I watch the line of trees bobbing up and down in the distance, in the dark, between the snow and the sky. We all seem to think we’ll be safer in the trees. I know we won’t be, but you get driven by these feelings whether they make any sense or not. I look ahead, tying to measure how far we have to go. The trees look like a black shore with more dark behind it, like the edge of the world, and somehow after hours of not seeming any closer we seem to be getting to the point where it’s enlarging, and the darkness of the trees we’ve been praying to reach starts to open up, bit by bit. It seems close, finally, not so much that we start to ease but it seems closer.
But suddenly they come out of the dark, again, just like that, they’re there, the big one and the others, they were there all along, keeping pace with us, but they step in close enough for us to see them, now. They start to circle, far out to our right and left, watching us, and then I see more behind us, on our flank.
We’re all scared, standing there, staring. Reznikoff just starts running for the trees, like a maniac. It’s one kind of chance if you're crazy enough to run toward them but it’s no chance at all if you run when they’re behind you, they’ll run you down like caribou, and we’re no caribou.
“Don't run!” I yell out, “Don’t fucking run!”
But Reznikoff isn’t listening. Henrick’s ahead of me and he starts trying to run him down before the wolves do. I charge after Henrick a few steps and stop, yelling “Don’t!” but Henrick keeps going, so now both of them are running for the trees while the wolves are just watching, straining to take off after them, but not going, yet. They keep looking at the big one to see what he’ll do, and the rest of the guys back with me are, I can tell, straining to take off too, rather than get left back here, but I keep saying, “Don’t move, let Henrick get him.”
But then I see the wolves start, just like that. I don’t see any signal or anything from the big wolf, they just begin, shooting across at Henrick and Reznikoff, and then we’re committed. We have to run or they’re dead. I take off after Henrick, running as hard as I can, apiece of wood in my hand, roaring again, because I know it’s insane and because if I make enough noise maybe we’ll be lucky, and the ones behind me won’t close the distance before I can somehow get the ones in front of me off Reznikoff and Henrick, and somehow get us all on one side of them so we can face them, instead of being tied up in a bag like we are now.
I can see four wolves, now six, now more, and all of them seem to have a bead on Reznikoff, and it looks like Henrick too, hard to see from the angle, running like I am. I know Reznikoff has seen them, but he’s committed, and he’s committed the rest of us now too, so here we fucking go. I’m hauling as fast as I can. The rest of the guys are running behind me, we want into those trees, so we might as well run as fast as we can, right into the wolves, if we can. Maybe two more of us will live to die later of hunger, or later tonight when the wolves come after us again.
Reznikoff’s way ahead of us. Henrick too, but he’s not as fast as Reznikoff. Reznikoff’s way ahead of us, it looked like he maybe had a hundred yards to run into the trees and he must have run fifty by now and he isn’t slowing, none of us is, but he doesn’t look any closer. I’m looking at the wolves closing on him and the distance we have to go compared to the distance they have to go and suddenly they’re closing on him faster and Henrick and I are still charging but it doesn’t matter, or isn’t going to.
Reznikoff twists back and looks at the wolves closing, and he seems to know. There are a lot of them now, maybe all of them, eight, ten, they’re springing out of the back of the dark, and I see the big one loping, in no rush. Suddenly as I’m running trying to catch them the one in front doubles his speed, more than doubles, shoots forward away from the pack and straight at Reznikoff, into Reznikoff. I don’t see a jump or a leap, he just shoots into him and they become the same thing, same animal. Three more of them rush in now too, shoot at Reznikoff, then others. Henrick falters and stops. So do I. The big wolf doesn’t rush in, he watches. He looks at us, yawns, and the wolves that haven’t rushed in at Reznikoff stop and look at us too, as if they’re guarding their kill from us, stopping us from interfering like they did with Feeny.
Reznikoff’s standing, somehow, he was down but he’s up again, but covered, still, in wolves. He looks so far away, and I see Reznikoff twisting around with I don’t know how many hanging on him then he goes down, like I did, he disappears under the wolves, in the dark.
Henrick and I and the others watch for what feels like a soul-damning time, longer than it seemed with Feeny. Long enough to go to hell in. We’re stuck, or hypnotized, I don’t know, but I can’t move, suddenly, can’t charge them, not now, none of us can, this time. There are too many, we’re too afraid, they’ll just go behind us like they did when I tried to get to Feeny. Whatever stopped us, we stopped.
When I think I can’t stand it anymore I look across to open snow away from the wolves and Reznikoff and away from where we were heading, and I look at Henrick and we think the same thing, I think, the others too.
“Leave him,” I say. But I’ve yelled it. I wonder if Reznikoff heard it.
Henrick hesitates, a second, Tlingit too, but after that we’re all running for the trees as hard as we can, after all my speeches and yelling about not running. I want to get into the trees before they leave Reznikoff and hit us. I barely look to see if the other wolves are chasing us and they aren’t, maybe they know they don’t need to, they’ll get us all, soon enough, or this place will. But we run and try not to think of Reznikoff, and we think we’re getting away with something, God help us. We’re coming closer to the trees, but we’re not there. I look back as I run and I know Ojeira will be in the back and he is, he can’t run any better than that jump-hop hobble he was doing before, and I keep looking back to see if they are coming for him but by miracle, or by something, they don’t.
The trees finally loom up big and I stop and let the others run in and look back for the wolves and for Ojeira who is somehow in his awful way doing a decent speed now. Why they haven’t picked him off I don’t understand but he jump-hops up with me and we run the last part together, then somehow we’re in the trees, we pass in to the bottom of the fucking world darkness.
Not far in at all, we all stop short, panting. We look out to the clearing, to Reznikoff and the wolves. I can’t see them or Reznikoff or anything but snow, and dark. We back away, still looking, and as we feel the slope dropping under us we turn away finally and stumble and run down the slope as fast as we can, as if further into dark is safer. We’ve run into the underworld like the ghosts we are, and left our bodies behind us. We run and blunder, in dark, barely missing trees we only see once they’re right in front of us, that we have to stiff-arm to keep from smashing our faces into, and we keep running until we’ve fallen into even deeper dark, moon is gone and we’re huffing and puffing, trying not to think about Reznikoff, and Feeny, and wondering where the wolves are now.
I can barely see anything, or any of the guys. I look ahead, into the dark, and I see patches where a little moonlight is coming down, some ways off. But here, the ground in front of us, is black and blank. I can hear us breathing. I look up the slope behind us to see, or try to hear if any of the wolves are coming in behind us, as if I could hear them. The wind is blunted in here, but trees creak and crackle, hum, and it’s almost worse, everything sounds like wolf to us. But for all I watch and listen, there’s nothing, only dark and the air washing through the trees.
I don’t want to stay here. Dark or not I run-stumble on again, with the others, still, headlong, still huffing and puffing, thinking if I step into a bottomless ravine and smash to pieces somewhere, down below, I’ll be home-fuck-you-free, thank God, I’ve decided the matter, and hopefully the others will notice before they fall in after me. I keep rushing on blind, one arm in front and trying to see anything at all, and I ram into branches and trunks and fall into holes and huff and puff on, glad I’m in the trees.
6
We make our way forward, or what we think is forward, through the maze of dead and fallen trees. We’ve slowed down, not because we think it’s smart, but because we’re exhausted and like fools, we think we’ve made some division between the open of the clearing behind us and this place, as if the wolves couldn’t be three feet beyond what we can see. I’m praying I can keep some idea of which way anything is in here, I’m telling myself I’m still taking a line that’s something like west, what we decided was west, anyway. But I don’t know at all if that’s the case, or if we’ll go in circles until we die, and the wolves will watch us and laugh, or get tired of waiting and go on tearing us to pieces one by one.
We keep on, a good ways, until the slope drops, dips deeper again. The wind is still coming but not as fierce. I think I hear water. I hear something, ahead of us, or somewhere. Sounds get lost in the snow like we do. But somewhere, not too far, I think there’s water running. I think if we could find something that leads to a real river, it might take us to the coast, and we could follow the coast to a town.
It’s a nice thought, if the wolves were going to leave us alone that long. But then I lose the sound anyway, all I hear is the wind still coming up harder, washing the trees again, washing us away, maybe, particle by particle. My brain’s too cold again, or the air is thin. I realize for all I know we’ve been in thin air all this time, thinking worse and worse, the more hours we breathe it. We should get used to it, but I don’t know that we’re fit to get used to anything but seeing people die. I keep going, listening, still, trying to catch the sound or follow it, but it’s blown away from me. There’s nothing but wind, and us stumbling in the snow, huffing like cattle.
But in among the wind I’m almost sure I hear it again. I stop, try to listen, everybody else stops too. Scared as we are, we’re ready to stop anytime. We forget the wolves, occupied with the business of putting one boot in front of the last. We’ve made a division in our heads, after all, we’ve left them behind us. It’s tired and cold we care about now, if no wolf’s right in front of us, teeth out. Lazy, stupid beasts, we are.
I listen, tying not to breath too loud. But the sound’s gone, again, so I stand there, waiting, listening for the wind to bring it back or my brain to catch it again, trying to listen through my breathing, everybody else’s. I can’t see them, except Henrick, and Tlingit, barely, but I hear them. I hope it’s all of us, I don’t know. As I listen for the water the wind shifts, but all I hear is that, the shift of wind, but I sniff the air now because I think I smell them again, the wolves, and my skin pricks, thinking I’m right. Then I realize I couldn’t be smelling them, it's dead wood, or wet bark, or frozen mud, or my wounds rotting, or somebody else’s. Or the general stink of us, fear, the dirt we brought with us, freezing sweat. For the last five minutes of going, everyone’s been falling and tripping in the snow and pulling themselves up again. I don’t know if it’s smart or not, but I want to rest, a little.
“We should stop,” I whisper out to Henrick and the others. I don’t know why I bother to whisper, or don’t mean to, it just comes out a whisper.
Henrick and Tlingit and Knox drop packs, their pieces of wood, collapse in the snow. I think I hear the others do the same.
“Who sees the others?” I say to Henrick.
“We’re here,” Bengt says. I hear them clamber through the snow, come in closer, wheezing, then I see everybody, Knox and Ojeira. We’ve slowed down so much in here he’s kept up with us. They drop their packs again, collapse again, everybody still wheezing and puffing. It makes me feel better to see us all. Mother hen. I don’t want to lose anyone else.
We sit there, catching breath, or trying to, looking around in the dark.
“You think they’re in here?” Tlingit says. I look around us.
“I don’t know,” I say.
We’re freezing, but we’re afraid to build a fire, in case it tells them where we are. We’d rather stay in the dark and freeze. We’re all more exhausted than before, and more scared than before, after Reznikoff and Feeny.
“We just fucking left him,” Bengt says. “I fucking ran.”
“We all did. We left Feeny too,” Henrick says. He's trying to make less of it. He’s looking at Bengt like Bengt should forgive himself.
“Yeah, Feeny too. Fucking left them,” Bengt says, shaking his head. “Fucking watched.”
Nobody wants to argue. We’re too scared. It will occupy your mind, it's true what they say, about death, if you think it's right behind you, about to lay a hand on you.
Afraid or not, I know we’ll freeze sitting here. After a minute I get up, start pulling branches off a downed tree. They’re long-dead, they snap when I pull them, dry but rotted. They’ll burn, once they start, flare up fast, but won’t last long.. I toss them in a pile with some smaller pieces and more solid ones and feel for the lighter in my jacket, and I realize my hands feel like they died a long time ago too, they’re like pieces of cold meat. But I can feel the little lighter in my pocket and I fumble for a good half-minute trying to get it out, then another trying to light it under a little bundle of twigs, but the wind is still sucking everything away.
“We want to do that?” Henrick asks.
“They know where we are,” I say, because I’ve known that all along, whatever I thought. “If they want to, they do.”
Finally I get a little flame out of the lighter and I shelter the lighter and the little twigs I want to light down by Henrick and Knox. They turn to block the wind the best they can, but nothing’s catching. Tlingit steps in too, and I hold the little bit of there-and-gone flame to the smaller pieces and I’m happy when they start to catch a little. I get the pieces down without them blowing out and lay the bigger dry rotted ones on and it starts to go, fluttering sideways half the time but going, then the heat is stronger than the wind is, the bigger pieces finally catch and it’s up. Henrick and Tlingit and Ojeira stand in close, me too, we find or drag pieces of wood to sit on instead of the snow.
I keep looking between the branches and the trunks around us, and into the dark. I look as deep into it as I can, the firelight behind me. But I don’t see anything. Out at the edges there are things that might be shaggy broken pieces of tree or might be wolves. Everything looks like wolves, like everything sounded like wolves before. I stare at them to see if I can get some clue, or catch them moving, but all the dark lumps and clumps seem to be just that. To my surprise I feel myself ease, a little. Which is foolish.
With the fire going I hunch as close I can to it. We all do. Then I look to some thinner branches scattered, some on the ground, some still on the trees, and I get myself up and start gathering up all I can, cutting the ones I have to with my knife and snapping when I can or twisting them when I can’t, some greener than others. I leave the rotten ones, they turn to dust. I get a good number of them and sit down by the fire with the others still getting warm, with my knife, and start shaving a point on one, trimming off the smallest twigs until I have a shaft, with a long point on it. It’s still green, it bends more than I’d
hoped, but I think it will work.
The others see what I’m doing and haul themselves up to do the same, scattering out to find branches we can use, except Ojeira, who just sits, and nobody blames him. I hold the point of mine in the fire, turning it until it’s black, pulling it out if it catches and dousing it in the snow or with my hand, or blowing it out. I’m thinking it hardens the point if you char it. Might, anyway. I roll it a last few times in the flame and pull it out and the tip is glowing, smoking wisps and, I imagine, harder now, not as green at least. I give Ojeira the first one I’ve done and start on the next.
The others have come back to the fire by now and sit and fumble their knives with close to useless hands, and start carving and scraping, and we all sit there whittling, and looking around us once in a while in the wind. I want to make as many as I can. They aren’t so heavy, I think I could carry a bundle of them with me, along with the log and a knife, and stand off this pack and almost everybody else who’s ever bothered me.
We fall quiet, still carving. The fire starts to bulk upward, thicker yellow-orange, and I see the wind is dropping, just like that, blowing off somewhere else, leaving us here. The sound of it fades away and it’s strange, the emptiness of the air all of a sudden. I listen again for whatever I thought was the sound of water running, but I can’t hear it. Maybe I never did.
“These going to do anything?” Ojeira asks. I shrug again.
“I don't know,” I say. “Might not matter.”
“What does that mean?” Henrick says.
Ian Mackenzie Jeffers The Grey Page 7
