Wilderness (14 page)

He saw them.

The dogs.

The dogs were lying all around them. Around
Johnny, Tom, their mother. Behind them, and in front.
They'd come as far as their straps would let them.

Johnny looked. His mother's eyes were open.

“Amazing,” she whispered.

“They stink,” said Johnny.

“Yep.”

They lay awake. Tom snored, just once. Like a furry
bullet. Johnny and his mother grinned – they felt each
other grinning. They closed their eyes.

Johnny could feel the snow, on his face. It was
heavier again. He kept his eyes shut. He didn't look at
the fire.

 

 

Her mother had opened the front door, but she closed
it again.

“Well,” she said.

She kept her hand on the latch.

“This has been great,” she said.

They were going to see each other again. They were
meeting the day after next, in town. They were going to
see a lot of each other. Gráinne would go to New York,
sometimes. Her mother would come home twice a year.

A few minutes earlier, when they were sitting in the
kitchen, her mother had suggested that Gráinne come
and live with her in New York. Gráinne had said no.

Her mother had cried a little, but she'd nodded.

“It was just an idea,” she'd said.

“Yeah,” said Gráinne. “It's cool.”

It was dark now. Gráinne was standing beside the
switch. She turned on the light. They were suddenly
bright and blinking.

Her mother laughed, then stopped. She let go of
the latch. She lifted her arms and put them around
Gráinne.

Gráinne didn't hug her back. She couldn't do it; she
didn't really want to. But she let herself be hugged.
She heard her mother sniff. She could smell her
mother's soap. She felt the arms come away, and she
saw her mother wipe her eyes, and smile.

“I'm crying too much,” she said.

She pushed her hair back from her forehead. There
were bits of grey in her hair. Gráinne thought it was
cool. It looked kind of deliberate, the same colour as
her jacket.

“Well,” said her mother, again.

She put her hand on the latch. Gráinne heard the
click. The door was open. She heard the outside
noises getting louder.

“I'll phone you,” said her mother. “Tomorrow night.
Right?”

Gráinne nodded.

Her mother stepped back a bit, so she could open
the door properly. She looked at Gráinne. And then
she looked away, past Gráinne, and up a bit – up the
stairs.

“Hello, Frank,” she said.

She smiled.

Gráinne turned, and saw her father on the stairs,
two steps down from the landing.

“Hello,” he said.

“You're looking well,” said her mother. “I forgot to
tell you.”

“Thanks,” said Frank. “Rosemary. You too.”

The phone rang in the kitchen.

He came down the rest of the stairs. He got around
the bannister without touching Gráinne or knocking
the pile of jackets and hoodies that always hung there.
He smiled – he tried to.

“Excuse me,” he said.

He went down to the kitchen.

It was weird, Gráinne thought. These people were
strangers and, still, they were her parents. She'd have
to get used to it. Actually, she thought she liked it.
Two parents, two cities, two different countries.

The phone stopped ringing. He'd picked it up.

“I'm definitely going this time,” said her mother.

She smiled. Gráinne smiled.

She wanted to go to her father. She wanted to tell
him she wasn't leaving, but she didn't know if she
could. They said so little to each other. Maybe he
wanted her gone.

She knew that wasn't true.

“'Bye,” she said.

“'Bye,” said her mother.

She leaned across and kissed Gráinne's cheek.

“My honey-boo,” she said.

Gráinne remembered the name. It rushed to the
back of her eyes. Her mother used to call her that.
How's my honey-boo; here's my honey-boo.

Her mother stepped out, to the porch.

“See you very soon,” she said.

She held the car keys. She had Gráinne's granny's
car.

“Yeah,” said Gráinne. “See you.”

She started to close the door. She wanted to see her
dad. She needed to go down there, to the kitchen.

The car was parked out on the road. Gráinne could
see it, behind the hedge.

She closed the door.

She didn't want to.

She closed it. She let go of the latch. She stayed
still.

She heard the car, the bleep of the lock. She heard
the car door.

She walked away from the door. She went down to
the kitchen.

She saw her dad putting the phone down.

He turned. He looked frightened, or something.

“They're missing,” he said.

He looked as if he was listening to himself, like he
was testing what he'd said.

“They're missing,” he said, again. “Sandra and the
boys. They've gone missing.”

 

 

They woke in painful cold. They woke together.
So quickly, so cold – they couldn't know they'd been
asleep. They were fully awake, and cold. They
moved – both boys moved; they heard each other.
They were stiff, and numb, and hungry, and
shaking.

They were covered in snow. They were under a
layer of snow. They could feel it, stiff, even on their
eyes. They felt it when they blinked. Johnny moved,
his arms and knees. It fell away – his knees and
elbows broke through the snow, and he got on to his
hands and knees, and stood.

It was still dark but something about it, the grey
shape of each tree, the dogs standing all around them,
told the boys that it was morning.

Their mother was still asleep. She was covered in
snow. She was asleep –

They got down quickly, back down on the snow. They tried to wake her. But she was stiff, and didn't
move or wake when they nudged and pushed her.

They didn't speak – they were afraid to. They didn't
want to speak before she did.

Tom brushed all the snow off her, from her cap to
her boots. Johnny rubbed her face. He took off his
gloves and rubbed both her cheeks. Tom watched
him. He watched her; he watched her eyes. He put
his hands on her shoulders. He watched her eyes. He
rubbed her shoulders. He heard the dogs. He rubbed.
And Johnny rubbed. They didn't know what else to
do. There was the fire and the wood, but they had to
hear her first; they had to see her open her eyes. Tom
heard the dogs. Whimpering, prowling, pulling against
their straps. He looked at Johnny. He looked at his
mother.

They opened.

Her eyes were open.

She was there. Her eyes were open. She was
looking at nothing.

The dogs were howling and whimpering. There was
another noise.

Her eyes were open but she didn't move. Then she
started to shake. It was terrible – electric. Like a
shock going through her that wouldn't stop.

The noise – Tom knew it. He didn't look. He
couldn't take his eyes off his mother. The shock ran
through her, and through her. She didn't blink. She stared at nothing. Her face was dirty white. Johnny
kept rubbing.

She moaned.

She moaned. They heard her. Tom heard it now –
the engine. Aki's engine. The snowmobile.

His mother moaned. Her mouth must have moved,
her lips. They heard her teeth.

They heard her.

“God.”

They heard her again.

“Boys.”

It didn't sound like her. It wasn't just her shivering.
It sounded like she couldn't see them, like she was
looking into total blackness and she couldn't see.

Tom did it – he had to. He stood up. He knew he
had to do it; he had to start the fire. He had to find the
wood. She needed heat. She needed fire. He could
hear the engine, but he didn't know how far away, or
where. Tom and Johnny were still on their own. The
dogs were howling but Aki wouldn't hear them.

There was new snow, loose and high. Tom had to
climb through it. He couldn't hear Aki's engine. His
own breathing and gasping were all he could hear. He
could see his breath; he walked into it. He went past
the trees they'd reached the night before. He had to
go further. He found more wood, branches that
weren't soggy. He gathered up a pile of needles and
twigs. He went back to the fire. He didn't rush; he tried not to. He'd fall. He'd have to start again. He
wouldn't be able to hold the lighter properly, or spark
the fire. His hands were numb; they were sore. He
could hear the engine.

Johnny heard it too. He was at the fire, on his
stomach. There was a small flame, a tiny, really tiny,
orange light; it was going out, getting even smaller. He
heard the engine. He was going to run, and shout, to
where he thought the sound was coming from.

But he didn't. He stayed where he was.

He knew. He could get up and run and pretend he
was going to the rescue. But, really, he'd be running
away. Running would be easier than what he had to
do. He had to stay. He couldn't wait or run for adults.

The pile of branches, the tepee they'd made over
the fire the night before, was partly burnt, but it had
stayed standing and acted like a roof when the snow
was falling. The fire had survived. The tiny flame –
the spark.

He had to blow. But he was afraid to. Too strong,
he'd blow it out. Too weak, he'd watch it die. It
wouldn't be easy to get a second fire going. His face
was in the ashes.

He blew. Nothing – it did nothing. He blew. The
orange flickered, but it didn't seem to change. He
found some needles beside his chin. They felt hard
and dry. He brought them slowly to the flame, just
beside it. And he blew. He watched the flame shift. He watched a needle light, and curl. His free hand
felt for more.

He saw Tom's feet. He heard, then saw Tom stretch
down beside him.

“Good job,” said Tom.

Johnny held some needles to the flame. It grabbed
them. He held more. And more – a bigger bundle. It
was a fire now, nearly a proper fire. He stood up,
carefully. He didn't want to move too fast, create a
breeze and put the fire out.

Tom was dropping needles on the fire. He got up on
his knees and started adjusting the wood. He wouldn't
have to pass the test; he wouldn't have to do it. That
was what Tom kept thinking. He wouldn't have to
start the fire. It had scared him, all the way back from
the trees. But he could feel the heat now. He could
hear Aki's engine. He thought it was nearer – he
wasn't sure. The fire would be roaring when the
snowmobile slid over the hill, and down the slope.
He'd adjust the logs and branches, before he went
back for more. He lifted one – and the tepee
collapsed.

He couldn't believe it. The fire was gone – dead,
under the branches. He pulled them away. He didn't
care – he didn't care if he burned himself. He pulled
them away. He saw the flame. He got down on his
stomach. Ashes blew into his face. He could taste it –
them. He didn't care; he didn't cough. He kept his eye
on the orange flame. He found some needles that
hadn't been burnt. He held them in his fist.

Johnny rubbed his mother's face.

Her eyes opened.

They saw nothing. They closed.

Tom watched the flame. And then it wasn't there. It
was a while before he realized. The flame wasn't in
front of him. There was no little orange flicker.

Johnny rubbed his mother's face.

Tom took off his gloves. He got the lighter from his
pocket. He could hardly feel it; his hands were
freezing. He put it down – he kind of dropped it. He
rubbed his hands; he blew into them. He stretched
his fingers. He rubbed and blew again. He picked up
the lighter. He could feel it now. He could feel its
shape and plastic. He put it beside the little pile of
needles. The side of his thumb was on the wheel. He
could feel the metal, pressing, biting into his thumb.
He closed his eyes. He opened them. He pulled his
thumb down, hard, against the wheel.

Nothing.

He did it again.

He heard Johnny.

“What happened to the fire?”

Tom did it again. Nothing – no flame – came from
the top of the lighter.

“What happened to the fire?”

Again – he did it again. He shoved his thumb right against the wheel. He felt the burn – he smelled his
skin – before he saw the yellow flame pour sideways
from the lighter. The flame licked over his thumb. He
didn't care. He held the lighter under the needles.
Johnny was beside him, and he helped. He built up
the needles. The flame grabbed at needles and twigs
and bigger twigs. It began to jump and climb.

Tom took his thumb from his mouth. He put it into
the snow. It didn't take the pain away; it wasn't fading.
It was horrible.

He stood up. He had to get more wood.

Johnny tried to lift her, so she'd face the fire. His
hands kept slipping. He got her up a little bit, enough
to get his knees against her, so she was tilted towards
the heat.

He watched Tom put branches, criss-crossed, over
and around the fire. He felt the heat on his face. He
felt his mother's face. He looked at his fingers. He
pressed. He lifted his hand. He pressed again. His
hands were sore; he couldn't feel anything else. He
looked at the skin on her cheek. There were no marks
where his fingers had pressed.

The fire was big now.

Tom started to cry.

Her eyes were open before Johnny noticed.

She was looking at the fire. He saw her eyes move. She was looking at Tom.

“What's wrong, Tom?” she said.

“Nothing,” said Tom.

He sat beside her. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve
of his suit. He felt the dirt and ashes drag across his face.

“Sure?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm fine.”

They watched the fire.

And that was how Kalle found them. He saw the
fire and, as he brought his sled down the slope, he saw
the family beside the fire. The boys looked at him and
waved.

He liked those boys. He waved back.

Aki was behind Kalle, on the snowmobile, and
there were other people too, on sleds. It all began, the
action. Their camp was full of people who knew
exactly what to do.

But, really, it was over. The boys were on Kalle's
sled, covered in blankets. They watched as their
mother was lifted on to a special ambulance sled.

Aki was standing beside them.

“They bring her to the lake,” he said. “Very slowly, I
guess. Carefully. The helicopter will lift her. To the
hospital. We'll bring you there.”

They heard her.

“Lads?”

“Yeah?” Tom shouted.

“See you in a little while,” she said.

They saw her hand wave. They saw the ambulance
woman put it back under her blanket.

“See you,” said Johnny.

“'Bye,” said Tom.

He wanted to go with her. But he wanted to stay.
He wanted to be here. He wanted to go back with
Kalle, through the wilderness.

The rescue woman and man climbed the hill, on
each side of their mother's sled. They held it straight
as the dogs – there were ten of them – pulled it slowly
up the slope.

“Guys.”

It was Aki.

He sat on the snowmobile. The engine was off. He
waited until both boys were looking at him. Then he
spoke.

“She would have died,” he said. “You saved her life.”

He bowed his head. He smiled.

“I salute you.”

He turned on the engine. He turned the
snowmobile, and they watched him climb the hill,
after the ambulance sled. He went over the top. They
could see the lights, then he was gone.

They felt the weight behind them. Kalle had
stepped on to the runners.

Johnny shifted a bit, so he could look back, and up,
at Kalle.

“How did you find us?” he asked.

Kalle said nothing at first. Johnny watched him put
his hand into his pocket. Tom was watching too.

Kalle took his hand out.

They saw it. His hat.

Kalle pointed in the direction Aki had just taken.

“I – find – it,” he said. “I – know.”

“Cool,” said Johnny.

He looked at Tom.

Tom was asleep.

Johnny felt, and heard, the sled begin to groan and
move. He watched the dogs, Rock at the front, climb
the slope. He held on as the sled climbed behind
them. He felt the sled speed up when they got to the
top. He felt the wind on his face. He watched the
dogs. He wanted to shout.
Wilderness!
He wanted to
shout it. But he didn't. He didn't want to wake Tom.