Shandi Mitchell

by Under This Unbroken Sky (v5)

  The chair creaks again. The even sounds of her family’s breathing continue undisturbed. She worries too much. She has to learn to trust. Trust that her family will be taken care of. Trust that this is their home now. Maria leans forward in the chair. She cocks her ear, unsure if she has heard anything. She closes her eyes. She listens past the breath of her house, past the crackling of the fire, through the window’s glass.

  “Teodor?” Maria shakes him awake. “I hear a rabbit crying.”

  HAVING FALLEN ASLEEP so early, Teodor now feels that it should be morning. But it must be only three or four o’clock. A million stars curtain the sky. Teodor finds Pivnichna zoria, the midnight star. One of the guardian trinity, along with Rannia zoria, the morning star, and Vechirnia zoria, the evening star, that guard the chained dog from eating the little bear. If the chain ever breaks, the world will end. Teodor wonders if all the stars have names. He can’t imagine anyone spending their entire lives looking up, mapping and categorizing all the seeds of light. He searches for recognizable shapes—the bear, the dog, the three leaps of the deer—but the star animals elude him.

  He shifts the rifle from his shoulder to the cradle of his arm. He yawns, though he feels wide awake. The brisk cold fills his lungs. He pulls the warmth of his leather jacket closer and hunkers deeper into the sheepskin lining. He tried to convince Maria that she had imagined the sound, that it wasn’t possible to hear anything that far away. But she wouldn’t be dissuaded, even after he took her outside and they stood on the stoop and heard nothing at all. The more he pointed out the improbability, the more distressed she became until she was on the verge of tears. He told her he would check.

  He still hasn’t told her about Stefan or Petro. What will he tell her? That the son of a bitch is gone? For how long this time? Until next month, the spring, next harvest? He won’t be back until winter is over. He’s like a magpie chasing after shining bits of rubbish, feeding on the carcasses others fought and died for. Teodor spits. At least it’s one less mouth to feed.

  Maria will want to bring Anna to their place until the baby is born, but Teodor doesn’t want her in the house. She signed the letters, even if she didn’t write them. He stops and lights a cigarette. Inhales the strong tobacco. He exhales to the sky. Above him, northern lights flicker. Ivan says it’s star people. Katya says it’s God. Teodor doesn’t know what it is. A reason to look up. He breathes in deep and the answer comes. It is freedom.

  The word makes his throat tighten. Free. Of everything they did to him, it was the walls that nearly drove him mad. Not being able to see the sky. They tried to break him by breaking his body. Animals can be broken that way. They become husks of skin and bones. He saw it under Stalin. He saw it in prison, so many hollow, empty eyes. But some beaten animals become fiercer. Their eyes burn wild. They die before they submit. But still, they die. Staying alive requires remembering what it means to be alive. Still, he almost broke. It was the walls. When they left him alone. When he had nothing to fight; nothing to hate; nothing to defy. Five steps—wall, five steps—wall. They took away the sky.

  But look at it now.

  Shoosh, shoosh, shoosh. He smiles at the sound of his boots on the snow. He is not counting his steps. He loves being the only one walking through the night. The snow catching the moon’s reflection casts a blue-white sheen. He doesn’t feel small in this vastness. He feels as if he can expand as far and wide as he can see. He breathes deeper out here, walks taller. This is where they’ll bury him. Under this unbroken sky.

  He can see the outline of the stone wall, grey-white, slashing the night. The dividing line, his and hers. This stone wall will stand for a hundred years and a hundred more after that. Long after the buildings rot and the scrub grows wild. Someday someone will walk through this field and see the stones worn and pocked with time, sunken into the earth. They’ll walk the line, run their hand over the rounded stones, and wonder, Who put these here? Maybe they’ll pick up a rock and marvel at its weight. Try to imagine how long it took to build. Wonder, Why is it here?

  Teodor chuckles. It was just a place to pile the rocks. He listens to his footsteps. Maybe, if he’s honest with himself, he was marking a line, but he never thought he’d need it.

  He sees the moon shadow of the first snare. Sixth rock in from the east end. The stiff wire loop propped tight against the base of the stone wall. Empty. No tracks mar the snow’s crust. He shakes his head; he knew there’d be nothing here. The gun swings at his hip, loose and casual as a walking stick. One bullet in the chamber. One more in his pocket, as an afterthought. He runs his hand over the stones, plowing a cap of snow, following the line west. Now that Stefan is gone, Anna will do the right thing. In the spring, they’ll go to the land office together and she’ll sign it over in his name. That will be the end of it. If the weather breaks earlier, they’ll go sooner. It’s not right, them fighting.

  They already left one world and one family behind. That’s enough to lose. The day he left Ukraïna, he shook his father’s hand. As he walked away, they both waved a farmer’s wave. A slight, friendly gesture—the universal code for don’t make a fuss, it’s been good to see you, see you around. Khlib i sil’. Bread and salt.

  He doesn’t even know if his father is still alive. There are no letters and no one from the village has made it to these parts. He can’t remember his father’s face or the colour of his eyes, but he remembers his hands. Gnarled and wrinkled, every cord and artery revealing the man. The short, thick nails, the moons ridged with dirt. The crooked left index finger, missing the tip and half a nail. The gouged scar on the left forefinger, beneath the first knuckle. The roughness of his callused palms. He remembers the strength of those hands, crushing his own, as they shook one last time. That was another world. Ten thousand miles away. Now the mile between him and Anna seems so much farther.

  The second snare is empty. He is about to turn back when he hears a low grunt and sniff. He listens. Hears a snuffling. He steps closer to the wall and looks over. Not twenty feet on the other side are two coyotes, nosing the ground. They haven’t heard or smelled him, too intent on rooting at something on the ground. Teodor pulls off his glove and slips his finger into the trigger. A decent coyote pelt is worth a dollar. He has two shots. He can get a clear bead on the larger one. Just behind the left ear. The shot will probably scare off the other one.

  Teodor quietly, carefully raises the rifle and takes aim. The larger coyote paws at the snow. It sidesteps, exposing its flank but blocking a clean kill. Both dogs sniff curiously, timid. Teodor can see a dead rabbit at their feet. He steadies his arm, his eye. He has a clear shot on the smaller coyote. He cocks the trigger. The click is ear-splitting. The coyotes rear around, teeth bared. But they don’t flee; they hunker their heads and close ranks. The larger one snarls a warning. Hackles ridge their backs and bristle around their necks. Back off, they warn. This is ours.

  Teodor takes aim between the larger dog’s eyes. It spits a fury of threats, its teeth gnashing with each snap. The smaller coyote grabs the rabbit and tries to drag it off, tearing the pelt. It grabs again, tugging at the weight. It hops backward, its right front leg slapping the air, a stump where there should be a foot.

  Teodor takes a step forward, trying to get a better shot. The larger coyote whips around, grabs the carcass, and jerks it up, grasping for a better hold. The pelt slides off as if it’s been skinned. Teodor sees a limb. His mind grapples with the shape. The hindquarters? The hare’s leg? Pink, blue … a hand. Tiny, perfect fingers.

  Teodor fires, not aiming. The shot explodes in the snow. He is screaming, lunging over the wall. The small female with the missing foot clamps down on the bundle and drags it over the snow. The large male charges after her, unhinges its jaw, and shovels the carcass to the back of its throat. They race for the woods. Teodor ratchets the bolt, emptying the spent shell. He fishes for the bullet in his pocket, jams it into the chamber. He flounders through the snow, drops to his knees, takes aim, unable to steady his hands.
Fires.

  The crack of the gunshot ricochets across the prairies. The coyotes keep running, Teodor’s howls chasing them relentlessly.

  AT THE FIRST SHOT, Maria is on her feet. She hears Teodor’s shouts and she is racing for Myron’s room. By the second shot, she has shaken him awake and is pulling on her coat. Her children file out of their rooms, frightened by their mother’s flurry. Katya and Ivan are already sniffling. Myron pulls on his pants and sees that the rifle is gone. They can hear a coyote howling, howling. Katya starts to cry, wants her mama not to go. Maria yells at them to stay in the house and she is out the door, running across the field, not thinking what she will do when she gets there. Myron chases after her, his fingers fumbling to fasten his coat.

  “ANNA!” Teodor screams, hammering the door with the butt of the rifle. “Open the door!” He kicks at the latch. The door shudders and heaves. “Anna!”

  Lesya and Petro jump awake, not recognizing the crazed voice screaming through the door. “Let me in!” From the glow of the wood stove, Lesya sees her mother sitting at the table, dressed in her cloak, a puddle of melted snow at her feet, her hands clasping her stomach. The door sways on its hinges. “Anna!”

  The children cower in their bed. “Mama?” Lesya cries. The door frame cracks. Petro jumps down from the bed and grabs a log to wield as a weapon. He shrinks into the corner. “He’s going to kill us,” he whispers.

  Teodor tosses aside the rifle and batters the door with his fists. “Open the door,” he sobs. “Anna …” He batters against the splintering wood, not feeling the pain. The wooden latch jumps, shimmying free with each pounding.

  Lesya hobbles to her mother. Her bad foot folds under her ankle and she falls against the soapbox cradle. Empty. “What have you done?”

  The door crashes open and Teodor is across the room in two strides; he overturns the table separating him from his sister. Anna doesn’t flinch.

  He grabs her by the collar and drags her to her feet. “Why?” He wants to kill her, he wants her to feel what he feels. He drives her against the back wall. “Why?” She doesn’t struggle, she looks beyond him, unafraid. Teodor slams his fist into the wall beside her head and they both know there is nothing more he can do. “Why?” he begs.

  “She died,” Anna says, her voice small and grieved.

  Teodor doesn’t believe her. He searches her eyes, knowing it can’t be true. Her eyes are calm, peaceful. He looks to Lesya. Blue-grey eyes. Frozen eyes, cracked ice, dripping sorrow. Tell me. Lesya looks to the ground. She does the only thing she can. She nods.

  Teodor exhales a broken keen, his head drops to Anna’s breast, and he clings to her mantle, sobbing like a child. Anna strokes his hair. His cries fill her empty belly. She died, she tells herself. She died the moment she was conceived.

  “Don’t cry,” she tells him, just like she told her. “She’s safe now.”

  Teodor pulls away, not wanting to be touched by the same hands that laid a child in a snowbank. He would have buried her. He would have made a coffin. She. She. She. A girl. Nameless. He backs away, stammering, “I’m sorry.” Sorry for the baby, sorry for the little boy hiding in the corner, sorry for the little girl with the crooked foot hiding behind her hair. Sorry that he will never speak to his sister again.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Anna challenges his burning eyes. Accusing. Judging. Condemning. “Don’t look at me!” Teodor walks out the door, picks up the gun, and heads into the night.

  Anna follows him to the door. “She died!” The shrill words sound hollow and unconvincing. She chases after him. “She died!” She wants him to understand. She wants him to see that they’re all just ghosts. “She was already dead!”

  But he keeps walking, leaving only his footprints to betray he once existed. Anna stops chasing him, knowing he’s never coming back.

  “It’s my land.” She hurls the words. “I want you off my land!”

  MARIA AND MYRON MEET Teodor coming up from Anna’s on the far side of the stone wall. Maria throws herself around him. She clings to him, praising all that is holy that her husband is all right. Teodor gently loosens her arms.

  “You shouldn’t be out here,” he tells her.

  “I heard the shots. I heard a coyote. Did you kill it? Did it get away?” Talk to me.

  Teodor hands the rifle to Myron. “You should be in bed. We should all be in bed.”

  Teodor leads them home. Tch-tch-tch.

  “Did you find the rabbit?” Maria persists.

  He takes six steps before answering, “There was no rabbit.”

  He doesn’t speak again until they are about to go inside the house. “Go on in,” he tells Myron. “I want to talk to your mother.”

  He walks to the twin boulders and sits down on the seat of snow. He looks up at the sky. Maria takes a seat beside him.

  The same stars are shining down. The dog is still chained; the little bear is safe. The air smells the same. The fields look the same. It should all be different, he thinks.

  “There was no rabbit …” Teodor begins.

  MAMA IS CRYING in bed. Tato is speaking low. The fire is burning too hot. Katya swallows down another piece of Christ. The hard, dry dough sticks to the roof of her mouth. She gags. Pushes it back in. Its hardness clumps in her stomach. She chips off another piece and forces it in. She won’t stop until she has eaten every bit of him.

  The temperature hovers just below freezing. The sun has shone hard and insistent for the last three days. Blue endless sky, blinding white fields. The rabbits are running; birds descend, scavenging seed; mice scramble over and under drifts; cats pad across the banks, their ears tuned to what’s under the snow. All the life that has been hiding scurries into the world with a heady exuberance, an insatiable lust, to gorge and stockpile. Chickadees herald winter’s short reprieve. Come out, come out, they call. We’re alive. We’re alive.

  Dania drapes the trees with bedding. White sheets, freshly laundered, stiffen with frost. She dresses the world with a kaleidoscope of blankets, quilts, pillowcases, and linens: soft blue, salmon, and yellow mingle with vivid orange and red. She suspends the woven flowers and embroidered stars, deer, rabbits, and wheat sheaves like pages from a storybook. A perfect, sunny world. She breathes in the lemon-scented soap. She will never forget this smell.

  Myron has been splitting wood. The pile tumbles around him, large and sprawling. The frozen logs shatter effortlessly. His coat is folded neatly to the side. He needs only a sweater to fend off the chill. He doesn’t think where to place the log or strike the axe; his mind and hands perform automatically. He dances with the wood and the blade in perfect rhythm. The handle, polished by his and his father’s hands, is warm in his grip. He sets the log on its end. His arms stretch upward, his strength pours from him through the handle into the blade, slamming into the heart of the wood. The vibration drives down through the log, a clean line erupts, and one piece falls open into two. He will never forget this sensation.

  Ivan gathers the wood and stacks it by the door. Three cords are already piled as high as he can reach. He likes fitting the logs together, stacking them like a puzzle to make the tightest fit. He piles them straight, then gradually slopes them back to bear the weight. He mixes soft wood with hard, large logs with small. Each log displays its rings, telling him its age, its type, whether it rained too much one year, or not at all, if it was healthy or sick. Special wood, like a clean, unblemished white birch or lodgepole pine, he sets aside in a separate pile. They look like ordinary sticks of wood, but inside are birds and spoons, crosses and horses, waiting for his father to carve them free. Tato says the wood shows him what’s inside. Sometimes Ivan thinks he sees an eagle’s beak, a horse’s mane, a dog’s head, a dragonfly, an old man’s hand. He will always remember to look for what is hidden.

  Sofia has shovelled proper paths leading from their door to the new barn, to the outhouse, to the twin boulders, and back around the house. The little roads curve and veer across the flatness, cutting throug
h the snow. She walks the paths, loving the sound of her boots crunching on the hard-packed trail. Her skirt swishes daintily, untouched by the mess of snow. Her stockings are dry. Her gloved hands trail over the banks, as though she is a fine lady strolling through a garden of white lilies. She will never forget the sensation of a wet, sticky snowball spattering the back of her head or the sound of her little sister’s gales of laughter as she chases her through the paths until they explode off the trails in a powdery cloud.

  Katya will never forget how round and perfect the snowball was as it arced from her mitten, sailed through the air, and found its mark. A glorious accident, her first perfect throw. She will never forget the taste of the snow, its coldness slithering down her back, its softness as they tumble through it. How it sticks to their coats and stockings, hats and mitts, clumps in their hair, trickles down their collars. She’ll never forget lying on their backs begging each other to stop. And the quietness of being held by the snow, as they closed their eyes to the sun. Their faces warm, their backs cold. Their fingers covertly rolling another snowball.

  They are all trying to forget their father, who hasn’t come outside the last three days. He is sitting in front of the window. Unmoving. Transfixed on a spot somewhere beyond them, down the hill, at the stone wall. He stood when Myron went to check the snares. He didn’t sit again until he saw his son trudging back up the hill. Myron victoriously held up a rabbit for his father’s approval, but Teodor was no longer watching.

  Myron didn’t question him about the coyote tracks on the other side of the wall, or his father’s tracks, steady approaching the wall, then breaking into a full run, falling, then staggering down the hill to his sister’s house. Or the rabbit-pelt blanket he remembers his mother making that he found trampled amid the tracks. Or the drag marks. He pushed the pelt under the snow with his toe and brushed away the tracks.