Jon Katz

by Rose in a Storm (v5)

  All the animals who heard it paused and listened, and many trembled.

  SHE BLINKED AWAKE, shook the snow off.

  She tipped her head toward the coyotes at the edge of the woods. It seemed natural that she and they would be at different ends of this hill, in this storm. She had this strange sensation that she had dreamt of this day, experienced it before.

  By now the little dog was almost invisible in the snow. She saw a thousand hills and meadows, too many sheep to count, fires and windstorms, lightning and floods, barns and houses, and it seemed that her images went further and further back, that the storm had opened doors inside her head and she was rushing past them in time, almost too fast to see clearly, through so many blue lights, so many spirits.

  UP AT THE top of the hill, the coyote saw that his moment had come. The little dog had come out and lay down, opening herself up to him. The sheep were in the den behind her, weak and vulnerable. He saw the bodies of the cows and steers, almost frozen where they stood. The dog was speaking to him. She was saying, this is the time. Neither she nor he had human notions of victory or defeat.

  They simply did what they did. And what happened was what happened. It meant nothing more to them.

  The coyote saw that two or three of the cows were alive but barely able to move. He would not attack the big brown one. He would let him die and then feast off the remains.

  He had seen the other dog go into the house—they would never go into places where humans lived.

  So it was his time. He was cautious, and looked carefully around, for other dogs, for humans. He raised his nose to take in any scents, and pricked his ears for strange sounds. He found nothing and was satisfied. He knew there were cats in the barn, and chickens, but coyotes did not go into barns or buildings. That was the work of lesser animals—foxes, raccoons. Coyotes hunted in the open.

  He turned to the other coyotes. They all knew the plan, communicated through body language, eyes, turns of the head.

  Three of them went off to the left, moving slowly down the hill to flank the dog on one side and cut off any escape for the sheep. Three went off and circled to the right. Both groups would go below Rose and the pole barn, so that the sheep would have nowhere to run when the coyotes closed in from above, the one with the blue eyes and his den.

  They would all move in at once, yipping and barking, circling and charging, tearing at throats, killing quickly, spreading panic, feasting there and hauling off meat back to the den, for them and for their pups.

  The dog was weak and tired and could not stop the pack, and even if she fought—for he saw that she would fight—she would be killed quickly.

  The coyote leader lay and waited until the other coyotes were down the hill and in place.

  Rose saw the coyotes beginning to circle. She knew they were ready to attack. She began a low growl, and her ruff went up. She would fight.

  Her mind seemed to be running off without her, still racing back through time, to different places, new scenes, powerful and disturbing images. She imagined being more powerful, wished to find some story to draw from, some memory to call upon. She found none.

  She sat up, shook off the snow, waited.

  Rose felt at ease, a sense of resignation. The snow swirled around her in little tornadoes, the wind howled loudly down the hill. All of the other animals, sensing what was coming, were still. She peered up at the hill. There was no movement.

  THE COYOTE LEADER yipped, a chilling chorus echoing back and forth through the wind and dark and the blowing snow. The signal given and received that the hunt was on, the pack was to move in for the kill. He lowered his head, took the lead, and headed straight for the little dog, who stood up to face him.

  The wind was blowing into his face, the ice made footing difficult, the snow was thick, and from time to time he could hardly see the form of the dog. He felt no emotion about killing her—it was what had to be done, and he would do it—though he felt the respect the two of them had had, each for the other from the first.

  He loped down the hill. He saw the others in place, advancing from the left and the right, deferring to him, expecting him to draw the first blood. The winds whistled and shrieked, ruffling fur, sending up swirls of snow in the darkness.

  Rose looked up, into the storm. She could run, or she could fight. To stay still and be taken was not a choice.

  The coyote in front of her hesitated, advanced, then slowed to a crawl, perhaps a change in strategy or an effort to distract or confuse her. As he slowed, the two to her right closed in, just as one did from the left.

  She was now uncertain where the attack would come from, and she saw that this was deliberate. She couldn’t look everywhere at once, especially if the coyotes were using the blinding snow as cover.

  She turned to one side and was surprised to feel a powerful, slashing bite in her opposite shoulder, meant for her throat but thrown off because she had moved. She plunged her teeth into the nose of one of the coyotes, who yelped and jumped back. Then two others were upon her, and she felt piercing bites in her legs and, again, in her shoulder. Herding dogs were not fighters; they were runners. They did not have strong jaws or powerful bites. She knew her teeth were no match for coyotes.

  She smelled blood, and her head became light as she collapsed on the ground. She saw the stains in the snow, and heard the sheep crying out in alarm, awaiting the coyotes. She heard the labored breathing of the cows, and the heartbeats of lambs, and the frustrated barks of the wild dog. She looked out for Sam and for Katie but did not see them. The coyotes circled her, pressing their leader to make the kill, and she felt the energy draining from her body in blood, in weariness, in uncertainty. No choices now, as the cold seeped into her bones and traveled up toward her heart.

  She thought one more time of Sam and Katie, and she thought of her mother, and the sheep, and felt a great failure settle over her. She could no longer protect them.

  She felt peace, too, accepting that perhaps her work was finally done, that there would be rest in the land of the blue lights that she had dreamed about.

  THE COYOTE LEADER growled a warning to the others to back off. The little dog was injured, bleeding, nearly done. It was his job, his work, to finish the kill.

  He would not eat the body of the dog, nor would he permit the other coyotes to do so. She had to be killed, but she would not be prey. He had his own code for how things were done, and she had earned his respect. She was linked to them, though following a different way. In a different time, it could have been him looking up that hill, or her looking down it.

  He stood over her body. She was still breathing, though weakening, and the stain of her blood was spreading through the snow. She curled her lip, and then closed her eyes as if to wait. She did not try to run or show any weakness or fear or deference to him. Her eyes flashed open as he lowered his head, and suddenly she lashed out and took a piece out of his lower lip, startling him and causing him to leap away. Her eyes glowed with challenge.

  He stepped back, preparing to charge this time, preparing to tear her throat.

  As the coyote drew close, the fur on his ruff came up, and a new smell entered his nostrils. He froze. The snow was falling heavily again, and a fierce gust of wind drove ice into his eyes. He turned his head away. The dog was lying on her side, barely breathing, bleeding, too weak to stand up.

  He did not move, his hackles straight up, his ears tilted, his eyes wide, his back stiff.

  He heard an awful piercing howl, rolling up the hillside, echoing off the stricken barns and farmhouse, so loud and deep and frightening it seemed to bounce off the sky.

  It was angry, urgent, ancient, and it would freeze the soul of any animal who heard it.

  The coyote had only heard that howl once before. And he knew it, and knew its meaning.

  It was the howl of a wolf. And it was so loud it seemed to cut through him and chill his blood.

  He looked down at the dog, but she was no longer there.

  In
her place, where her dying body had just lain, was an enormous wolf, with yellow eyes, a long tongue hanging out one side, a thick chest and body, a dense ruff heavy with snow. The wolf was huge, and the coyote could not see past him. With one turn of the head, it had picked up one of the coyotes circling Rose, slashed his throat and thrown his carcass onto the snow, a message delivered so easily and gracefully it could almost have been missed.

  The wolf had an enormous, powerful jaw, with blood dripping from its teeth. There was no sign of the little dog. The sheep were silent, paralyzed in terror, frozen in place.

  Apart from the wind, a deathly silence settled over the farm. Down by the farmhouse, the coyote saw the wild dog—confused, limping—struggling toward them through the snow. But he couldn’t make it, dropping to the ground not far from the door.

  The wolf seemed to grow in size as he came closer, eyes blazing. The great creature, many times the size of the coyotes, locked his gaze onto the coyote leader. Then he broke off eye contact and raised his head and howled again up at the storm, into the night sky. It was a sound so wrenching, so angry and powerful, it seemed to turn back the wind, blow back the snow, transform the very air, create its own whirlwind, another kind of storm to challenge the blizzard.

  It was the oldest sound, one that had power and meaning going back to the farthest reaches of time.

  The coyote’s fur was up, and he was backing up the hill now. The other coyotes had all vanished, off through the snow, back into the woods.

  They would not be back, this or any other night.

  The coyote turned, and then he ran, unable to look back at the unbearable sight.

  FOURTEEN

  THE SKY WAS BLUE, NOT A CLOUD IN SIGHT.

  From the window of the National Guard helicopter Sam could see the farm far off in the distance. It was so clear he could see all the way to Vermont.

  His right arm was secured tightly by a sling, and his frostbitten fingers were wrapped in gauze. He was a bit surprised he had won the battle to return to the farm. He had told them his entire livelihood depended on his getting back, and while there was truth to that, he was most tormented by the image of Rose backing away from the helicopter, choosing to remain behind in that awful storm to stay with the farm and the sheep, and the wild dog.

  They had relented finally and agreed to carry him back after three days.

  He could not imagine that she had survived, but he would never forgive himself if there was any chance she was still alive and he stayed put, coddled in some hospital bed. Peering out the window, he was crushed by the devastation he saw below him—collapsed barns, fallen trees, downed power lines and impassable roads, dead cows, frozen and stiff in their pastures.

  The news reports were horrific: five days of snow, subzero temperatures, and raging winds that topped seventy-five miles per hour. One of the older farm couples had been found dead in their farmhouse, and one or two others were missing. The damage was expected to be staggering. How could a farm survive that kind of havoc, and how could a dog, even one as dedicated and smart as Rose?

  The Guard officials understood, after hours of pleading, after he threatened to get dressed and hitchhike back, so when the skies cleared and the flying was finally safe, they took him up. He would have to be lowered back down, the same way he came up.

  The doctors were worried about his arm, which had been broken in two places. But they would be leaving him with food, a bigger generator, and a portable electric heater, plus officials expected power back within a week or so. Emergency plowing crews were already trying to clear the roads, so he and two other farmers—a husband and wife and their two small children from Bunker Hill Road—were being choppered back to their farms.

  When he told the pilot the story of Rose, they agreed to drop him first, along with three or four bales of hay. But although he expected just about anything from the news reports he’d been hearing, he was still shocked by what he saw from the window as the pilot circled the farm twice, looking for the best place to set him down.

  He would have hardly recognized the farm were it not for part of the slate roof of the big barn sticking up out of the snow like a ship marooned in ice. The house was buried in drifts nearly all the way up to the second floor. The barn roof had collapsed. He saw one dead cow lying on its side, the others standing stiffly behind the barn. He could see some sheep lying inside the barn, which was completely surrounded by drifts, but from far up above he could not tell if they were alive or dead.

  Up behind the pole barn, he saw another animal body and his heart nearly stopped. It took him a moment to make out that it was a coyote. Even from up high, he saw the stains of blood beside it in the snow. Dear God, he thought, what could have killed a coyote? Certainly not Rose.

  He wondered where Rose could possibly be, but as soon as the question crossed his mind, his heart sank again; he knew it was impossible she could have survived any kind of a battle with coyotes, tough and determined though she was. Maybe she ran. But, no, she wouldn’t. Not Rose. And if she were alive, wouldn’t she have run out to investigate the helicopter, to see if he was coming home?

  The pilot pointed to the pasture area behind the barn as the only spot the chopper could get low enough to put him down. They would send someone down with Sam to help him get back into the farmhouse through the drifts, to get some hay to the animals. He was desperate to get back on the ground. Barely a minute had gone by that he wasn’t beating himself up for leaving in the first place.

  The pilot handed him a walkie-talkie and told him to radio if he needed help in the coming days.

  Sam wondered what would be left, wondered if he could really survive here now. And he couldn’t get the image of Rose, standing alone in the doorway, out of his mind. He looked out the chopper window, unable to imagine that she wouldn’t be outside waiting for him.

  He steeled himself as one of the Guardsmen helped him into a harness, a maneuver made all the more awkward by the sling around his arm. It was hard to reconcile the calm blue skies with the awful, hellish storm that had ravaged the area.

  He was lowered slowly to the ground, along with the Guardsman who would accompany him for an hour or so, until the chopper circled back to pick him up on the way out again. The snow blew up in a cloud, and Sam looked for the spot where he had been buried, where Rose had dug him out. He saw the animals looking over at him from afar, rattled by the helicopter. They were moving, he was relieved to see.

  But he didn’t see Rose.

  She probably would have made a stand against the coyotes, he knew. He might not even be able to get up to the pole barn to see what had happened until some of the snow began to melt.

  The Guard said they might be able to get the roads cleared in a day or so, but there were no promises. They were also putting together a plan to drop hay to trapped animals, and they’d given him a number to call. A chopper had been by earlier, in fact, and dropped some bales near the pole barn and out to the cows. Now that they were closer, Sam could see it, and also see the tracks proving that at least some of the animals had gotten to it.

  The pilot had made a note of the pole barn and said he would try and get back and drop some more bales from the air, once they had checked all of the farms for human rescue. There were still people trapped inside their homes without heat, he said, and of course they would be his first priority.

  “Good luck finding your dog!” one of the Guardsmen shouted as they lowered Sam from the belly of the helicopter. He landed softly in the snow, which came up to his knees, unlatched the harness, and then stood back as the chopper quickly rose again, veering over to the farmhouse to lower some food and the portable heater.

  The Guardsman who came down with Sam was young and fit, exuding calm and competence. He spoke quietly and with authority, and also showed real concern. He bristled with equipment—earphones, gauges, flashlights, clips, kits. Clearly, he had done this before.

  The chopper would come back for him and leave Sam there if it seemed safe eno
ugh. Sam told himself there was no way they were taking him off the farm again, no matter what he found there.

  The Guardsman helped tramp a path to the barn door, and together they signaled that it was all right for the helicopter to take off. Sam told the Guardsman that the first thing they had to do was find Rose, and then get that hay out to the animals.

  The sliding door was blocked by snow, but a smaller swinging door was built into it, and it opened after Sam banged it free with his left fist and the Guardsman pulled it open.

  The two climbed inside. “Rose, Rose!” Sam yelled, “Are you here? Rose?” He knew she surely wasn’t, but he couldn’t acknowledge that yet.

  Sam heard the sheep calling out from the pole barn, excited to hear the sound of his voice, and he was relieved that at least some of them were okay.

  But he gasped when he entered the dark and once open workspace of his big barn. The roof had collapsed in the rear, and there was heavy snow piled everywhere. More surprisingly, the rear doors appeared to have been busted open. Two chickens huddled in their nest, one dead. He saw Winston over in a corner, alive but just barely. He showed the Guardsman where the feed can was and they tossed some of it over to Winston, who awoke and pecked hungrily at it.

  There were fallen beams, slate tiles, and debris everywhere. Sam saw the dead, trampled ewe by the rear of the barn and could not imagine how she came to be there. When he walked through the snow and out the back of the barn, he saw most of his cows, alive but trembling where they stood, as he had observed from the helicopter. Brownie, he saw, was lying down by the back of the barn, but he was breathing. When he and the Guardsman yelled and stomped their feet, the old steer struggled to his feet.

  The Guardsman ran out to the drop zone, grabbed a bale of hay, and threw some down in front of Brownie, then scattered the rest among the other cows. Some of the bales from the earlier drop had already been eaten.