Diamond Willow (5 page)

and she still talks about that.
This
might be the worst thing she's

ever done. I fill her in on the details of my plan as we walk home

the back way, so neither of our moms will see us.
But, Willow,

Kaylie says,
I've never mushed dogs before.
It's true, but she

loves animals.
All you have to do is sit in the sled with Roxy,

keep her calm, and make sure her eyes are protected from

the wind.
She's still trying to decide when we get home,

just as Mom drives off with Zanna on the snowmachine.

Perfect timing. When we go inside, Roxy comes right

over to Kaylie, wagging her tail, and I'm sure I see

them smile at each other. I find a note on

the telephone table, Mom's writing:

“Vet—3:45. Bring blanket

to wrap body. Tell the

children? Okay,

if old enough to

understand.”

 

 

 

Emma, Kaylie's great-grandmother (Chickadee)

Oh, for heaven's sake, what are those girls up to now? I see that spruce hen waiting over there, ready to fly along with Willow. I suppose I'll do the same for Kaylie. Sometimes she puts seeds on her mitten and holds it out to me.
Chic-a-dee-dee,
she says; I believe it's her way of trying to talk to me. I like that. I hop right up on her hand and take the seeds, then fly off to a nearby tree to eat them. Kaylie keeps an eye on me. I keep an eye on her.

I don't like the looks of this one bit—that dog should be inside where it's warm and dry. The girls should be in school where they belong. Don't they see that stormy sky? Do their parents know what they're up to?

It looks like they have Roxy well wrapped in a dog bag and a warm blanket. Cora, Lucky, and Magoo seem eager to start out. Willow does know how to handle dogs, I'll say that for her. If only she weren't quite so headstrong. She gets these crazy ideas and pulls Kaylie along like this. I never know quite what will happen.

 

I'm

not sure

about this

weather. It's

that kind where

first there's
a
pocket of

sharp cold, then a
little
farther on

the air gets warm. The
snow
comes down

and stops and starts again—I
won't
quite say so,

but I'm kind of nervous. Roxy is
hurt
—I can't turn back!

We have to keep moving in case
anyone
comes and tries to stop us.

When Mom gets home, she'll call Dad, who
will
figure out what I'm doing.

He'll start after me on his snowmachine. Now
it
looks like Kaylie's scared;

she keeps glancing over her shoulder at the sky behind us. When we stop

to rest the dogs, she takes out some seeds and holds them on her

mitten. A chickadee comes right down and grabs one, then

flies on ahead of us. Kaylie watches it.
Come on,
she says,

we should hurry, Willow. What if the snow gets worse,

so your grandpa can't bring me back?
We're more

than halfway there, so I'm not too worried,

but she's right about the weather.

It's snowing harder than

it was just a few

minutes

ago.

 

Where

is the fork

in the trail?

Shouldn't we

have come to it

by now? Snow

is coming down

so fast and hard I

can barely see. And

why is Roxy whining?

Her eyes are bandaged;

she couldn't know if we

missed the fork back there.

Could she?
I'm not
going to

turn back. I'm pretty
sure
if we

keep going for
about
ten more

minutes on
this
trail, we'll come

to the fork. If not, we'll have to

go back to see if we can find it.

Mom and Dad are definitely

home by now. It's starting

to get dark, and Cora

doesn't know the

way like Roxy

did. Like

I was so

sure I

did.

 

We've

been back and forth

on this same stretch of trail three

times now—I still can't find the fork.

Blinding snow swirls ahead of us, behind us,

and it's getting colder and darker by the minute.

Now Kaylie thinks we should
try
to go back home.

She doesn't know I'm
not
sure where we are.

I don't know which way
to
go from here

to get home. I taste
panic
rising

in my throat. I swallow it.

And then a spruce hen

bursts out, right

in front of my

face.
Do I

know

you?

 

The

spruce

hen flies to a

low branch, and

comes to a
stop
at the

point
where
the branch

slopes down.
You are
starting

to shiver,
Kaylie says.
You might
be getting

hypothermia. We need to warm up.
Be
sensible, Willow.

Who made her the mother? But it's true.
All right
,
I agree,

we might as well make a fire here and wait for the snow to stop.

Kaylie looks around, then stares at me. We both know this kind

of snow could fall all night. We start to search for dry firewood,

and beneath the spruce tree's low, snow-covered branches,

we find a shelter.
Kaylie, look,
I say,
we can cut spruce

boughs for the floor, and lean the sled on its side

to shield us from the wind. Help me

get Roxy in here. Be careful

not to knock the snow

off that branch.

I think the

three of us

can fit in

here.

 

At

least

we brought

the survival kit.

And extra salmon to give

Grandma and Grandpa for Roxy.

We got a fire going; we melted snow.

We boiled water and checked Roxy's eyes.

We changed her bandage. We kept her warm.

We cooked a pot of salmon stew, gave plenty

to the dogs. Now
we can
eat some stew

ourselves.
Let's not
think
of this as

“We're eating dog food.”

We agree:

We're all in this

together;
we're
sharing food

with four
good
dogs
. We try not to think

about the
people
who are worrying about us.

We aren't sure if it's safe for us to go to sleep—

if it gets colder, we could freeze to death out here.

One thing we know for sure: if we can stay alive

until tomorrow, when we do get home,

we can look forward to being

in the worst trouble

either of us

has ever

been

in.

 

Here's

what I see

when I light

my candle: Kaylie in her

dark green sleeping bag, her back

against the sled; me in my sleeping bag, curled

around Roxy in her dog-bag, spruce boughs under us,

a red blanket over us. Nearby, in a snow cave we hollowed out,

we hear Lucky breathing. Magoo whimpers in his sleep and Cora

snores a little. The spruce tree seems like
it's
as wide awake as I am,

spreading her branches to make this
cold
, cozy shelter. If I can't stay

awake all night, I'll wake up Kaylie,
and
she'll stay awake while I

sleep. I won't disturb her just because
I'm scared
. I'm the one

who dragged her into this. As long as everyone is breathing,

I'm pretty sure we'll be okay. It's still snowing

just as hard as it was

before.

 

 

 

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

I'm roosting under the other side of this tree, awake with Willow, though she doesn't see me. Do I hear something? Yes, it's the sound of someone tearing through the forest on one of those noisy things they ride on. I'll fly out and see what I can see.

The snow has finally let up a little, but the wind keeps blowing it around. The dogsled tracks are completely covered.

There's the noisy thing, moving faster than I've ever seen one move at night.

Ah, yes—it's Willow's father driving it. His headlight shines ahead on the trail that Willow couldn't find. If her ears are sharp, and if she can remember the direction of the sound, it could help her find the right trail tomorrow morning.

Now her father has arrived at her grandparents' house—they've kept a light on for him. No one is asleep tonight. I watch them through the window as they sit and talk. Her father drinks three cups of coffee, then heads out into the night again, more slowly this time. At the fork, he stops and looks around, examining both trails for tracks, but there's nothing he can see.

Willow never got that far. She took a wrong turn before the fork and got lost on an old trail no one ever uses anymore. Her father slows down when he passes it, as if he's thinking. It would be a hard trail to travel in the dark.

Do I hear…? Yes, the dogs are howling. Good job, Willow. If her father stops, he'll hear them—but is there any way to stop him?

I swoop in close and he looks up.

What was that?
he says out loud.
Too small to be an owl.

I try again. He slows down a little, but he doesn't stop. He shakes his head and goes on home.

 

I

hear a

snowmachine!

I shake Kaylie:
Wake up!

Come on, we have to make noise!

She half opens her eyes, pushes Roxy,

and says,
I wish
you wouldn't sit so close to me,

Richard.
I could
tease her about it, but I don't.
I saw

the spruce hen
fly
off in that direction about an hour ago

and I thought I heard a snowmachine, but I wasn't sure.

It went past, and everything was quiet. Now there it is

again. Our parents must be out looking for us, Kaylie.

She says,
I don't know. Out on a snowmachine in the

middle of the night? That's crazy. That's not even

the direction of the trail we came on, is it?
She's

wide awake now.
Let's wake up the dogs,
I say,

get them howling loud enough so whoever is

out there will hear us.
We start howling

and the dogs raise their voices too.

The snowmachine doesn't stop.

It's moving farther away.

We stop howling, and

silence closes in.

It's darker than

before. I can't

seem to get

warm.

 

Willow,

you sleep now,