Wade is too strong. I take aim at the closest pair of eyes, and step toward them.

  I breathe in. Breathe out.

  Fire.

  I missed! I can’t believe it. The eyes dashed out of view the moment before that third-to-last bullet whizzed from my father’s gun. Doesn’t matter. Those yellow eyes wink out, two at a time, until none remain. No one speaks for a long time. We turn in nervous circles, breathing hard, waiting for a wolf to lunge, though it goes against anything we’ve ever known about them.

  But I know them in a different way than the others, don’t I? Ms. Wade may know their behavior, and their culture, but I know a hunter’s mind—the way it locks on its prey and doesn’t let go. They have us in their sights, in their noses, and they’ll choose one of two paths in the future. They’ll hide among the trees and creep silently upon us as they did now, or they’ll chase us out into the open as my father and I do the hares.

  “Move together,” I say sharply. “Back-to-back.”