hoarfrost along the tree branches and on his lashes. He could see only a few feet into the mist. He stopped occasionally, bent with his hands on his knees while sweat froze at his brow. He tried to silence his heavy breathing, but then all he heard was the snow creaking beneath his boots. The child made no sound. He heard twigs crack, only to watch a snowshoe hare bound through the alders, and later, as night closed in, an owl hooted from far away. He never heard the girl. At times he wasn’t sure he was even following her anymore but instead blindly thrashing through the trees like a bewitched, crazy man. Then he would see her just ahead, as if she wanted to be seen.
He lost track of how far he had come or how long he had been gone, yet he kept on, past their 160-acre homestead, up into the foothills of the mountains where he had hunted moose and beyond, to where the trees dwindled to alpine birch shrubs and Labrador tea. He followed a ridge that looked down over the snowy river valley and followed her still higher, until he crested a rise and found himself in a narrow mountain gorge with steep shale cliffs.
An eerie gust of wind came down the gorge. Farther up he could see a waterfall of ice pouring off the mountain between the rocky cliffs. Below him, the creek trickled and bubbled beneath ice and wound its way through rock and willow. The girl, though, was nowhere to be seen.
He cautiously followed her tracks up the ravine, and then they disappeared into the snowy hillside. It didn’t make sense, yet that is what he saw—her trail didn’t continue up the hill or along the creek; it ran into the side of the mountain. Then he noticed what looked like a small door set into the hillside beneath a rounded dome of snow. Jack crouched behind a boulder, a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He could go to that little door and call out to the girl, but he didn’t. What did he expect to find? A fairy-tale beast that holds young girls captive in a mountain cave? A cackling witch? Or nothing at all, no child, no tracks, no door, only insanity bared in the untouched snow? That is perhaps what he feared the most, that he would discover he had followed nothing more than an illusion.
Rather than face that possibility, Jack turned his back on the little door and set out for home. For a while, he followed the tracks. At times there were two sets—the child’s small prints and his larger ones. Other times there were just his own, and Jack knew he had probably destroyed the child’s with his big boots as he followed her. Still, the sight of his solitary tracks winding through the trees left him uneasy. As it grew darker he feared the meandering trail would keep him in the woods into the coldest, blackest hours of the night, so he left the trail and headed directly toward the riverbed below. From there he could follow the Wolverine back to their homestead and, he hoped, be at the cabin within an hour.
But the route proved difficult as it pulled him down into steep ravines where the snow was well over his knees and forced him through a dense forest of black spruce that threatened to disorient him. He didn’t recognize the river when he reached it, not until he had walked partway out onto the ice and heard the roar beneath him. He eased backward until he was sure he was on firm ground, and then he walked downstream, relying on the vague outline of the riverbed to guide him toward their homestead.
He expected Mabel would be waiting for him and wanting answers. It was reasonable, and yet it grated on him. He was tired, aching, and surely frostbit, and he had nothing to offer her but a tired old man who quaked in his boots at a child’s door.
The next morning Jack woke to the sound of Mabel’s knocking about the cabin. Dishes clattered, a broom swished, bumps and thumps—these were the unmistakable sounds of her irritation. Jack eased himself out of bed.
They each went about their chores, but Mabel’s anger seemed only to
He lost track of how far he had come or how long he had been gone, yet he kept on, past their 160-acre homestead, up into the foothills of the mountains where he had hunted moose and beyond, to where the trees dwindled to alpine birch shrubs and Labrador tea. He followed a ridge that looked down over the snowy river valley and followed her still higher, until he crested a rise and found himself in a narrow mountain gorge with steep shale cliffs.
An eerie gust of wind came down the gorge. Farther up he could see a waterfall of ice pouring off the mountain between the rocky cliffs. Below him, the creek trickled and bubbled beneath ice and wound its way through rock and willow. The girl, though, was nowhere to be seen.
He cautiously followed her tracks up the ravine, and then they disappeared into the snowy hillside. It didn’t make sense, yet that is what he saw—her trail didn’t continue up the hill or along the creek; it ran into the side of the mountain. Then he noticed what looked like a small door set into the hillside beneath a rounded dome of snow. Jack crouched behind a boulder, a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He could go to that little door and call out to the girl, but he didn’t. What did he expect to find? A fairy-tale beast that holds young girls captive in a mountain cave? A cackling witch? Or nothing at all, no child, no tracks, no door, only insanity bared in the untouched snow? That is perhaps what he feared the most, that he would discover he had followed nothing more than an illusion.
Rather than face that possibility, Jack turned his back on the little door and set out for home. For a while, he followed the tracks. At times there were two sets—the child’s small prints and his larger ones. Other times there were just his own, and Jack knew he had probably destroyed the child’s with his big boots as he followed her. Still, the sight of his solitary tracks winding through the trees left him uneasy. As it grew darker he feared the meandering trail would keep him in the woods into the coldest, blackest hours of the night, so he left the trail and headed directly toward the riverbed below. From there he could follow the Wolverine back to their homestead and, he hoped, be at the cabin within an hour.
But the route proved difficult as it pulled him down into steep ravines where the snow was well over his knees and forced him through a dense forest of black spruce that threatened to disorient him. He didn’t recognize the river when he reached it, not until he had walked partway out onto the ice and heard the roar beneath him. He eased backward until he was sure he was on firm ground, and then he walked downstream, relying on the vague outline of the riverbed to guide him toward their homestead.
He expected Mabel would be waiting for him and wanting answers. It was reasonable, and yet it grated on him. He was tired, aching, and surely frostbit, and he had nothing to offer her but a tired old man who quaked in his boots at a child’s door.
The next morning Jack woke to the sound of Mabel’s knocking about the cabin. Dishes clattered, a broom swished, bumps and thumps—these were the unmistakable sounds of her irritation. Jack eased himself out of bed.
They each went about their chores, but Mabel’s anger seemed only to
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