Diamond Willow (2 page)

my eye?
Dad, what
is
this?
I turn it over in

my hands a few times;
Dad
studies it for a couple

minutes, and then he gets
so excited
he almost pops.

Willow, let me tell you
about
this! What you have

found is more than just
an old
stick. This is the

diamond willow
stick
I found that afternoon,

just before you were born! Can it be—

let's see—twelve years ago already?

All this time, I thought it was lost.

He hands it back to me like it's

studded with real diamonds.

This belongs to you now.

Use your sharpest knife

to skin off the bark.

Find the diamonds.

Polish the whole

thing. It will

be beautiful,

Dad says.

You'll

see.

 

I

came

out here to

the mudroom

so I could be alone

and make a mess while I

think my own thoughts and

skin the bark off my stick. But it's

impossible to be alone in this house.

Mom:
Willow, don't use that sharp knife

when you're mad.
I say,
I'm not mad, Mom,

just leave me alone!
and she looks at me like

I proved her point. Then, on my very next cut,

the knife slips and I rip my jeans (not too bad;

luckily, Mom doesn't seem to notice). Maybe I

should go live with
Grandma
. I bet she'd let me

stay out there with her
and Grandpa
. She could

homeschool me. I
think
I'd do better in math if

I didn't worry about how
I'm
going to get a bad

grade while Kaylie gets her
perfect
grades on

every test, then shows me her stupid paper,

and asks how I did, and, if I show her,

offers to help me figure out where

I went wrong, “so you can

do better next time,

Willow.”

 

I

want

to mush

the dogs out

to Grandma and

Grandpa's. By myself.

I know the way. I've been

there about a hundred times

with Dad and Mom, and once

with Marty when he lived at home.

Their cabin is close to the main trail.

I know
I'm not
going to get lost, and I

won't see
a baby
moose or any bears this

time of year. Even if I did, I'd know enough

to get out of the way, fast. But Mom and

Dad don't seem to see it this way. What

do they think will happen? Dad at least

thinks about it:
She's twelve years old;

it's twelve miles. Maybe we could

let her try.
Mom doesn't

even pause for half a

second before

she says,

No

!

 

Maybe

they'll let me go

if I just take three dogs,

and leave three dogs here for Dad.

I'd take Roxy, of course—she's smart

and fast and she thinks the same way I do.

Magoo is fun. He doesn't have much experience,

but if I take Cora, she'd help Magoo settle down.

Dad would want one fast dog.
I'll
leave Samson

here with him. Lucky might
try
to get loose

and follow me down the trail
again
, like

the last time we left her, but this time

Dad will be here to help Mom

get her back. Prince can be

hard to handle; it will be

easier without him.

If Dad sees how

carefully I'm

thinking this

through, he

might help

convince

Mom.

 

I

beg

Mom:

Please!

I'd only take

three dogs. You know

I can handle them. You've

seen me.
She won't listen.
You

are not old enough,
she says.
Or

strong enough.
I make a face (should

not have done that). Mom starts in:
A moose

will charge at three dogs as fast as it will charge

at six. A three-dog team can lose the trail, or pull you

out onto thin ice. What if your sled turns over, or you lose

control of the team?
(
Mom
really goes on and on once she gets

started.)
Willow, you
could be
alone out there with a dog fight

on your hands.
(Oh,
right
, Mom, like I've never stopped a

dog fight by myself.) When Mom finally stops talking

and starts thinking, I know enough to quit arguing.

She looks me up and down like we've just met,

then takes a deep breath.
You really want to

do this, don't you, Willow?
It takes me by

surprise, and I almost say,
Never mind,

Mom, it doesn't matter.
But it does

matter. I swallow hard and nod.

Mom says,
I'll think about it

and decide tomorrow.

What if she says

yes?

 

You

would

trust her

to take Roxy

by herself?
Mom

questions Dad. They

don't know I'm listening.

I know my dogs,
Dad answers,

how
they
are with Willow. It's more

that I'd
trust
Roxy to take her. Honey, if

it's up to
me
, I say let's let her do this.

I slip away before they see me.

I'm pretty sure they're

going to say yes.

(Yes!)

I go out

and talk to Roxy

and Cora and Magoo.

I think they're going to let us go

to Grandma and Grandpa's by ourselves!

I get out at noon on Friday—it's the end of the

quarter. We'll leave by one, and be there before dark.

We'll have almost two days out there, and come home

Sunday afternoon!
Even as
I
let myself say it,

I'm trying not to
hope
too hard.

I know all
I can do
now is

wait.
It
will jinx

it for sure if

I keep on

begging.

 

Yes,

I have a

wool sweater

under my jacket.

Extra socks, gloves,

and, yes, I have enough

booties for the dogs. I have

my sleeping bag and a blanket,

in case I get stranded somewhere

(which of course won't happen).
Yes,

I have matches, a headlamp, a hatchet.

Dad keeps adding things to his checklist.

Zanna comes up as close as she dares, keeping

her distance from the dogs, to give me a card she

made for Grandma. It's cute, a picture of an otter

sliding down a riverbank.
Okay
,
Dad says,
it looks

like you're all set. I know you
can
do this. Take it

slow.
He keeps on talking as
I
take my foot off

the brake and let the dogs
go
. He might still

be talking even
now
, yelling out last-

minute warnings:
Don't forget to

call us when you get there!

Watch where the trail …

And I can picture Mom,

standing beside Dad,

her arms folded tight,

like she's holding

me, wrapped

up inside

them.

 

Fox

tracks,

new snow,

red-streaked sky

and full moon rising.

I know
this
trail, know

where it
gets scary
. I know

where it
sometimes
floods and

freezes over.
And I
know Grandma

and Grandpa will
love it
when they hear

the dogs, knowing that it's me mushing

out to see them. I'm almost there.

Can't be more than half an hour

to go. Down this small

hill, past the burned

stumps. There—I

see the light

by their

door.

 

 

 

John, Willow's great-great-grandfather (Red Fox)

Willow saw my tracks and looked around, but I didn't show myself to her. Don't want to take a chance that her dogs would see or smell me, and take off running after me.

Old times, they wouldn't let a girl go off alone like that. I don't like to see it. That's why I followed her, made sure she got to her grandma's house. (Think of it, my little grandchild someone else's grandma now.)

Lots has changed round here since I was Willow's age. Everyone talks that English now, kids go to school all the time, instead of being out here learning to get food. They should think about what happens when those airplanes don't come in. They should teach the kids how to keep warm, how to feed everyone when it stays cold a long, long time. Hungry times could come again, and what will they do then if they don't learn the old ways now?

I wasn't too sure about that man Willow's mother married. When he first came here, he smiled too much, lots of times for no reason—he'd start smiling when he just met someone, before he even got to know them. He'd put out his hand that way they do, smile, say his name, try to make people talk too much. But he turned out okay. He learned how to hunt and fish, made himself some pretty good snowshoes. That takes patience.

I've been watching him teach Willow how to run the dogs. She's a quiet one. She knows how to listen to those dogs, so they listen to her, too. They're patient with her. Sometimes when she does something wrong—gets their harnesses all tangled up or something—I'm pretty sure I see them barking inside, but those dogs are polite to Willow. They give her a lot of chances. After a while she always gets it right.

I see her through the window now, with her grandpa and grand-ma. They love that girl; she's safe here. I'll go back upriver to my den.

 

 

All

my life,

this has been

my favorite place.

Grandma's beadwork

on the table, Grandpa's furs

stretched out to dry, the smell of

woodsmoke mingling with the smell

of moose meat frying on the stove.

As soon as
I
walk in, I see that

Grandma's
made
a batch of

doughnuts.
It
's how she

tells me, without

saying much,

she's happy

that I'm

here.

 

I

tie

the dogs,

and Grandpa

helps me feed them.

We look at Roxy's foot.

I tell Grandpa she had a run-in

with a porcupine.
Oh,
he says,
that nuné.

It's one of our Indian words. Or, as we say,

Dinak'i. I know some, from bilingual class,

but not as much as Grandpa and Grandma, not

even as much as Mom.
Sometimes
, when we're

dropping off to sleep out here,
I
hear them talking

Dinak'i, chuckling together, and I
feel
a little bit

left out. Not that I would
like
to go back to

the old times I hear the
two
of them talk

about—back when
people
didn't have

TV, computers, telephones, or

snowmachines and airplanes.

I'd miss all those things.