Diamond Willow (3 page)

But I like to listen

to their stories.

I know if I try,

I can learn to

understand

them.

 

Grandpa

gets up first

and makes a hot

birch fire in the stove.

When the house is warm

Grandma makes a pot of coffee

and cooks pancakes.
Grandma,
I ask,

can I move out here and live with you?

I give her all my reasons. Well, most of them.

She looks down at her sewing.
I do
know what

you mean, Willow. We'd like to
have
you here.

I'm surprised! I was expecting
some
argument

about my family, or all the
friends
she thinks

I have at school. Then she goes on:
Could

you and your dad take care of all

those dogs if you're here and

he's there? Maybe you

shouldn't split up

a dog team like

that, Willow.

Those dogs

get used

to each

other.

 

Early

evening,

snow starts

falling, burying my

tracks from the trail up to

the dog yard and into the house.

Snow covers all the yellow circles

the dogs have made around their houses,

and half buries the firewood stacked outside.

Grandma stands beside me; we're looking out

the window, and she tilts her head the way she does

when she's thinking of a riddle:
Look
, I see something …

She squints her eyes a little.
Someone
outside
is wearing

a sheepskin coat.
I look around
and
figure out what

Grandma means:
Over there—I
see
snow piled

on top of an old stump.
Inside
her warm

kitchen, Grandma nods. She

smiles a little.
That's

right, Willow,

that's

it.

 

Sunday

morning, the

snow is deep, but

not so much that I can't

make it home. Grandpa and Dad

go out on snowmachines, meeting halfway

to pack the trail. It's time to leave. If I start now, I'll

have plenty of time to get home before dark. I feed the dogs

a little extra, and
Grandma
says,
Here—put this in your pack.

Smoked salmon!
Looks like
she's feeding me a little extra, too.

Then she gives
me
the mittens she just finished, beaded

flowers on her home-tanned moose skin, beaver fur

around the cuffs. She could sell them for a lot

of money, and she's giving them to me

when it's not even my birthday.

I put them on, put my

hands on her face.

We both

smile.

 

It's

warm

today,

almost

up to zero. I

see something:

White clouds blow

across the sky.
Too bad

I'm out here alone, with

no one but that spruce hen

to tell my riddle to. (It's the dogs'

breath I see, white puffs going out behind

them as they run.) Here comes the halfway point,

where Grandpa met Dad
this
morning. They warned me

about this part of the trail; this
will be
the stretch to watch,

this bumpy part coming up.
Take it
easy
there,
Grandpa said.

Okay, slow down, Roxy.
Good, we're past that rough spot,

now we can go as fast as we want. And I love to go fast!

So does Roxy. She looks back at me and I swear

I see her grin.
Let's go!
we tell each other.

Cora and Magoo perk up their ears

as if to say,
Okay with us!

I knew I could do this.

Hike, Roxy!

Haw!

 

 

 

Jean, Willow's great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

Oh, my land! Look at this child flying down the trail!

She comes from people who like to keep moving—my family moved across an ocean when I was about Willow's age; her grandfather hitchhiked across Canada the summer he turned twenty; her father came north on the Alcan Highway—on a motorcycle. Now look—when Willow and Roxy get moving together, I don't see any way to stop them.

Usually, I wouldn't want to stop them, or even slow them down. I fly faster than that myself.

But I've seen what's ahead. At the bottom of this hill, just around the curve, a dead tree fell across the trail, not too long after Willow's father went past this morning. Broken limbs are sticking out all over it.

If she were coming from the other direction, she'd see it in time to stop. But from this direction, at the speed she's going, Willow won't have time to stop her dogs.

 

The

dogs love

going fast as much

as I do. When we come to

the curve at the bottom of the hill

I'll slow them down a little. But not yet—

this is too much fun! Here's the curve.
What?

Whoa! Easy, Roxy!
I brake hard, the dogs stop—

but not fast enough. Roxy's howl cuts through me.

I set the snow hook, run to her—as fast as I can

through the deep snow. I stumble; a branch

jabs into my leg.
Oww!
It's my
own

voice I hear, like the
fault
line

of an earthquake, with

everything breaking

around it. Roxy

sticks her face

in the snow.

The snow

turns

red.

 

Roxy,

look at me.

I hold her head

and stare at her face.

She's bleeding from her eyes

and she won't stop yelping.
I
pull the

tarp off the sled—oh, I
don't
believe this!

I kept saying,
Dad, I
know
I have everything!

But I didn't bring
the first
aid kit! I don't have

any bandages, or any
thing
like a dog bag to carry

Roxy in the sled. I'm
about
two hours from home.

It's too far to turn back.
This
is serious.
Hush, Roxy.

I'll think of something. My shirt. It's clean enough.

No one's around, and I won't freeze to death while I

take it off and put my sweater and jacket back on.

Okay. I think I can do this. I have to.
Roxy,

just let me hold this on your eyes. Please

trust me. Thank you, Roxy. Good dog.

There, I finally stopped the bleeding.

Now, I have to get her in the sled.

I can lift her. But how can I

keep her from shivering

in this bitter

wind?

 

I

kick the

side of the sled.

How could I be so

stupid? Dad will kill

me!
Calm down, my dear.

Weird—it seemed like I heard

those words. I look around: Who

said that? All I see is a spruce hen

sitting on a low branch just ahead,

quietly preening her feathers. I watch

her for a minute,
take
a few long, deep

breaths, let my
heart
slow down a little,

and then it comes to me:
Feathers—use

my down sleeping bag.
I manage to get

Roxy into it and strap her to the sled.

I give the dogs some of my smoked

salmon and eat some myself.

(Thank you, Grandma!)

Cora—you'll have to

lead us home. I'm

counting on

you.

 

 

 

Jean, Willow's great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

By the time they pull into the yard, the sun has set behind the mountains. Willow's mother and her father and her sister, Zanna, all run out to meet her. Her mother is all smiles; Zanna's jumping up and down.

Her father looks at Roxy in the sled.

Before he has a chance to say a word, Willow's mother takes her daughter in her arms and pulls her close.

Willow's shoulders start to shake. Her mother makes a gesture to her father:
You take care of Roxy. I'll take care of her.

 

My

leg is

bruised

pretty badly.

Mom says it's lucky

I didn't get hurt worse.

We
shouldn't
have let you go.

At least,
someone
should have gone out

this afternoon to
be
sure you were okay.
It sounds

like Mom is
mad at
Dad or herself, but not sure which.

She fusses over
me
, covering me with a warm blanket,

making me hot chocolate, telling Zanna to turn

down the TV so I can rest. She doesn't

say a word about Roxy. When Dad

comes in, they go into their

bedroom to talk. I want

to hear what Dad

has to say, but

he doesn't

seem to

want

me

to.

 

Roxy's

eyes have

always been so

beautiful—deep,

clear brown. Intelligent.

I call it dog-love, that way

she looks at us. Now her eyes

are crusted with—with
what
? They're

all bandaged, and when I lift
a
corner of the

bandage, I see a bloody
mess
. When Dad took her

to the vet, he didn't even ask me to go along! And now

he hasn't told me what she said. He was silent when he

brought Roxy in and made her bed beside the stove.

Dad's not exactly accusing me out loud, but

everything he does says,
Willow,

how could you? I trusted you!

Roxy was our best dog.

You knew that.

Yes, Dad—

I knew

that.

 

I

don't

get up early

like I usually do.

I stay in bed when Dad

gets up to feed the dogs. Mom

comes in to see how I'm doing, and

I say,
Mom, I think I better stay home

from school today.
I can't
walk

too well.
Her
face
tells me

she'll tell
Dad
for me,

but she's not sure

I'm telling

the entire

truth.

 

Dad

changes

Roxy's bandage and

makes sure she's comfortable

before he goes to work. After he's gone,

I go in to see her. She can't see me, of course,

but she whimpers when
she
hears me coming, so I

kneel down beside her. I
might
cry, and I don't want her

to hear me do that. I'll try to
be
as brave as she is.
Oh, Roxy,