“G-get up!” Chris commands with a hoarse voice.
My muscles spasm and I jerk as I try to rise. My body is not working right and new terror grips me. I am unable to get up.
Suddenly, my body is being lifted off the ground. Chris hauls me up in his arms. I clutch at his chest with gnarled hands. He staggers to the sled and falls beside it. I grasp the handlebar and pull myself up. Chris stumbles onto the other runner.
“A-all right,” I squeak.
We’ll have to back-track along the shore to get to the trail, but the dogs seem to know this and take off in that direction. I almost fall backwards. My clawed hands clutch at the sled. Vicious tremors make it hard to hold on. I’ve never felt so cold in my life. Not when Dad and I stayed out too late on the trail. Not when I peed my pants from laughing on the sliding hill behind Sarah’s, and walked all the way home to hide it. Not even when I was in the river.
Chris shivers beside me. The thin layer of ice that covers us crunches in my ears. I notice with dismay the bare place on the handlebar where Mr. Minky used to be. But he’s done his job, almost like Dad knew I’d need him one day. And now he’s gone back to the river.
I have to let him go.
We reach the place where we should have crossed the river, and there is nothing but more trail ahead. The same thing we’ve been looking at for days. Endless spruce dusted with shimmering snow line the path. A shiver grips my body, paralyzes my muscles like a seizure.
Too cold.
I realize that we’re not going to make it. We’re going to die out here just like Dad did.
The sled hits a bump and we both fall to our knees. I throw myself on the brake to slow the dogs. They stop and look back. Then they lay down on the trail.
Where is Bean? He made it out of the river, didn’t he? A pain sears through my heart—it feels as if I’m being flayed from the inside.
“N-need . . . t-t . . . ” My teeth chatter so hard, it’s a wonder I don’t bite off my tongue. Chris tries to get up, then crawls into the sled instead. Without the sled bag, he’s able to roll through the upright stanchion and lay on the bare plastic of the sled bottom.
My body is racked with violent shakes, and hot tears stream down my face. It feels like acid, the way it burns my skin. Oh, Bean, I’m so sorry.
26
AT THE THOUGHT OF THE REST of my dogs left out here to die, a stubborn ball of anger shoots through me. I will my arms to obey me and grab the handlebar again. I grind my teeth and concentrate on standing on the runners.
Chris and I have very little time before we both die of hypothermia. Since Dad’s accident, I’ve studied it obsessively. The clock started counting down as soon as we fell in the water. I try to figure out how long that’s been. Ten minutes? An hour? Time seems to have both slowed down and sped up.
“All r-right.” My voice puffs out like a flame extinguished, but the dogs stand and begin to trot down the trail. They are drained.
I know from my reading that once the shivering stops, my body will start to shut down. I also know it won’t hurt, but I can’t stop crying.
Through a haze, I see the trail fork ahead. Right or left. Left or right. My mind is slow. I can’t think which way to pick, too many decisions. Days and days of bad choices and now I’ve gone blank with indecision. The wild killed Dad and it’s about to kill me, too. I just hope my dogs can somehow make it.
We’ve stopped again before the fork. I see a shadowy form on the trail. What is that? It looks familiar. It’s the wolf! The wolf that had turned around and looked at me that day at the race. He’s come to save us!
No, wait. That can’t be right. The wolf comes closer. He’s limping heavily. My breath catches.
“B-Bean,” I croak.
He takes the trail on the right, stops, and looks back at me over his shoulder, then continues on.
“G-g-g.” My teeth chatter uncontrollably. I can’t form the command, but Blue and Drift follow Bean anyway.
The sled veers to the right and Chris slides on the smooth plastic. He looks up into my eyes. It’s as if we’re having a silent conversation. His partially singed eyebrows are coated in white. He is a white snowflake, all sparkle and frost.
The sled stops, surprising me back to focus. When I look up, a shot of adrenaline shoots through my brain and my mind clears.
It’s our yurt.
I can almost see Dad standing in the doorway smiling at me. “Come on, Icky. What are you doing all wet and cold?”
I shake my head to clear the mirage, but we are still right beside our old yurt. The chimney pipe sticks through the center of the roof and wood is stacked under a tarp next to the door. I stumble off the runners. My leggings are frozen solid, making it almost impossible to walk.
“C-Chris,” I croak.
No answer. Chris’s head went right under the water. He must be even colder than I am. I have to get us inside.
How is our yurt here? Then I remember it’s Cook’s now. Are we at Cook’s? My thoughts are all jumbled. First, get inside.
I can barely turn the handle to open the door. It takes several tries. Thank you, universe, it’s not locked. Finally, I burst through and fall into the middle of the small room. The wood stove sits in the center, and an old smoky smell lingers. A box of kindling is tucked by the door, but besides that the room is empty. My movements are slow, uncoordinated. Must get warm.
Chris lies on the sled where I left him. The dogs are already curled up, asleep on the gangline.
“C-Chris, let’s g-go.”
Chris mumbles and stares at me. I grab his shoulders, but the ice on his jacket is too slippery and I lose my grip. I try again grabbing him under the arms, and hauling backwards. Every muscle in my body strains. He’s so heavy, it’s impossible.
But then his dead weight shifts. I brace my feet, gather all my strength reserves, and heave. The icy coating over his clothes slides along the ground and we inch over the snow, through the doorway, until we’re in the yurt.
Matches. I have to light the fire. I realize I don’t have the strength to bring wood in. Forget the wood, just get the kindling started. You can do this, Vicky.
Slowly, spastically, I shove kindling into the stove. I see a bag of fire-starter sticks in the kindling box and would smile if my face muscles were working. I stuff the whole bag of starter sticks into the stove, too. They will help the kindling burn. There’s a cast-iron pot on top with a jar of matches inside. Hope flares. My hands are mostly useless. It takes all my effort to grab anything. I manage to get the lid off the jar, but matches spill everywhere.
“N-nargh.” I can’t form words.
With my body shaking, I crouch over the wooden, planked floor. My fingers won’t cooperate—it’s as if they belong to someone else. I can’t pinch them together hard enough to pick up one tiny match.
I try again.
And again. Tears stream down my cheeks and burn.
NO! We are so close! The warmth is right here, if I can only grab one stupid match.
At last, my fingers grasp several matches at once. It takes fierce concentration to keep them held tightly. I carefully bring my arm down toward the stove. With my heart pounding, I swipe the heads across the surface.
The matches fall.
When I bend again to retrieve them, I tip over and land beside Chris’s feet. It’s no use.
I crawl up to his head. He’s still staring at me with glassy, unfocused eyes.
“Hot,” he is saying. “So hot.”
I put my head down next to his. I’m hardly shaking any more, but I can’t remember why that’s bad.
Die. We will die here, in my old yurt, surrounded by my dogs. The dogs!
I try to whistle, but no sound comes out. “B-B-Bean!”
I rest my head back down, and then feel hot snuffling in my ear.
Bean.
I turn my face toward him and get stabbed by the frozen tips of his fur. I remember he was in the river with us. The white frost covering his head be
gins to melt as he stands there, tongue out, grinning at me.
I hear the tinkling of necklines, the ticking of toenails, as the rest of the team pad inside. They are covered in glistening white slivers. Frosted dogs of ice. My beautiful ice dogs. The sled scrapes across the floor. How did they get the sled in here? They’re still attached by the gangline. I reach to unclip Drift, but can’t work my fingers.
Bean stands over me and I tap my chest. He immediately steps close, his head bobbing with the effort to use his front leg, and flops down across me. I feel the weight of the rest of the dogs piling on top of me and Chris. Bean licks my face as he leans across my chest. The last thing I hear is the door slamming shut from a gust of wind.
27
Thursday
I WAKE UP SHIVERING VIOLENTLY WITH A pain in my fingers and toes so intense, it leaves me gasping. In fact, my whole body hurts. My throat feels like I’ve eaten a bucket of glass. I open my eyes a slit and look around. It’s dark and I can’t move. I feel a moment of panic before I realize the hot, damp breath on my cheek is Bean’s. My brain takes time to understand I’m on the floor of the yurt under a pile of dogs.
I reach across to Chris and feel him under a mat of steamy, wet fur.
“Chris.” I don’t recognize the croaking that comes out of my own mouth. My tongue feels swollen.
“Mmmph.”
“Chris, are you okay?”
I hear Chris shift. “Ow, oh, ow.”
“We found a yurt. The dogs came in. They warmed us up.” I notice my clothes are soaking wet now that the ice has thawed. My teeth chatter.
“I love dogs,” Chris says.
I slowly climb out from under my fur blanket, wincing as I move. Daggers stab my feet. I think of the pain in the river, and then the freezing after. The absolute cold that had locked my body. My muscles spasm at the memory.
I crawl to the stove and feel around in the dark for the matches. My fingers close around them and I could cry with relief at how much easier it is to pick them up. Moments later, the darkness of the yurt is lit with the flaring match. The light slices into my eyeballs, but my heart hums with the joy of it. I shove the match into the stove and in an instant, the kindling flares. The heat bounces off my chest.
“Chris, hand me your wet clothes.” I shrug off my own heavy anorak, my body still shivering. “I’ll lay them out around the stove.”
When I peel off my leggings, I notice my underclothes aren’t as wet as I thought. The water hadn’t seeped in that far. Probably why I’m not dead. But my mukluks feel tight, my feet must be swollen. I’m afraid to think of what they look like. I wiggle my toes and suck in a breath as the pain shoots up my legs. My hands are cracked and swollen like zombie fingers. I can only imagine what my face looks like. But I’m still alive.
We’re all alive.
A warm glow from the stove drifts across the little room. The dogs haven’t moved. Whistler sprawls in the center with Gazoo curled up next to her. Dorset is draped across Chris’s neck. Amazingly, they’re all still attached to the gangline, but stretched out so they didn’t tangle. All I can see of Chris is his head sticking up and his arm wrapped around Dorset. When I shuffle out to grab more wood, I rip the tarp covering off and bring it in, too.
“We can wrap ourselves in the tarp until our clothes are dry. It’ll help keep the heat in. It’s getting warm in here already.”
“Where are we? Agh, my feet! And my eyes. My brain is all mushed up. What’s a yurt?”
“We’re in my old yurt. It’s like a round tent, but with a wood platform and wood supports on the walls. Lots of mushers use them. My dad used to set it up in the fall so we had a midway place to go to on our runs. Mom sold it to Cook last year.”
I remember how angry I was for that betrayal. But now I could kiss her for it.
“Good, that,” Chris says.
The heat on my face seems to wake up my brain. I stick out my aching fingers and hold them toward the stove. It pops and crackles now, spreading a painfully delicious heat through me.
I glance again at the dogs and a rush of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. Relief that everyone is still here with me. Gratitude for their loyalty and body heat, pride that I get to share my life with these amazing animals. My throat aches as I watch Bean’s chest rise and fall. He’s laying fully stretched out next to Chris’s head. When he catches me looking at him he knocks his tail lazily on the floor.
Chris hands me his sopping clothes and this time, I don’t even care we’re both half naked.
“If Cook set this tent up,” I say, “that means we’re not far from his yard.”
“Where have I heard that before?” But there’s a smile in Chris’s voice.
“As soon as we get warm, we go. We’re almost there, Chris. I know it this time.”
We will all surely starve to death here if we don’t keep moving. All the food we brought from the trapper’s cabin was lost to the river. Now I wish we’d eaten all of the hare right away. Even the dog food is gone. I worry that if I sleep, I may not wake up. We have to make a last effort while we still can.
After I stoke the stove full of wood, I unclip all the dogs, who only move enough to huff at me and then tuck their heads back in. They’re so tired, they don’t even seem to mind being inside. Bean gives one long, tongue-curling yawn, with a grumble deep in his throat. They’re trying to conserve energy. Starving, tired, and only interested in sleep.
With the tarp wrapped around us, and the fire doing its thing, Chris and I slowly warm up. It must be midnight or later by now. Slivers of light from the fire escape out the vents in the stove. Partial light against the black night. It illuminates the dogs with a comforting glow. I lay beside Chris, surrounded by soft, wet breathing, and try to keep my eyes open. As nice as it is to hear my dogs around me, I don’t want that to be the last thing I hear.
A deep, predawn darkness stretches across the trail ahead of us. We’ve been on this trail for what feels like years now. The dogs did not want to go. It was the first time I’ve ever had to coax them to get up. I wanted to cry at how listless they were, the sparkle in their eyes missing.
I didn’t know what to do with Bean. There was no sled bag to put him in, nothing to keep him from sliding around on the plastic sled floor. I thought of trying to hold him somehow, clip him to the handlebar and make him sit, but in the end, I knew I had to leave him free.
Whistler had lost her booties, but that was a good thing since I wouldn’t have been able to take them off for her before they froze on her feet. Gazoo actually looked as if he was going to mutiny when we first got going, tucking his tail down, refusing to move. I gave him extra special attention, stroking his head, whispering in his ear what a handsome, brave dog he is, and I promised him a big steak once we all get home. That seemed to convince him since he’s running now. Well, I wouldn’t call what we’re doing actually running, but we’re moving forward.
“I can’t see a thing,” Chris says beside me.
“That’s okay. The dogs can.” I’d tell Chris that they can smell the trail, too, feel it under their feet. That they like running at night better than any other time. The dense air pushes the scents closer to the ground. But talking takes too much energy.
I desperately hope that Bean is still on the trail ahead. When we started, he hobbled forward, as if to lead. He should not be running at all. He’s limping so heavily, he’s going to injure his other shoulder to compensate. This is the worst kind of injury for a sled dog. But I can’t carry him. I can hardly hold myself up.
We’re obviously on Cook’s trails. They’re hard packed and wide. We’d be making good time if —
I double over on the runner suddenly, and retch. Nothing comes up, but my stomach twists painfully. I taste bile. My arms, legs, head all feel light. As if they aren’t solidly attached. I wipe my mouth and wonder what color my pee is. I can’t even remember the last time I peed.
Chris grabs his stomach and retches, too. His outline in the dark is bent
over on the runner beside me. A robust sound comes out of him, and I rub his back.
“When’s the last time you peed?”
“What?” Chris rubs his face. “You have got to be the strangest—”
“We’re dehydrated, Chris. Dangerously dehydrated.”
“Oh good, something to add to the list of stuff that’s trying to kill us.” Chris’s voice is rough. He has the look of someone broken. As if he knows we aren’t going to make it.
I think about the snow I’d melted in the pot on the stove. How I couldn’t get the dogs to drink it. Only Blue licked at it half-heartedly, as if he was just trying to make me happy. They were either too exhausted, or too far dehydrated to want to drink. The few mouthfuls each that Chris and I took wasn’t enough. I guess we were too exhausted to drink too.
I pop a handful of snow into my mouth and regret not taking the time to melt more in the pot. The snow trickles down as I hold it on my swollen tongue. My whole life I’ve known not to eat snow. Dad has told me how it takes my body too much energy to melt it, but I can’t help it. I’m so thirsty. And hungry. I feel completely empty.
Chris does the same beside me and I don’t say anything. I know we’ve run out of time. None of this matters. If only I could just sit here for a minute to rest. I’ve never been so tired.
Pale light seeps through the branches. I see Bean now, lurching ahead on the trail. His head bobs with every step, each one breaking my heart into a million pieces. The rest of the dogs are barely trotting. Even Drift has switched to a lopsided pacing gait. I pedal with a foot, but it’s painful. When I stumble, Chris grabs my arm to steady me. The trail climbs a hill, and we both try to waddle beside the sled on ravaged feet. My head pounds. My heart feels as if it’s going to explode out my body. My right leg buckles and I fall half on the runner.
The sled stops. I hang my head.
I have nothing left.
Chris crumples beside me and, inexplicably, seeing him give up like that enrages me. I glare at him. “Get up!” My voice is raw, savage.
Ice Dogs Page 12
