by Janette Oke
Horrified, I was too dumbstruck to even cry. Would it never end? They would break and circle and then rush at one another again, falling this way and that, striking for each other’s face or a leg in an effort to fell the opponent. I could see that Kip was bleeding. He had a gash on his cheek that was spilling blood as he rolled back and forth in the dirt.
But Kip wasn’t the only one with an injury. Buck, too, was bleeding on his neck from a torn, ragged cut. Still they lashed and rolled. Over and over, their heads whipping this way and that to strike at their opponent and then jerk clear of his counter strike. This is terrible! I moaned.
At last, with one quick move, Kip clasped Buck’s leg in his teeth and crunched down hard. The older dog screamed in pain and flipped himself forward to jerk free. Kip held firm and as Buck hurled himself away, I heard a sickening snap.
Again they struck, but it was clear that Buck’s front right leg was held up and that it had been broken.
I found my voice then. I screamed for them to stop. As much as I feared and disliked Buck, I did not want to see him injured further. Nor did I want to take chances on Kip getting hurt any more. In spite of his injury, Buck still was determined to lick the younger dog. With a ferociousness I had never seen before, he struck again and another tear appeared on the side of Kip’s jaw.
“Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop it, both of you! Stop it, do you hear?” But I was totally ignored.
They pulled away and circled again, Buck skillfully trying to maneuver on his three good legs. They were both panting heavily, their tongues lolling and their sides heaving.
“Stop it!” I yelled again. “Stop it! Go home, Buck. Go home. Kip, heel.” But they paid no heed to my words.
It was Kip who jumped first. He aimed another blow at Buck’s already torn and bleeding ear, and the big husky yelped in pain and rage.
And then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Buck was gone, his tail tucked submissively between his legs, his one leg held aloft as he ran.
I ran to Kip and fell to my knees beside him.
“Bad dog,” I scolded him, tears streaming down my face. “Bad dog. You shouldn’t fight. Don’t you know that you shouldn’t fight? It’s bad to fight. It’s bad to fight unless you really have to.” And suddenly I realized that Kip really had to. Buck had challenged him.
“Come on,” I said, “I’ll take you home.”
I led him to the cabin. He heeled beautifully, just as he had been taught. I walked quickly, wanting to get him to the safety of his rug before the fireplace, where I could check and tend his wounds.
After I had closed the door securely behind us, I knelt beside him again and ran my fingers over his body. He was still trembling. His face was blood-covered from the two ragged gashes on his cheeks, but other than that he seemed to be fine.
I started to cry again as I held him. He must have wondered what was wrong with me. I trembled every bit as much as he did.
“You licked him, you crazy dog,” I told him. “You licked the big bully. I didn’t want you to, but you did. You licked the meanest dog in the whole village.”
I straightened up and wiped my tear-streaked face. My voice became firm. “Now you won’t have to fight again—ever. Do you hear?”
EIGHT
Surprises
A kiss on the nose awoke me. I struggled to open my eyes and focus them properly. Wynn was leaning over me. He reached out and brushed back some wayward hair from my face.
“Do you know what day it is, Elizabeth?” he asked me.
It seemed like rather a foolish question to me, but I struggled to make my brain work so that I might come up with the proper answer.
“It’s Friday,” I said, puzzled that he had asked.
He chuckled softly and kissed me again.
“It’s more than Friday, my dear. It’s our first anniversary.” I jerked upright, nearly catching Wynn’s chin with my head.
“Really?”
Wynn avoided my charge. “Really!” he said, laughing at me again.
Anniversaries were supposed to be special occasions—maybe a night out, dinner and candlelight. There would be no such thing here in Wynn’s northland. I didn’t think I could even find a candle. Candles were not necessary when only oil lamps were burned.
“Oh, Wynn,” I moaned, “I forgot all about it. I don’t have anything special planned.”
“I do,” said Wynn. “At least I hope you’ll think it special. Remember that camping trip you’ve been begging for? The one where we will sleep out under the stars?”
I nodded, my eyes wide in anticipation.
“Well, how would you like to take that trip today?”
I squealed and threw my arms around Wynn’s neck. I guess he took that for my answer.
“I have everything packed and ready to go,” he said. “We can leave just as soon as we have our breakfast.”
It didn’t take me long to get out of bed, dressed and have breakfast on the table.
Kip sensed the excitement and whined at the door, fearful that we might go without him. I patted his head and assured him he could go.
As soon as I had cleared away the breakfast things, I gathered a few personal items I wanted to take and placed them with the packs Wynn had made. I knew Wynn was far more knowledgeable than I about what was needed on an overnight campout, but I still couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Did you remember the matches? Are you sure you have all the food we’ll need?”
Wynn just laughed at me and told me to trust him.
We were finally packed up and on our way, Kip frisking on ahead. Each with a backpack—Wynn’s quite a bit heavier than mine—we walked for most of the morning and came to the most beautiful spot beside a small pond made by beavers damming the stream. The fir trees, thick about us, made a canopy over our heads. It looked just perfect.
“Here is where we stop,” said Wynn, much to my delight.
Wynn insisted on setting up camp, and I just wandered about, taking in all of the beauty around me. Wynn cut spruce boughs for our mattress and then spread our furs and blankets to make a soft bed. It looked so inviting when he was finished that I knew I wouldn’t miss our bed at home.
Wynn even fixed our meal, saying that this anniversary was my day off. I laughed and let him humor me.
We washed the dishes together in the little stream nearby and then sat with our backs against a fallen log while we watched the beavers work.
It was our first opportunity to really talk for weeks, so with our fingers intertwined, we talked softly while we watched the beaver couple. We spoke of many things, some little and foolish, others more important and part of our inner dreams and plans for the future.
I learned much about my husband on that camping trip. I had thought I already knew him well, but he shared with me so many new things—about his childhood, about his training, about his desires and goals.
I shared my thoughts and feelings with Wynn, too. I think he guessed part of my desires when I spoke about Nimmie and her coming baby with such wistfulness.
“You’d like a child, wouldn’t you, Elizabeth?” more a statement than a question.
“Oh, so much,” I told him. “I can hardly wait. And here we have been married for a whole year and …” I did not finish the sentence for fear Wynn would somehow think I was blaming him. “God knows when the time is right,” I finished instead.
Wynn nodded and we talked of other things.
Wynn took me for walks and showed me flora and fauna I would never have spotted.
Our evening meal was not by candlelight, nor was it a gourmet feast at a fancy restaurant. But I wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.
Wynn fixed it over an open fire, roasting freshly caught fish slowly until done to perfection and serving them with vegetables he had brought from our garden at home. Dessert was berries from a nearby patch, eaten from our hands as we picked them. We both laughed at our stained lips and teeth.
As the sun went down, the a
ir became chilly and Wynn threw more sticks on the fire. Then we wrapped ourselves in a blanket and sat with our backs to a large pine tree as we watched the stars begin to appear.
The evening was astir with the night life of the wilds. Wynn identified each sound for me—the cry of the loon, the swish from the wings of the mammoth owl as it swept earthward to snatch unsuspecting prey, a mouse scurrying through the pine needles, a bull moose bellowing out a challenge.
When the wolves began their evening chorus, I shivered some and was glad for Wynn’s arm about me. But not even the wolves could disturb me on this night.
Everything would have been perfect if only we could have escaped the tormenting mosquitoes. Wynn threw green branches on the fire, and we sat in the smoke to hold them at bay.
As the sun totally disappeared, more stars twinkled into view, taking their appointed positions in the velvet of the night sky.
And then it was that I saw the most spectacular sight of my entire life. Suddenly the sky was alive with sweeping rainbows. Lights swished and swirled above us, sweeping across the skies in spectacular movements. Sometimes the entire sky would seem to be one giant movement of color, and then the lights would retreat as though to end a scene, then sweep back again for another curtain call.
“They are so beautiful,” I whispered wonderingly over and over, finding it hard to believe that it was just the northern lights we were watching. Though I had watched them in awe many times since coming north, I had never seen such a marvelous display.
We sat on through the evening, enjoying the night even after the last lights of our great northern fireworks faded from the skies. The deep blackness around us seemed to hem us in, promising protection. The stars shone even brighter as Wynn pointed out different constellations to me.
As I sat there in the warmth of Wynn’s arms, I realized there might be many anniversaries stretching before us. I prayed to God that He would make it so. But there would never be one that could outshine the one we were sharing now.
August the first. I looked at the date on my calendar with some apprehension. I had seen Nimmie the evening before and she had looked fine. She had talked about their coming baby, her eyes gleaming. “Soon,” she had said, “we will know if it will be a hunter or an herb-gatherer.”
I managed to laugh at Nimmie’s description of her boy or girl, but inside I felt a little twinge. Part of the twinge was nothing more than envy. I was still not with child and my daily prayers had not changed. The other part of the twinge was for Nimmie and her baby. The mortality rate among the Indian people was high, and I knew how much Nimmie wanted this baby. What a terrible thing if she were to be denied.
Again the thought surfaced that I would not be nearly as worried if it were I who was soon to deliver, for the mortality rate was not nearly as high among my people. It didn’t even occur to me that a baby I carried might also be in danger at delivery. I just expected that when it was my turn, all would go well.
That was what Nimmie expected, too, I suddenly realized. She wasn’t even considering the possibility of something going wrong.
And so I looked at the calendar with both trepidation and anticipation. In a short time we would know. What had the city doctor said? The fifth of August. The baby was due in only five more days.
I decided to drop in on Nimmie. I would bake a batch of bread as planned, have my prayer time and then go to see her.
My quiet time was longer than usual as I pleaded with God again for Nimmie’s safe delivery—of the hunter or the herbgatherer, I didn’t care. When I was finished praying, I went to check on the rising bread. While it baked I turned my attention to some mending. Some buttons had been torn from Wynn’s shirt when a trapper’s unprovoked lead dog had ferociously attacked him. As I sewed, I was thankful that only the shirt had been damaged in the incident. I had to mend some little tears before I could replace the buttons, and by the time I was finished I could smell the aroma of freshly baked bread.
I carefully wrapped one loaf for Nimmie. I had just said no to Kip, who looked at me pleadingly, and reached for the loaf when there was a noise at the door. It was Mrs. Sam. She had not been to my house for some weeks.
I welcomed her in. Though I would be delayed now, I could not possibly tell Mrs. Sam that I was just leaving. She would expect her usual cup of tea.
I put the bread back on the table and pulled the teakettle forward on the stove. Thankfully the water was already hot. I made the tea and we sat and sipped it and ate sugar cookies while we chatted about village life.
Mrs. Sam said the berry prospects looked good. “Many, many,” she stated and I was glad for that. I hoped to pick and preserve a number of jars of berries for our winter use. That along with our good garden would make the thought of another winter not nearly so dreary.
Mrs. Sam drank slowly while I fidgeted a bit. I was polite enough to offer a second cup of tea. Then a third. After the fourth, Mrs. Sam rose from her chair and pushed her cup back into the middle of the table.
“Nimmie say, ‘Come now,’ ” she stated simply as my eyes widened in surprise and horror. Nimmie had sent her to get me, and here we had sat sipping cup after cup of tea! I turned to grab the loaf of bread—though why, I’ll never know—and hurried for the door. Mrs. Sam took her time following me.
I wanted to walk quickly—no, run—but Mrs. Sam kept her usual pace, which was unhurried and ambling. I wondered if it would be impolite for me to run on ahead.
“How is Nimmie?” I finally thought to ask, though I was a bit fearful of the answer.
“Good,” answered Mrs. Sam.
“Is she—is she—?” I wasn’t sure how to ask the question of an Indian woman with limited English. “Is she—in labor? Pain?”
“Nope.”
“But she sent for me?” That wasn’t like Nimmie.
“Yah.”
“Was the midwife with her?”
“No more.”
“No more?”
I couldn’t understand it. Why would Nimmie send for me, and why would the midwife visit her and then leave? It all seemed very strange. And it was only August the first.
“Is Nimmie okay?” I asked again.
And Mrs. Sam’s answer was the same as before. “Good.”
“What about the baby?” I asked in exasperation.
“Her good, too.”
I stopped in my tracks, trying to understand what Mrs. Sam had just said. She might have responded that way about an unborn child, but when the Indian women spoke of the unborn, they used the pronoun “him,” not “her.” Did that mean—surely not? But when I got my breath I asked anyway, “What do you mean, her?”
“Her,” stated Mrs. Sam again as though it was clear enough. “Her. Girl baby.”
After one wild look at Mrs. Sam I forgot to be polite any longer. I picked up my skirt and ran the rest of the way to Nimmie’s cabin, causing the village dogs to nearly go mad on their tethers as I rushed.
Out of breath and trembling, I slowed down enough to rap gently on Nimmie’s door; then without waiting for an answer, I pushed it open and walked in.
The small room of the cabin was filled with a strange odor, like nothing I had ever smelled before. I hurried to the bed in the corner, deciding the smell must be some herb medicine from the midwife.
And there was Nimmie, with a contented smile and a small bundle with a red, wrinkled face held possessively on her arm.
“You said—you said August the fifth,” I stammered.
“No,” said Nimmie shaking her head and beaming at her new baby girl. “I said the doctor said August the fifth. Nonita did not wait for doctor’s due. She came when she was ready.”
I looked back to the tiny, beautiful baby in Nimmie’s arms. A prayer arose in my heart. She was here, and she was safe, and she was about the prettiest thing I had ever seen.
“A little herb-gatherer,” I said with tears in my eyes. “Oh, Nimmie, she’s beautiful!”
NINE
Nonita
> I stood for many minutes looking down at Nimmie’s tiny new baby girl. Her dainty curled fists lay in a relaxed position on her chubby cheeks, her dark hair slightly curled over her forehead. Her eyes were closed and just a trace of eyelash showed because of the slight puffiness due to her recent arrival. I had proclaimed her beautiful. There may be those who would have argued with me. A newborn is really not too beautiful. But she was healthy and whole, and given a few days to adjust to her new world, I knew she would look beautiful. I felt a twinge within me again—that something which told me that just at this moment, Nimmie was one of the most blessed people I knew.
I suddenly returned to reality. “When did she arrive?” I asked Nimmie.
“About an hour ago. I think the clock said 10:45.”
It was now ten minutes to twelve.
“What does Ian think of having a daughter?” I asked, not because I needed to ask but because I thought Nimmie might wish to express it.
“He still doesn’t know,” said Nimmie, a bit of impatience in her voice.
“Doesn’t know?” It was incredulous to me that Ian had not been informed.
“He went to the woods with the men this morning to fell some more trees for the trading post.”
“But—” I began.
“He left at six,” Nimmie went on.
“Didn’t you know—?” I started to ask, but Nimmie interrupted.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I thought, but I didn’t want to keep him from his work.”
“Oh, Nimmie!” I said. “Don’t you know Ian would have wanted to be here? The logs can wait, but your baby—”
“Yes, babies won’t wait,” said Nimmie. “I learned that much. I told the midwife I wanted to wait until Ian got home. He said he would be here shortly after midday. But, Nonita—well, she wouldn’t wait.”
I looked again at the clock. If Ian said he would be back soon after noon, he should be coming any time now. I heaved a sigh of relief and turned back to Nimmie.
