Cages as traps, that is another thing I have tried. I spent a good long while building a pair of traps big enough, or so I thought, to catch rabbits. I used a length of rope, unraveled it to make thinner ropes, and built a fine mess of woven branches and hairy little strings poking out here and there. I tried a second cage, made a better job of that, then rebuilt the first.
The next morning, I took them out along a well-traveled rabbit trail. But after a week, I caught nothing. There was not even sign of tracks nearby. I determined that rabbits are far too cunning for me. I am still puzzling it out, but maybe cages will work in the spring. Perhaps I’ll use them up in the trees for other critters.
I have decided to try my hand at setting snares again, this time along that same rabbit run. At least I was a little familiar with how to make them, as William had been interested in such things a couple of years back. I helped him a time or two, but finally left him to it when he plain didn’t talk while we were out along the creek. I got the feeling he wanted to be alone.
He is an odd duck sometimes. I find it difficult to figure out what is in his head. Then I reasoned that there is only room for me in my head, so why should he be any different?
In truth, I did not mind not going along, as every time I saw those poor bunnies hanging by their necks or their legs, and they caught sight of us coming along the trail, they set up a fuss, well, the ones that were still alive.
They set to twisting and screeching and squealing out sounds like a tiny baby might make, only worse. It didn’t bother Will. Curious, though, that I don’t mind the last bit, skinning and cutting them up for the stewpot. It’s the killing I do not care for.
That said, I believe I am done being that girl. I could use some fresh rabbit. And if the smells attract bears or wolves or lions, so be it. I will fight them to the death over a fine pot of rabbit stew.
Now I need to catch a rabbit.
FEBRUARY, 1850
* * *
I mentioned some days ago that I wanted to catch a rabbit. Writing about my intention set me to thinking about how I might improve my skills. I’ll be jiggered, as Papa says, if I am about to let bad luck or ignorance of a thing stop me from getting what I want.
I rerigged the snares, doing my best to mimic those Will had made. I tested it on my own hand so many times, I broke the snare. I used green whips. Well, being wintertime they weren’t so much green as they were thin and young. The sap had all but left them. Still, they were more pliable than branches off fullgrown trees.
I used forked sticks arranged to hold the snare hoop of twine low on the snow. I sprinkled snow along the twine to disguise it, then built up a small mound of what I hoped were toothsome treats to a rabbit—I soaked two dried currants in water to puff them up again. With my knife I whittled away the bark of a young branch to get at the green beneath.
I peeled off a dozen or so curls to resemble little shoots of green grass. They smelled good, too, reminded me of springtime and nice weather. I closed my eyes and sniffed them before arranging them in the middle of the noose part of the snare. I hate calling it that, but that is what it is.
I wished I had more than that to offer a hungry rabbit, but again, that is all there is. No matter how vicious the animals are hereabouts, I don’t imagine there’s a rabbit in these hills that would want a few thin slices of salty green beefsteak.
Once I had it all arranged to my satisfaction, I backed away carefully. I had two different snares kick off while I was still there. I took that to mean they were set too sensitive, but even if this one was, I’d rather not know until I am out of sight of the thing.
I am not going to starve yet without rabbit in my stewpot, but I am so tired of rank, half-rotted beef with a crust of salt (no matter how much I scrub it off with a rag and snow it is still salty), that in my mind I have developed a deep taste for rabbit.
A frigid spell was fast creeping in, so the rest of the day I spent doing the same thing I spend every waking hour doing— fetching firewood. And with each day it is a more onerous task, as my trail must be stomped anew with each snowfall. And there are fewer close-by trees all the time. I have laid low all the dry, dead standing trees within easy reach of the campsite.
I have chopped a number of green trees, but they are good for little. The flames on them tend to be low, bluish affairs that do little more than annoy me, throw scant heat, and hiss and pop like arthritic barn cats. I used some green logs as poles for the nest, and for their green boughs outside and in. I tried to do like Papa said of the Indians, and waste no part of a thing, be it a green tree, a dead tree, or the various articles of clothing I have made from one purpose into another.
I feel badly about Bub. If I had more time I could have done something useful with his hide, and on looking back I should have worked faster, saved the organs for eating, and picked clean each and every bone for the marrow. They would have made a sustaining soup.
An hour before dark I hauled a last armload of twigs and ratty branches back to the pile outside the nest. I stopped partway up my climb to my door in the side of the snowy mound, my footholds muddy hollows in the side.
I stared down at my left foot. It was a rag-wrapped boot that more resembled a head of swamp grass than a foot. What have I become? I thought. Not only am I tired and sore and hungry, but I am doing nothing but trudging through the routine of my days. And for what? I promised myself I would not think of the future, but instead make each day a thing to be wished through. But moments such as this will catch me by the throat and I find I cannot endure another minute of my life here in the snowed-in mountains.
FEBRUARY, 1850
* * *
It has turned desperately cold and my cursed fire will not throw heat. The wood sputters and hisses like a toothless old snake. Can’t feel my fingers and the ink froze for good. I am carving the nib into the paper. I had hoped to use the last of it, then back to my pencils, but as with everything, the decision is not mine. Nothing to say. More tomorrow if I can get the fire to do more than smoke and hiss.
FEBRUARY, 1850
* * *
I do not want to be this person I have become. I remind myself of Widow Needlemeyer, who Papa spoke of as if she were the saddest thing he’d ever come across. Her husband had died so many years ago no one could recall much of what he looked like. About all they could agree on was that he did really exist. Beyond that he was a mystical character. But Widow Needlemeyer, she was a real corker.
I never said much to Papa about her, but when parents were around she was always kind as a cool swim on a hot July day. But when we were sent to help her with some chore or other— and it was usually me because I was the girl—why, she was a pinch-faced old thing with flint-rock eyes and a lipless cut for a mouth. Nothing came out of her mouth but sour-apple meanness. I do not know of any child who liked her.
My windy point is not that I wanted to recall that old woman at all, but at some time early in her life a bad thing must have happened that changed her. After that she nurtured routine, did the same thing the same way at the same time, day after day, all her life. As far as I know she is still doing that today.
And she is who comes to mind when I see myself in my routine. It is nothing I enjoy, but it is a way to fill the time each day. I wonder if that is the best way to be? What is so wrong with going inside the nest for the night and making tea and rereading passages from the Bible and Papa’s travel guides, the same pages I have read hundreds or a thousand times already?
But I know that such a life is as deadening to the Janette deep in me as a wolf attacking me is to the outside of me. So I climbed back down, and watched my breath rise up in front of my face for a few moments. The day was a gray one and did not brighten as the hours lengthened.
Then I thought of the snare—I had forgotten it—and a smile came to me.
It was like a present sent by a mysterious person. There could be anything awaiting me. I reckoned there was still the better part of an hour of light left to me. So
I set off with a kick in my step that hasn’t been there in weeks. Anticipation drove me forward.
But nothing could prepare me for what I found.
I followed the short trail I had made leading southeastward from the camp. Within two minutes it brought me to the game trail that cuts across my trail. I follow along it, though not on it, for fear of leaving tracks that will scare off rabbits.
I try to be silent in the woods but it is of little use. I am not a graceful person at the best of times, and with my rag-wrapped boots the size of tree stumps, a rabbit would be hard-pressed to miss my sign.
I recognized the birches flanking the trail. The snare lay ahead, beyond a dip in the path. I heard a commotion, and seconds later I saw what made it. And it sickened me to my heart. It makes me feel the same way now, as I write this.
I had caught a rabbit in my snare, to be sure. But it was not even half grown. A baby, and it struggled. Even from my distance of twenty feet I could tell what had happened. Since it was so small, the snare had grabbed too much of the rabbit. The leg and shoulder had prevented the snare from snapping its neck.
It had broken its shoulder instead. I knew this because bone jutted through its storm-cloud fur. All around the wound a clot
of fresh blood matted the fur and strung, freezing, to the ground. Each time the rabbit twisted and thrashed, more blood pumped out.
I must have made a sound, some exclamation, for the rabbit kicked with fury, squealing and spinning and twisting on the twine snare suspended by the bouncing, springing stick. I froze for the moment, not knowing what to do.
The most awful thing about the scene was the fear in the little rabbit’s wide, unblinking eyes. Its mouth, with glinting teeth, stretched in a leer, and it made those high-pitched squealing sounds.
I hated myself at that moment more than I have ever hated anything or anyone. How could I ever do such a thing to another creature? One so innocent.
I thought perhaps that writing it down in the journal might help me be shed of it, might learn how to make it better. But then I think of that rabbit’s eyes and hear its sad sounds, and I know I will be a long time in getting over it.
Papa and the boys would laugh at me, tell me I am being silly and sentimental. That the rabbit was put there by God for us to eat. And there is truth in that. If I had caught a full-grown rabbit, I would have felt bad. But I would have made a stew and done my best to tan the skin. That baby rabbit, though, cannot compare. It made me feel lonely.
You may tell by now that I did not skin that rabbit nor eat it. I slid out my knife, grasped the end of the blade in my socked hand, and whispered, “I am so very sorry.” I closed my eyes and swung the handle like a short club. I delivered a blunt, hard blow to the rabbit’s head, felt it hit, and I opened my eyes as the little back legs drew upward to the body, then sagged downward in death. I untied the snare twine, held the little body aloft at knee height, where it spun slowly while I decided what to do.
Then I did the only thing I felt would be appropriate. I kicked a hole in the snow to one side of the tiny trail, and laid the rabbit in it. It has been a long time since I held another living creature and the little rabbit did not change that. I had killed it and I suddenly felt weary and guilty and too weak to cry. I covered the little body with snow and looked down at it.
“Lord, please . . . let this rabbit into the Hereafter, and please forgive me for what I have done. I was greedy for stew.” And do you know? Even when I said that little prayer, when I spoke that word “stew,” I ran my tongue over my lips like an animal that can’t help being hungry. But unlike an animal, I did not eat that rabbit. I wasted it. I killed it and I wasted it. Not like an Indian at all.
I take small solace in the fact that in this mountain wilderness, something, likely a fox or coyote or wolf or weasel, will find it and eat of it. But it won’t be a Janette.
As I pulled down the snare, I knew it would be a long time before I felt comfortable in setting one again. Still, I reckon it will happen, especially considering how my meat supply is diminishing each day. I also learned that any dreams I may have had of a pair of luxurious rabbit-fur-lined mittens were gone.
Good riddance. For now.
FEBRUARY, 1850
* * *
The fire died hours ago, must have been, because it’s that cold in here. I can’t see a thing, not that it bothers me. But I daren’t light anything more than the nub of candle I am using to write this by. I suppose I am being silly and should light the fire, but I might run out of wood before daylight and I don’t dare to open the door to fetch more.
You see, there is something out there tonight. Well, there is something out there most every night. But this time, on this night, something I have never heard before has walked in circles around and around my nest. I curse the snow for piling so deep. It helps keep the walls warm, of course, but it lets the beasts walk right outside the walls, right close to my head. Some of the smaller critters walk up and over the roof. But this is different. This one tried to claw its way through the roof. And it did not sound like a small critter. It knocked snow through the chimney hole, and bits of bark and branches dropped down on me.
Much more of that and the beast will fall through on top of me. I cannot imagine such a scene—me and a hungry, wild animal circling in this tiny space.
I should have added more braces when I built it, but I did not know the snow would be so deep. I also did not know there would be so many damnable animals. Nights are the worst time, because not only am I blind to everything out there, but that is when most of these creatures come out. And they are all hungry, which I cannot fault them for. But I do not want to be their meal.
I believe tonight’s visitor is a lion. I don’t have full proof, because though I have seen one, I had not yet heard one. We saw one not a week before we arrived here back in September.
It watched us from high up on a brown, rocky ledge well back, but overlooking the roadway. It was a long way off, and I had to hold a hand over my eyes and squint to see it at all. It was William who spied it first. He has exceptional eyesight.
At any rate, we paused the team and looked up at the rocks. Evidently Papa felt safe from the beast at that distance. It lay in a stretch of afternoon sun, baking and staring down at us with what looked to me like lazy eyes. It must not have been long since it had eaten as it showed no interest in us. It even twitched and curled its long tail as if it had nothing better to do.
Thomas snatched up a rock.
“Here now,” said Papa, his eyebrows pulled together. “What is it you think you’re going to do with that?”
“I aim to throw it at that big ol’ cat. I want to see it jump.” “Oh no you don’t.” Papa wagged a finger in Thomas’s face.
“That is a wild animal, boy, and we don’t know what it might get up to next. They are not to be trusted. I don’t care if it’s a squirrel or an elephant, I’ll have no Riker go about riling wild beasts for no good reason.”
Thomas dropped the rock. None of our commotion bothered that big cat. He sat up there, twitching that tail and ignoring us. And that is my only experience ever with a lion. Until tonight.
I am certain that’s what has been stalking around outside. I am still shaking so I can hardly write this.
I spent the first few minutes after it woke me up lying as still as can be in my little bunk. I was so wrapped in quilts and clothes I did not know what to do, did not know what it might be.
It was still far off, and then it screamed again, closing in toward me. I say it screamed because it sounded like an angry woman’s voice, if the sound had been dragged through hot coals. Oh, but it was a raw sound. The sound of something that did not care if anything else heard it.
And then it was upon me, right outside. It growled the whole time it was out there, husky and low, like thunder from a fastmoving storm, menacing and powerful. Sometimes it would grow faint, as if it might be leaving, only to start up all over again, inches away from me, and I knew it had
n’t gone anywhere.
The snow was packed tight all around the outside of the nest. I suspect I should have built elsewhere, though where I do not know. Such thoughts won’t help me on this night. Almost as soon as it came upon the nest, it set up that low growling, like a barrel full of river rocks tumbling, down deep, from the bottom of its gut.
It circled and circled. I pictured it, long black-tipped tail twitching, big feet and muscles working under a tight hide, on a lean, hungry body. I fancy I could smell it, too, and it wasn’t at all like any stink I’d ever come across. It was a musk, dry and sharp, like death and life warring all at once.
I hadn’t dared make a sound whilst it was out there, but I roused out of my fear stupor when I suspected it finally went away. I sat up, laid the shotgun across my lap and strapped the two knives to my waist. For good measure I pulled the two axes close by the bunk.
I sat on my bed, my back to the thickest wall. It was the sensible thing to do if the thing did what I would do if I were a hungry lion—try to dig me out. I reasoned I might gain a few more seconds by being close by the thickest wall. I should have known better.
FEBRUARY, 1850
* * *
The lion came back last night. I won’t write much about it today, or perhaps I will, knowing me, but likely never again, because it is the closest I have yet come to dying. It happened again deep in the night when I was asleep. The fire was out, and I was doing my best to stay snug. The infernal wet has left me weak and with a constant shiver. I have to keep moving my arms and legs, sort of working them in circles and stretching them, massaging them with my hands because they pain me something fierce.
I had finally fallen asleep after I’d dealt with my aching hands and feet, when something pushed me hard on the back. I was asleep on my side, and it nearly knocked me to the floor.
Stranded Page 15
