Silver-White
Copyright © 2012 by Shawn Underhill
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons or animals living or dead is purely coincidental.
No animals were harmed
Cover art by Ravven @ www.ravven.com
“Mankind has a habit of burning the library before reading its books.”
—The Last Wild Wolves
The Great North Woods consist of some 26 million acres of sparsely populated forestlands, encompassing portions of four northeastern U.S. states: New York, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine, as well as portions of the Canadian province of Quebec.
-Prologue-
Long before she knew why, Evie Brooks lived to run.
The infatuation began soon after her first steps. Whenever she would run (speed-waddle, really) she found that her mother would give chase, and by Evie’s reckoning, a roaring good time was had by all. So she ran. A lot. Forget Pat-a-cake and Peek-a-boo. The games her mother called Get Back Here and No Running in the House were Evie’s favorites. They played almost every day.
Then came kindergarten.
In a small classroom lined with toys and stacked mats for taking naps upon, Evie was expected to waste entire mornings at a desk, stone-still and silent. Her mother had seemed quite sold on the place, even before they arrived, but needless to say, energetic Evie was far less than thrilled.
When the weather turned hot that year Evie’s mother stopped bringing her to the place of stillness, and she assumed she had escaped school’s perils. But after a pleasant summer of relative freedom, that fall she found herself back in school once more—this time in a larger classroom within a larger building. It was first grade, they told her. And what that meant was full days anchored to a desk.
The first hour of her first day Evie was sternly reminded on several occasions to remain seated at her desk. Her compliance took a tremendous effort; though her legs wiggled and her feet kicked a bit, she survived the torturous morning until recess. The short break raised her spirits, only to give way to another longer stint at her desk, and a subsequent drop in spirits. After that, however, she discovered that there was hope; one class was different from the rest.
It was time for PE.
A different-looking sort of teacher—Evie thought a happier-seeming fellow who wore a whistle around his neck—propped the doors open and led a noisy march from the building. Coach McGrath, he introduced himself as; he proceeded to unzip a large, bulgy nylon bag, poured its contents onto the grass, and then stood back proudly with his hands on his hips.
Most of her classmates were pleased when the black and white checker-patterned balls spilled and rolled, but for Evie it felt like something more, something almost … magical: it was first love. She needed no prodding to give chase, no encouragement to compete. The only problem was getting her settled down for lunch.
Call it a fling—she remembered it as a childish crush—Evie and soccer didn’t last. Middle school was to blame. There she discovered the world of competitive running: track and cross country, and soccer got trashed quicker than an old boy band poster. Running became the consuming, unrivaled love of her young life—although she never could quite explain why, she rarely slowed down long enough to consider it; she just knew in her bones that it was.
By sixteen the hurried life was Evie’s way of life, a given. At school she ran in the halls. At church she rushed in late, clicking in her heels while the old ladies scowled (the old men never seemed to mind so much; often they smiled at her, nicely offsetting their wives’ ever-deepening frowns). In her car Evie tended to speed; within her first few months of driving alone she’d met several of Alabama’s nicest, warning-only police officers—and one not so nice. She even ran in her dreams.
Most often Evie’s running dreams were not of tracks or meets but of a dirt road in the far-off North Woods—the road dividing the pastures and fields of corn on her grandparents’ farm: her favorite place in the world. In dreams she visited often, but in reality, circumstances being as they were—the interference of school and whatnot—her visits were limited to summer trips and the occasional white Christmas.
These northern dreams were typically soothing in nature: warm, sunny, idyllic breaks from her daily grind. So imagine her surprise when one night, without any sort of warning, the world around her went suddenly pitch dark. Almost as if the sun had been switched off, the road and corn stalks faded from her view, and Evie found herself jogging along in cold silence.
Her initial reaction was a slowing of her pace; in confusion she glanced around, more curious than anything. But in the pitch darkness, that curious confusion very quickly became fear—a creeping sort of fear sidling up from behind her and nipping at her heels. Her natural response to that was of course, to run.
Without bothering to look over her shoulder (she didn’t want to know) she took off as though her life depended on it. Pushing beyond her comfort zone to the very edge of her well-known limit, she continued at that pace until her heart could beat no faster, her lungs felt ready to burst. Her choices soon narrowed to only two: let up or collapse.
And then the strangest thing happened.
Instead of hitting the wall, staggering and crashing … in a strange moment—right as she should have faltered—just as true panic set in—she felt herself somehow pushing through the wall. Next second she was out other side, unbelievably, leaving her limit far behind. Her strides seemed to lengthen, her legs coursed with new strength, and her heart rate settled into the comfortable rhythm of a jog. She could see no clear landmarks to gauge her speed against, but judging by the air rushing by her she knew that with far less effort she was actually moving faster. Much faster.
It was a dream, she understood in a dreamy sort of way; only a dream. But very quickly it had become the best running dream she’d ever had; the rate was almost frightening—at least double her typical best. It felt real in her limbs and her lungs; it even smelled real. So holding her course to what felt like straight, she let go of all concern, fear became nothing; the love of speed possessed her entirely. The sensation was freedom in motion—pure freedom without consequence—and she lived only for that feeling, that moment, the exhilaration of cool air swelling her lungs, the sheer thrill of moving tirelessly fast.
She was under the shadows of trees, she realized next, not pitch darkness; her eyes were adjusting. Overhead she noticed twinkles of light teasing between the dark outlines of branches, while before her she saw the dark smoothness of a well-worn trail. Soon she felt the terrain shifting beneath her feet—which seemed oddly to be bare yet did not hurt—and realized that not only was she moving forward at this incredible pace, she was also climbing.
Ahead she noticed light. The trees about her began to thin, and the soft forest floor gave way to firm ledge. On she ran until she broke from the shadows into an open space beneath an endless ceiling of night sky. On a bluff of smooth stone she halted, scanning her surroundings in all directions.
She was alone in a world of wild silence; only small night sounds met her ears. The light of a half-moon glowing in a sea of stars showed a steep drop in one direction. Below the bluff the tops of innumerable trees stretched on for miles and miles. Across this ocean of tree tops she could see the crawling shadows of stray puffy clouds passing under the moon’s light. And far beyond, a range of tall mountains reached into the sky, their sharp peaks carving a rough line against steely white stars on midnight blue.
Memories suddenly caught up with her. Evie knew this place. Because she’d never seen it under starlight, it had taken her a moment to recognize, but she knew the place well. It meant
family, comfort, home—her second home. The dark run had not taken her away from her grandparents’ property, only to a different corner of it; from this spot she’d watched a hundred summer sunsets. Her chest warmed with the recognition, and for a while she stood solemnly basking in her surroundings.
But, as with most good dreams, this dream didn’t last. Just as she’d really started to appreciate it, she felt it all slipping away.
In the stillness something startled her, cutting the silence and jolting her from the warmth of recognition; that something was a voice. In the dark it seemed to come from everywhere at once, chilling her like an icy wind. And then in a terrible second the darkness began to pale, the mountains and trees faded, the night sky went white; daylight flooded her eyes. That quickly it was over. Against her protests she felt herself hauled back into the waking world, plucked from that magical spot by the icy whispering of her name.
***
Far to the north, many miles removed from Evie and her strange dream, a great pack of wolves gathered on that very ledge. Known as Moon Rock, it was the granite peak of Oak Hill. Shining like an island of reflected light amid miles of dark forest, the stony knoll had long served as their secret meeting hall: the cathedral under the stars of the Great North Pack.
News was in the air that night, the excitement of which swept through the pack as they answered the meeting call and streamed in from all directions. Some thirty strong, the riotous assembly closed round their magnificent leader, bowing in reverence as he stood head high, eyes glowing green fire, his white coat shimmering ghostly silver under the pale light. And when most all were present in that sacred spot, their whines and yips of spirited greetings erupted into a many-noted song of celebration—a chorus of howls sung in beautiful accord—in honor of their leader, and of their newest member.
-1-
Evie felt ready to explode.
Shutting off her bedroom light with a smack, she stomped to bed by the glow of her phone. Once in bed she shut the phone off and let it fall to the carpeted floor. It was Friday night, and he’d ditched her. His idea to go out, and he’d ditched her. Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to pick her up, and the tool had actually ditched her.
I wasted my summer on him, she realized. No, not all. But enough. I missed August. The important part. Going up north with Papa Joe, Grammy Evelyn, and all the cousins, aunts and uncles. I missed all those good times, all that homemade food. Sunsets over the mountains. Breathing that delicious air. Running in that air. Grooming the horses and riding the four-wheelers. Picking buckets of blueberries and eating apples straight from the trees. Everything gone. Wasted on a zit that couldn’t beat me at a video game, never mind a real sport.
Evie rolled over and faced her bedroom window. It was barely dark outside, she was still dressed to go out, but all she wanted was the escape of sleep, to blink her eyes and have it be morning, to have this feeling behind her.
When it came to friends and family Evie was as sweet as a summer day was long. A nearly equal and opposing portion of her, though, was as fiery as her red hair—a trait she had always assumed to be her southern upbringings. To cry would have been a relief, to scream would have been almost fun, but right then she found she could do neither. She’d never felt quite like this before. Even her fancy Stay-Cool pillow seemed to be burning against her cheek.
Lying there in a heap of despondency, she wasn’t sad enough to cry, she wasn’t angry in that obvious, screaming and pitching-a-total-fit sort of way. This was a silent, simmering, focused rage—the kind that drives otherwise nonviolent people to, say for instance, calmly walk to the kitchen, pick up a knife, and stab the cause of that rage to death without a word of warning.
“Just give someone a chance,” her friends loved to say. “You’re way too picky.” Well, she was picky for good reason. She’d given someone a chance, and this is what she got for it. Ditched. By a part-time shoe salesman no less! One who thought watching SportsCenter every night and repeating what he’d heard made him some sort of an athlete.
Ha! If she hadn’t been so angry she would have laughed out loud. That much he was good for at least; he was funny … sometimes. But not half as smart as he thought he was. And definitely not as slick.
“Never again, buddy,” she promised herself aloud. “I don’t play baseball. One strike and you’re out.”
Again Evie rolled over. Facing the wall was darker, and darkness was conducive to sleep. In the process of rolling over she made her mind up: she would track him down and cause him bodily harm—at her earliest convenience of course.
Not for ditching her. No, she was over that quickly. And the fact that he wouldn’t get the chance to do it again was a small comfort. It was the summer—the August she couldn’t get back that really burned her. That was the helpless part. When Evie felt helpless, Evie got mad. And when Evie got mad, balls tended to get kicked. Hard. Soccer had been good practice.
Thinking this way, it took her a long time to fall sleep. Without a clue where a dream would soon lead her, she had no way of guessing that these few bitter hours would be the final hours of her ordinary life.
Evie shivered. The voice pulling her from the dream was urging her to wake. As she took her first conscious breath, the smell of dewy bark mulch filled her head. Then she felt something soft being draped over her. Blinking under the growing light, she trembled under the blanket.
“It’s me,” the voice said, and Evie recognized it now as her mother’s gentle whisper. “Can you stand?”
In response Evie mumbled something incoherent as she set her mind to the task of standing, still clueless as to her location or the reason for her mother’s urgings. The moment she moved, however, her efforts were met with an immediate surge of head-to-toe pain. She winced, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Never in her life had she felt anything like it. Every joint felt locked, every inch of her body tender to the touch; the soft morning light seemed harsh.
“I know it hurts,” her mother said softly, “but you can’t stay in the flower garden all day. Not like this anyway. You’re naked as the day you were born, girl.”
Evie stood weakly but quickly then, assisted by the strong drive of extreme embarrassment and her faithful mother. Everything was spinning. Clutching the blanket to her bare skin she set off staggering for the house, squinting under the terrible glare, and leaning on her mother. Up the back steps they climbed one step at a time to the deck and entered the living room through the sliding glass door. From there Evie crawled onto the couch, sinking down into its warm softness, and lay shivering under the blanket. If she’d spent the night on a bed of jagged rocks, she could have felt no worse.
“At least it was our flower bed,” her mother remarked. “There’s always a bright side, honey.”
Evie groaned. Her mind was in a fog. Just to speak seemed to require a great effort. “What’s going on? Why was I outside? And why am I naked?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Only the wildest Friday night of your life. For sure I thought you’d remember that.”
“Last night?” Evie murmured, trying in vain to focus through her discomfort. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, never mind,” her mother said calmly. “You’re in shock right now and you’re spiking a fever. Keep still.”
Evie had had fevers before. This was a million times worse. It felt like she was dying. The neighbors had probably seen her naked, and her mother was practically laughing about it. Why was she so … so happy?
“Look at me,” her mother said then, kneeling by the couch. “Evie, look at me.”
Between heavy eyelids the confused girl stared into her mother’s smiling, unworried face.
“Trust me,” she said. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You’re okay. This feeling will pass.”
Evie let her eyes close again. Her mother was a nurse. There was no reason to doubt her judgment, regardless of how strange it was for an othe
rwise sane and healthy teenager to turn up feverish and naked on a bed of bark mulch.
Sure. No problem.
“Here,” her mother said a minute later. “Take this and drink.”
Evie opened her eyes just enough to take a pill and a glass of water. Leaning on her aching elbow, she drank what she could, swallowed the pill, and sank down again as soon her mother took the glass away. Then she was out like a light.
Hours later Evie woke to a strange humming sound. Dressed in sweats and covered by a blanket, she found herself reclined in a plush leather seat. She’d been dreaming calm, weightless dreams that seemed to go on forever, dull after the excitement of the running dream that she could not clearly recall when conscious. Then something had shaken her, and she’d felt herself slowly coming back into her aching body. Blinking in the glare, she turned her head to check her surroundings. There were small windows of blinding light and more of the tan-colored seats; then her mother’s cheery face came into focus.
“Turbulence,” she said, leaning toward her daughter from across the narrow jet aisle. “I’d hoped you could sleep through the flight. How do you feel?”
“Awful,” Evie croaked.
“You’re cooler than you were this morning,” she said with her hand on Evie’s forehead. “That’s very good news.”
“Where are we?”
“In the sky,” Janie answered with twinkly eyes. “Your grandfather spares no expense in times like these.”
“Papa Joe?” Evie drawled, her affection shining through her great discomfort.
“Yes, honey. We’re on our way home. You’ll be with him very soon.”
Evie rubbed her forehead. Questions upon questions raced through her foggy mind. Her grandparents lived up north. Way up north in New Hampshire. Just shy of Canada. AKA the middle of nowhere. How that could be the best place for a delirious girl feeling at death’s door, Evie couldn’t figure. But she hadn’t the energy to voice her questions.
Silver-White (The Great North Woods Pack #1) Page 1
