Read Snowblind's Prologue and Sample Chapters!
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There is a wolf in me... fangspointed for tearing gashes... a red tongue for raw meat... and the hot lappingof blood — I keep the wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and thewilderness will not let it go.fromWILDERNESS by Carl Sandburg
PROLOGUEHis mother saw him staring andturned her eyes away.Hecould see she was afraid. Afraid of his hunger. Afraid of the wrath of thesilver-bearded Father.Thenight wind howled over the sod roof, moaned at the icy window. Three days hadpassed, and still the old man had not returned. They feared, again, he wouldcome back with nothing. The traps had been covered in snow. They had no baitleft — they had eaten everything.Onthe table the sacred candle burned brightly. The candle could only be burnedwhen the Book was being read. This was a Law of the Father. The Law could notbe broken.Theeight-year-old boy read the Book aloud:"Whatare human beings, that you make so much of them, that you set your mind onthem, visit them every morning, test them every moment?"Theboy paused, gazed at the candle's dancing flame. The Father had said the wordsof the Book would fill his empty belly. If he did not learn them, he would noteat.Inhis mind he repeated the words he had read. What are human beings...Helooked down at his mother. She sat on the caribou rug, on the dirt floor, inthe light of the flickering flame. Her dark skin glowed warmly, her hair hungblack as night.Howcould her belly grow so large when they had no food to eat?TheFather had taken her from an Inupiat village, on an island in the Arctic sea.She had long ago learned the language of the Book, but when the Father was outon the hunt, she would speak to herself in a tongue the boy did not understand.When he questioned her, she would point to the scar on her face, the scar fromthe Father's knife.Theboy was not allowed to know her words. The Book would tell him everything. TheBook was all he would need.Heturned a page and read another passage."Amortal, born of woman, few of days and full of trouble, comes up like a flowerand withers, flees like a shadow and does not last. Do you fix your eyes onsuch a one? Do you bring me into judgment with you?"Hepaused again, gazed absently at the flame, his lips moving in silence. Stillthe hunger gnawed.Helooked again at his mother. She was stringing tiny blue snail shells on stiffthreads of sinew. The shells would adorn the sackcloth doll that rested on herlap, a family heirloom whose ivory head had lost its amber eyes.Shenoticed the boy staring. Again she looked away.Hishunger had turned on itself, clawing in his belly like a ravening wolf. He fedthe wolf the words of the Book."Whyis light given to one in misery, and life to the bitter in soul, who longs fordeath but it does not come, and digs for it more than for hidden treasures, whorejoice exceedingly and are glad when they find the grave?"Theboy stopped reading. He closed the Book. His pulse pounded, his hands trembled.The wolf would not be sated.Hestared until his mother finally looked at him.Fora long moment she peered into his eyes. Then she rose to her feet, holding herswollen belly, and went to the window. Out in the cold night, wind-blown ghostsof snow whirled over moonlit tundra.Surelyhe would not return tonight.Shewalked to the table, leaned over and blew out the candle. The sod house fellinto darkness.Theboy waited anxiously.Hismother's hands were always warm. Even in the cold she wore no gloves. She heldhis face tenderly, then took his trembling hand and led him through thedarkness of the room.Faintgray moonlight fell across the bearskin bed. His mother lay on her side andpulled him down to her, speaking the strange, forbidden words.Sheopened her dress, lifted out a pale, pendulous breast. His hands gropedhungrily. He pressed his wet mouth to the dark aureole, his strong teethseizing the nipple. The boy sucked ravenously. Soon, warm gorging milk flowedforth, bathing his tongue, filling his mouth, seeping out over his chin. Hesucked the breast and lapped the milk, and held her body tight.Minutesswiftly passed, the boy's hunger unrelenting. At last he pulled away, panting,his open mouth dripping spittle. Slowly, his languid eyes opened.Hefroze, gaping into the morbid light of the moon."Whatis it, Job?" his mother asked. She turned to the icy window.Outside,in the darkness, the Father stood staring, his starving eyes glaring like awolf.
1. Sunlight flared off the glistening snow,blinding her path to the turn. For a flashing moment, fourteen-year-old KrisCarlson couldn't see the flag. She cut too late, displacing snow instead ofarcing the curve, and for a few frightening seconds lost her balance, nearlyspilling over the icy curl. She recovered quickly into the flat, her newstiffer skis gaining speed and stability for the run into the next turn. Withluck, she'd pick up the lost seconds in the final sprint. She'd have to. Sixpoints behind the fifteen-year-old downhill leader, Claudia Lund, she couldn'tafford another mistake.Thenext turn, even tighter than the last, glittered with surface ice, sheered to asheen. Kris leaned deep into the arc, adjusting her radius in the middle of theturn with a subtle twist of her ankles. Her shoulder banged the flagpole as shecleared the twist, hopping into a quick series of steep moguls, her kneesbobbing like a set of springs.Finalturn. She knew this one, she'd skied it in her mind a hundred times. She heardher father's voice: "Load the tail, skid the shovel." There was afine line between going all out and not making any mistakes. It was a lineshe'd have to cross. She banked full speed into the long turn, loading up hertail, building critical power for the final sprint.Krisshot out of the turn at record speed. The crowd roared — she had it locked.Soaring into the final run, she hugged her knees and schussed for the finish.Agrin grew across her face. Her dad would be at the bottom. He was always there,waiting for her.Shewanted nothing more than to make him smile.* * *The old moose trickled a bright redtrail of blood in the snow. Hunks of flesh had been torn from its body, itsmatted fur glistened with sweat. It lumbered into the narrow ravine, tottering,weaving, out of breath, stopping at last at the frozen bank of the surgingSawtooth River.Icefloes churned and heaved in the current with a roar like muffled thunder. Themoose drew a kind of power from the sound, the vibrations rising up through theanimal's trembling limbs. The surge of strength suffused its body, steeling thebeast for battle. The regal moose raised its crown and turned to face thewolves.Lopinglightly over the shelf ice at the shore, the five silver, silken huntersquickly circled their prey. They snarled, salivating, growling guttural andwild. The moose whirled, stumbling, its labored breath trailing dragon cloudsof fog. They had circled before, and the bull had escaped. Now they wereclosing in for the kill.Thedark-eyed lead wolf lunged, tearing a gash in the great beast's rump. Anotherseized its leg, its razor fangs cutting deep. The moose groaned and scooped itstowering head, impaling the animal in its tangled rack. The wolf yelped,staggered back. The moose charged, stomping, its pounding hooves crushing thecowering wolf's ribs.Thepack backed off. The wolf was dead. The moose trotted off up the frozen shore.Snowfell softly in the windless ravine. Ahead, high above the rumbling Sawtooth, ablack wooden bridge spanned the gorge. The moose clambered up the craggy slopeas the wolves resumed their hunt.* * *Kris was traveling with her fatherand her seven-year-old brother, Paul, in her father's red Chevy pick-up, comingdown through the mountains from Garrison Pass. Her new skis rattled in the bedof the truck. Kris had kept on her lilac snowsuit, zippered to the neck; herblack hair hung straight to her shoulders, her bright blue eyes were smiling.She had won the Women's Junior Downhill race, first place in the girls'twelve-to-fifteen year age bracket, setting a personal best on the half-milecourse down the north slope of Dome Mountain. The ski resort, on the edge ofthe Alaska Range, fifty miles from their home in Healy, always held the firstdownhill races of the Spring season. Kris was already looking forward to thenext. She had her eye on the Alaska Alpine Championships."Dad?Do you think Mom will come to the Winterhaven trials?"Herfather studied the oncoming road through the falling veil of snow. "Shewon't want to miss it, Sweety. Not after we show her what you won today."Paulsat between them, twisting the trophy in his small hands, trying to unscrew thetiny gold skier from the mount."Pauly!"cried Kris, pulling the trophy away from him."It'sa boy, it's not a girl," he said.Krisexamined the figure. "You can't tell," she said."Ican tell," said Paul.Krisruffled his hair with her hand. He grabbed her wrist, pretended to bite it,growling. Kris tickled him."Nono no!" he shouted, squealing with laughter.Kristurned back to the road, a smile on her face. A black bridge appeared throughthe falling snow.
2. "The 'woo' bridge!" Krisexclaimed."'Woo'bridge!" echoed Pauly.Thetruck rolled onto the bridge, and a resonant "woo" sound rose up fromthe tires. All three passengers grinned, staring into the white wall of snow asthe deep bellow of the bridge filled their ears.Thenthe blood drained from their faces.Thecolossal moose came charging out of the whiteness directly toward them. Kris'sfather instinctively slammed the brakes and pulled the wheel. The truckcareened across the bridge, just missing the bloody, frothing bull, slidingpast it through a madhouse of leaping wolves. He hammered the brake, but theice had them. They continued to slide, smashing through the guardrail and outover the gorge.Krisscreamed, a high shrill scream of unblinking terror, as they dropped throughthe air toward the river of ice.Thetruck pierced the tumbling floes with a bone-crunching jolt. Kris's headbounced against the dash, her body flung wildly as the seatbelt grabbed. Sheglimpsed her father's bloody, vacant face as the truck plunged headlong intothe frigid water. They plummeted swiftly, sinking in the current, the cabraging with the inflowing torrent.Paulscreamed and gurgled as the water engulfed him. Her father tossed about, limpand unconscious. Kris tore at her seatbelt. The water rose quickly to herchest, neck, chin, mouth —Shewas underwater, the truck tumbling in the current. The snowsuit miraculouslykept her from freezing. Feeling blindly, she found the buckle, unlatched herseatbelt. Pauly clawed at her side. She opened her eyes to see him, and thefrozen water clamped her eyeballs with icy talons. She saw her brotherthrashing in the glacial murk. She reached for him, fought to undo hisseatbelt. Her eyes went gelid, seared with the cold. She undid the belt, thenturned, grabbed for the door handle. The door was jammed. She yanked on thelever, it wouldn't budge. The window crank, too, was stuck. The door had beencrushed when they'd broken through the rail.Kris'slungs burned. Her vision darkened.Outof the dark came a glimmer of gold. She grabbed the trophy, slammed it againsther window. Once. Twice. The third time the window shattered. She scrambled outquickly, shards of glass tearing her snowsuit, frozen fingers of water grippingher. She reached back through the window for Paul.Hewas gone.Shepeered into the murk, her eyes stinging, the icy water clawing her corneas.Groping wildly, she could not reach her brother.Kriswas out of breath.Shepushed away from the truck, pulled frantically for the surface, ramming hardinto a ceiling of ice. Unable to see, she groped along, feeling for a gap. Herhands fell on the snaking roots of a tree trunk. She climbed the roots, an icefloe pounding at her back. At last she emerged from the teeth of the river,gasping, coughing, screaming for air. She crawled off the log onto the broadsnow surface of a massive floe.Pitch-blacknight had fallen in the middle of the day. Kris could not see — her eyeballshad been frozen into rocks by the cold. With a violent shiver, she collapsed,and the raging Sawtooth carried her away.Two hours later, in the river townof White Circle, Kris Carlson's body was hauled from the ice.
3. They fear me. I have torn them in mywrath.They haveno hunger these men who hunt with dogs. They tear me from my mother'swomb and drag me through the snow. They gape at me with their mouths. Theystrike me with their fists. They mass themselves against me. They seize me bythe neck and dash me to pieces. They cast me into the mire, and I become likedust and ashes. My skin turns black and falls from me, and my bones burn withheat.Let themhope for light but have none. They'll never see the eye of day, the eye of dayis shut. I know there is no light. I know freedom comes with blood. I know thewolf. The wolf will not betray me.I slashopen their kidneys and show no mercy. I pour out their gall on the ground. Iburst them again and again. I sew sackcloth upon my skin. I eat flesh like awolf. My strength is in the ice. My strength is in my loins. My strength is inthe muscles of my belly. I make my tail stiff like cedar; the sinews of mythighs are knit together. My bones are tubes of bronze, my limbs like bars ofiron.I am thefirstborn of Death.These menare full of fear. They will know my power. They will die, just like the rest.All ofthose who fear the wolf will perish by my hands.I will eatthem. All of them.* * *In the clear, cold, aurorean night,across the frozen tundra, three Inuit dog sleds glided over the snow. Thestampeding teams of Alaskan huskies pumped clouds of steam into the brisk nightair, while two Inuit mushers ran, rode, and pushed the sleds behind them.Inthe first sled, Shakshi, a large Yakuutek hunter with high Mongoliancheekbones, leathery, wind-burned skin, and an icy black moustache, locked hisdark eyes on his wheel dog, Tiuna, whose silver tail hung low. Roluk, the hugeSiberian lead dog at the head of the team, threw a glance back at thefreeloader, yapping in complaint. Shakshi shouted a command, yanking histugline. The dogs came to a halt.Thesecond and third sleds drew to a stop behind him. The musher of the second,Anokuk, a broad-faced Yakuutek with a rifle over his shoulder, turned hisslitted eyes behind him. The third sled, with its full gangline of pantingdogs, was riderless.Lashedto the sled was a giant cage.Shakshidismounted. He walked up the line of his dogs, slowly, menacingly. When he cameto Roluk he paused; like a priest giving benediction, he touched the lead dog'shead with the back of his hand. The dog barked sharply, once. The mushercontinued slowly down the other side, past the swing dogs, the team dogs, theheavy pullers in the middle of the line. He paused at last beside Tiuna,staring down at her. The wheel dog whimpered, sullenly. She knew she had offended.Shakshi leaned over and smacked her — a wallop on her rump. Tiuna snapped backto life.Shakshireturned to his sled, eyeing his comrade. Anokuk nodded back toward the thirdsled. A guttural groan like the sound of an animal emanated from the giantcage.Thetwo hunters approached warily, Anokuk un-slinging his rifle.Thecage, tightly lashed to the sled, was made of thick, interwoven saplings.Inside, barely visible in the feeble light of the moon, a massive form laybound in hides and chains.Thecreature stirred.Shakshinodded to Anokuk. The narrow-eyed hunter raised his rifle barrel, aimed throughthe bars, and fired.Theshot rang out across the tundra. The dogs grew silent. Shakshi and Anokukglanced at one another — the groans had stopped.Thehunters drew close to the bars, peered into the darkness of the cage. A bloodred tranquilizer dart had stuck through the pile of hides. The mammoth body laystill as a corpse.Shakshinodded to his comrade, and the two men returned to their sleds. The dogs jumpedto their feet, barking with freshened vigor. Tiuna, of all of them, looked mostready to go. As he mounted the whalebone runners and reached for his tugline,Shakshi noticed something on his sled. A hide had blown loose. Beneath it, thelifeless eyes of a Yakuutek stared out at him. A chunk of the dead musher'scheek was missing, gouged from his face. Shakshi touched the wound with hisgloved hand. Teeth marks scarred the torn flesh.Shakshicovered the head, lashing the hide securely to the sled. Then he gave thecommand to his dogs and they bolted into the night.
4. Fairbanks International Airport hadjust come into view when the air traffic controller's voice came over theheadset. "Charlie Five-five, this is Fairbanks Tower, do you read me,over?"JoshMarino recognized Dean Stanton's voice, gravelly and low like the grumbling ofa lion. "Roger, Fairbanks," Josh replied, "this is CharlieFive-five, requesting landing, over." He pictured the cotton-haired old mansitting in the tower, his crumpled brown-bag face and heavy-rimmed glasses, acigarette dangling from his lips as he growled into the mike."CharlieFive-five, drop to twelve hundred and turn right zero-three-zero. You haveRunway Three.""Roger,Fairbanks," Josh answered. "When are you gonna quit smoking?" hewanted to add, but didn't. The old man will probably die with a cig in hismouth. "Descending to one thousand two hundred feet," Josh repeated."Turning right zero-three-zero for the straight-in to Number Three,over."Thetwenty-four-year-old pilot flew his company's single-engine Cessna back andforth from Anchorage to Fairbanks so often that hearing Dean Stanton's voicewas like hearing the subway driver call out your stop. "Charlie Five-five,you're cleared for landing." Josh wore a khaki jacket, high leather boots,and a belt-sheathed jackknife. His tousled black hair stuck out in feralprofusion from his red headband and his over-size earphones. He worked for asmall electronics company down in Anchorage, but still kept his one-roomapartment in Fairbanks, still considered the central Alaskan city his home. Hewas working toward his Masters in electrical engineering, and flew back to takeclasses at the University of Fairbanks on Saturday mornings twice a month. Andhe taught some classes at a local school, too, though that was more a labor oflove than anything else.Joshadjusted the flaps, grabbed the control yoke in his left hand and eased thethrottles back with his right. The plane banked and angled down toward thebroad stretch of runway ahead. The snow had been cleared and the black asphaltglistened. I could land this baby with my eyes closed, he thought, and for amoment, he actually tried it. One second the runway was fast approaching, thenext second everything went dark. A shiver of fear shot through the pilot; hiseyes popped open despite himself.Mustbe how my students feel, he thought, and wondered if he could teach them how toland a light plane. This would be quite a feat even with their eyes wide open —considering the fact that his students were blind.* * *Dean Stanton watched the Cessna 207Skywagon roll to a stop on Runway Three, then removed his glasses, rubbed hiseyes, and crushed his cigarette out on the linoleum floor. Behind him stoodDavid Adashek, the Fairbanks Chief of Police, a large, rock-chested man,bursting from his jacket and tie. Adashek was scratching his gray-haired head,staring down with a grimace at the collection of smashed butts scattered aroundStanton's feet.Stantonnoticed him looking. "Cleaning crew'll get 'em. Albert and Ace —Spic'n'Span. They get 'em every night.""Whydon't you just find yourself an ashtray, Dean?"Stantonlifted the headset off his ears, laid it around his neck. "FAA won't allowashtrays." He pointed to a sign next to the door. NO SMOKING.Adashek'seyebrows went up. He scanned the rest of the room. Three other controllers wereat work in the tower; all of them were smoking. The place had a heavier haze inthe air than the strip bar on Wolf Run Road. "I thought you boys had tofollow the letter of the law in here."Stantonlit up another one and blew out a lungful of smoke. "How long you been inAlaska, Chief?"Adasheknodded wearily. The ‘80’s seemed like a lifetime ago. "Long enough to knowI shouldn’t ask," he said.Hestepped up to the broad window, his eyes squinting into the arctic light. JoshMarino's tiny white Cessna was taxiing off the field. Beyond him, far off onthe horizon, silver clouds were forming above the snowy peaks. Adashek staredat the mountains, and for a long moment, didn't speak."It'sbeen two hours since they touched down," he said at last. "What doyou suppose is going on out there?"Stantonleaned back in his swivel chair, folded his hands behind his head."Knowing Jake, he's probably trying to make a deal on some furs.""Knowingthe Yakuutek," said the Chief, "he better not be looking for anybargains."
5. The Yakuutek hunter pointed hisrifle at Jake O'Donnell's head. Jake's eyeballs were wrenched to his temple,locked on the tip of the barrel. Not much more than a four-inch gap between thecold steel and the red-haired pilot's brains. This made using the brains aneven more difficult task than usual."Saysomething, Donny! He's gonna kill me, for Chrissake!""Saywhat?" asked his copilot. Donny was facing the other Yakuutek, who washolding a gun to Donny's chest. "I been talkin'. Nobody'slistenin'!""Tell'em I ain't lyin' goddammit!"He'ain't lyin'! Goddammit."Thehunter pressed the barrel of his gun into Jake's ear. Jake shuddered. Then,slowly, he turned his head, looked up the barrel into the Inuit's eyes."I...I told you. I 'ain't got the goddamn money!"Thehunter didn't speak. He wiped his brown hand down his shaggy black moustache.Was this fella angry or just trying to make up his mind?"Believeme, amigo. It's the truth, so help me God."Thebarrel didn't move. The Inuit's eyes stared deeply into Jake's. Jake struggledto take in a breath. If the gun hadn't unnerved him, the man's stare certainlydid.Jakeglanced at the big cage lying on the snow under the right wing of the GoonyBird, his aging twin-engine DC-3. Inside the cage, the mountain of a creaturelay barely visible, asleep under its cocoon of chains and hides."Look,"Jake said in a calmer voice, "you can keep the son-of-a-bitch. We'll sendsomebody back with the money.""Yeah,that's right!" chimed in Donny. "Keep the fucker. We'll let theSheriff collect him himself."Thetwo big hunters held steady.Jakeshot a nervous glance at Donny. "I don't think they want to keephim."Donnylooked at the cage. "Can't say I can blame 'em. Fucker don't look toofriendly."Avoice crackled from the empty cockpit."Hey,"Jake said, suddenly lighting up. "I bet that's the Chief now!"DeanStanton's voice continued sputtering from the radio. The hunters looked mildlycurious... or suspicious — it was hard for Jake to tell."That'shim, ain't it, Donny?""Yeah,that's Adashek all right. I can tell by the voice.""He'sthe badge with your money," Jake said. "We can talk to him, he'lltell you all about it." Jake began slowly backing toward the door to theplane. The hunter followed him with the barrel of his gun."Comeon," he said, leading him slowly back. "Right up here, we'll talk tothe man himself, I swear to God."Donnystarted moving with Jake, then stopped abruptly. His hunter had poked thebarrel of his gun into Donny's considerable belly. Donny raised his hands insurrender. "Okay, okay... you're right, you're right. It's only the Chiefof Police, no big deal, just a whole big pile of money waiting for you, waitingback there with your name on it and all you gotta do — " he suddenlygasped as the man again jabbed his gut with the rifle. Donny coughed, put hishand on the barrel, eased it gently back. "Okay, I'll shut up."Jakewas backing up through the doorway into the plane, the hunter following himwith his gun. Stanton's voice was still crackling through static on the cockpitradio. "Whiskey Four-O — ... do you... over."Thehunter followed Jake through the cockpit door into the nose of the DC-3, hisgun held to him like metal to a magnet."Niceand easy," Jake said, reaching for the radio mike. He slowly unhooked itand adjusted the frequency. Then he thumbed the button and spoke to DeanStanton."FairbanksTower this is Whiskey Four-O-Three, over."Jakewatched the hunter's black eyes as the air traffic controller's voice camethrough in reply. "Whiskey Four-O-Three this is Fairbanks Tower. We readyou loud and clear."* * *Dean Stanton handed his microphoneto Chief Adashek."Areyou all right, Jake? Did you find—"Jake'sstatic-broken voice interrupted him. "Just fine, Chief, except for the .22your friend here's been pointing in my face for the past half hour. Apparentlyyou and your Eskimo friends had a little miscommunication.""Idon't understand," the Chief said."Wellneither do I!" Jake shouted. "Mr. Yackety-Yack here thought he wassupposed to collect his reward money upon delivery of the prisoner."TheChief glanced uncomfortably at Stanton. "It's not money he's looking for,Jake.""What?!""There'sa Yakuutek man in jail here for manslaughter. If we get the prisoner back herealive, their man will go free. That's the arrangement we made with thetribe.""Manslaughter,huh. Gee, that's great, that's really great. Tell me, Chief, who'd the guy kill— a pilot?""Ifyou just explain to him—""Goddammit,you explain it to him! He sure as hell ain't listening to me!"Adashekglanced at Stanton, who shrugged his shoulders. The Chief raised the miketo his lips. "Shakshi, are you there? Can you hear me?"Adashekwaited, but heard no reply. "Is he there, Jake?""Yeah,he's here. He just don't talk much.""Thenlisten to me, Shakshi, please. It's very important that you do not cause anyfurther delay. We will release your friend when the prisoner arrives herealive. That was the deal. I urge you, he is extremely dangerous and must—"Ahowl came over the radio, followed by a blast and a burst of static."Jake?Do you copy?"Therewas no reply, just the steady crackle of static. The Chief looked frightened."Whiskey Four-O-Three, do you copy, over."Stantontook the mike back from him, played with the frequency. "WhiskeyFour-O-Three this is Fairbanks Tower, do you read me, over."Nothing.Adashekand Stanton looked at one another.
6. Jake's face had gone white. Hestared speechless at the radio. The hunter had slammed it with the butt of hisgun, knocking it loose from the console.Jakelooked up at him. "That little yell o’ yours is the most you've said allday."TheInuit, standing bent in the low doorway, wiped his long moustache again,glaring at Jake.Jakelooked past the hunter into the cargo hold. It was crammed full of bags,crates, packages, and mail. "Look, Shocky, or whatever-your-name-is, Idon't know what happened out there to your friend, but you captured thisgoddamn lunatic and now me and my partner gotta take him to the Chief. So whydon't we see if we can strike ourselves a little bargain here."Jakemoved gently past him into the cargo hold. He pulled a large box out of a sackand ripped it open. "It's coming on Christmas, Shocky. Why don't wecelebrate a couple weeks early?" Inside the large box was another boxwrapped with ribbons and gold paper. Jake tore it open and pulled out...ADustbuster.Heheld it up for the hunter, turning it in his hands. "Whaddya think,Shocky? Your wife, maybe? Tidy up the igloo real—"TheInuit swung his rifle, batting the Dustbuster, crashing it against the wall. Heanchored the gun on his shoulder and advanced toward Jake.Jakecrawled backward in terror, stumbling over the mounds of baggage and boxes."Wait a minute!" he cried desperately. "I’m sure we can worksomethin' out!"Thehunter aimed his gun.Jakegrabbed a stuffed duffel bag and hugged it to his chest. "Donny! Help!Somebody! Please!"Shakshinoticed something and relaxed his hold on the rifle."What...what is it?" Jake stammered.TheInuit was staring at the top of the duffel bag.Jakelooked at the opening. A small furry white tail was sticking out."What...this? This here?" Jake clawed open the bag. The Yakuutek'sface widened in amazement.Alitter of half a dozen snow-white fur balls spilled out onto Jake O’Donnell'slap. They couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.TheYakuutek stared at them, his mouth agape. This proud hunter from the ArcticCircle had apparently never laid eyes on a cat.Jakeheld one out in his trembling hands. "You like the kitty, Shocky? She’sone o’ Lily's litter. Lily is Frank Dieter’s cat. We were taking 'em back tothe pound in Fairbanks."TheYakuutek hunter set down his rifle. He took the tiny creature into his arms asif some great miracle of the Earth Mother had been handed him, a precious giftfrom the White Spirit of the North. A small smile crossed his face, a smile ofawe that Jake thought he'd probably not forget for a long, long time."Youall right in there, Jake?" he heard Donny shout."Yeah,"he called back.Hewatched the Inuit cradling the kitten. "What do you say, Shocky. Wannatrade the monster for the kitties?"
7. The snowman had no head.Threechildren, bundled in parkas and scarves and boots and gloves, were on theirknees rolling a ball of snow across the white-blanketed schoolyard. Theystumbled over each other like puppies, the sound of their laughter echoingsharply off the high brick wall of the schoolhouse.Kriscould hear them from the parking lot. She was sitting in the car with hermother, Linda Carlson, a 42-year old widow whose raven-black hair had alreadybegun to gray. Linda was talking to her, but Kris was no longer listening toher words. Carried away by the echoing shrieks of the children, she had driftedoff to another time and place, far away in a distant corner of her memory,where her tiny brother Paul was searching for a carrot he'd dropped in thesnow.Graduallyshe became aware of her mother speaking her name."Yousee, honey, that's exactly what I'm talking about.""What?"said Kris irritably, turning from the window. She wore a stylish pair ofsunglasses that reminded Linda of pictures of her own mother from the 1950's."Nowdon't get defensive. You weren't listening, that's all.""Iwas listening.""Youwere a million miles away.""No,I wasn't," Kris mumbled. In her mind she saw Paul gleefully holding up hiscarrot."I'mnot going to argue," said her mother. "We've already decided aboutthis.""Youdecided about it.""Youhad your say. I listened. I determined that you're just giving up. I won't letyou do that.""Mom,I'm eighteen years old. I can make my own decisions. I always have to do ityour way.""That'snot true. You didn't want a dog. Did I force you to get a dog?""Idon't like dogs," Kris said emphatically. "And they don't likeme.""Honey...the Burton's Shepherd didn't know you, that's all."Krisrubbed her hand nervously. "I don't want to depend on an animal likethat."Lindalooked at her daughter. She reached out, took one of her hands tenderly in herown. "It's okay to admit you're afraid of dogs. There's nothing wrong withbeing afraid." She continued to hold her daughter's hand, gently caressingit. "Don’t you think that might be what's happening here, too?"Krispulled away. "Spare me the psychotherapy, Mom.""Youloved the cross-country. What's so different about this?""What'swrong is that this is what you want. You couldn't care less about what Iwant. You're treating me like a child.""Well,maybe if you didn't act like such a..." She stopped herself. "Somedayyou'll thank me, Krissy.""Right,Mom. So original."Lindasighed. She yanked on the door handle and climbed gruffly out of the car. Krisheard her walk to the trunk. She's probably forgotten something, Kris thought.She's always forgetting something. She didn't used to be like that..."Kris,where's your bag?" She was rifling through the messy trunk."Iput it out, Mom. Did you take it?""Ithought I told you—. Oh. Here it is."Lindaslammed the trunk shut, walked around and opened Kris's door."Giveme your hand."Fora long moment, Kris didn't budge. Then she suddenly remembered something, thereason she'd finally agreed to come here at all. She reached for her whitecane, took her mother's hand, and climbed carefully out of the car."Mom?"she asked as her mother shut the door. "Do you see a Beetle in thelot?"Hermother looked at her, puzzled. "A beetle?""Yeah,you know, the car, the old Volkswagen Bug.""Oh,uh..." She scanned the parking lot. Next to the schoolyard, where thechildren were jamming a stick nose into the snowman's eyeless head, she spotteda rusty, mustard VW Bug."Yes,over there, there's a yellow one in the corner."Kris'sheart skipped a beat."Why?"her mother asked. "Whose is it?""Oh...nobody," said Kris. Her mother eyed her inquisitively as they headed intothe school.
8. "I wish you'd sit down andrelax." Andrea Parks had been watching Linda pace the floor since she'dcome into her office."I'mfine," said Linda."Youdon't look fine. You look worried."Lindastopped walking and turned to her friend. Andrea, as always, looked cool,casually elegant, and efficient. She wore a short white blazer, a fitted skirt,and a pale blue silk scarf beneath her short blonde hair. Sitting, legscrossed, on the edge of her desk, she looked like a woman in complete controlof her life.Lindahad felt that way, once. She wanted to feel that way again."What?"asked Andrea. "What is it?"Lindashook her head. After a moment she started to speak, but was interrupted by thering of the telephone.Andreareached across her desk. "Director Parks. Oh, hi George." She raisedher finger and nodded to Linda, indicating the call would be short.Lindaturned to the window that overlooked the training room. A fifty-foot-longsimulated ski slope dominated the enormous room. Slick white carpet covered theslope, with a handrail along one edge and safety nets mounted under each side.Two blind children, not more than ten years old, were clinging to the railinghalfway down the slope, their skis splayed out awkwardly beneath them.Atthe bottom, loudly coaxing them on, stood a compact, muscular African-Americanwoman with extremely short-cropped hair, wearing Spandex and bright redhigh-top basketball shoes. Linda had seen the woman before at the school.Andrea had said she was a veteran of Iraq. She was surrounded now by half adozen children of various ages, all in skis, flopping about like penguins whilewaiting their turn on the hill. Linda could not find Kris among them, andwondered if she was still in the waiting room.TheBlind Learning Center was the only one of its kind in the entire state ofAlaska. The school was widely renowned for the range of its programs and thequality of its well-trained staff. Many of the students' families had moved toFairbanks from other parts of the state so their children could regularlyattend.Lindaand her daughter lived in the town of Healy, at the northeast corner of DenaliNational Park. Fairbanks was only 70 miles away, an easy drive up Highway 3along the frozen banks of the Nenana River. Linda had made the drive a thousandtimes. She was a part-time social worker carrying a case load at a communitymental health clinic in the city. A year after Kris lost her sight in theaccident, she'd begun taking her along on the commute, leaving her forcross-country lessons at the school while she went to work at her job in town.It had been good for Kris, she'd thought. It had helped her to forget."Well,at least you've stopped pacing."Lindaturned.Andreawas hanging up the phone. "Won't you please sit down?" she said.Lindashrugged. She took a seat on a Wassily chair beneath a framed poster of a sandbeach rimmed with palm trees."Iwant you to stop worrying," Andrea insisted. "Kris had a great timecross-country skiing with us.""Shedid," said Andrea. "But lately she's been... I don't know — pullingback again. She won't take even the slightest risk. It's like she's lost allher self-confidence.""Youknow that's not the least bit unusual at this stage. It takes years—""It'sbeen four years since the accident, Andrea. She's stopped making any progress.She sits around moping, feeling sorry for herself. I can't seem to do anythingright. I'm walking on eggshells."Lindastood again and walked to the window. She watched the kids on their skis,tacking their way down the make-believe hill. "You didn't know herbefore," she said thoughtfully. "She was so... exuberant. So full oflife. Just like her dad."Andrealeft her desk and walked over to stand by her friend. They'd known each otherfor three years now and the two women had grown close. "I'm sorry,Linda," she said. "I know how you feel. But it takes time. Youknow that better than anyone."
Copyright © 2012 by Michael AbbadonAll rights reserved.
There is a wolf in me... fangspointed for tearing gashes... a red tongue for raw meat... and the hot lappingof blood — I keep the wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and thewilderness will not let it go.fromWILDERNESS by Carl Sandburg
PROLOGUEHis mother saw him staring andturned her eyes away.Hecould see she was afraid. Afraid of his hunger. Afraid of the wrath of thesilver-bearded Father.Thenight wind howled over the sod roof, moaned at the icy window. Three days hadpassed, and still the old man had not returned. They feared, again, he wouldcome back with nothing. The traps had been covered in snow. They had no baitleft — they had eaten everything.Onthe table the sacred candle burned brightly. The candle could only be burnedwhen the Book was being read. This was a Law of the Father. The Law could notbe broken.Theeight-year-old boy read the Book aloud:"Whatare human beings, that you make so much of them, that you set your mind onthem, visit them every morning, test them every moment?"Theboy paused, gazed at the candle's dancing flame. The Father had said the wordsof the Book would fill his empty belly. If he did not learn them, he would noteat.Inhis mind he repeated the words he had read. What are human beings...Helooked down at his mother. She sat on the caribou rug, on the dirt floor, inthe light of the flickering flame. Her dark skin glowed warmly, her hair hungblack as night.Howcould her belly grow so large when they had no food to eat?TheFather had taken her from an Inupiat village, on an island in the Arctic sea.She had long ago learned the language of the Book, but when the Father was outon the hunt, she would speak to herself in a tongue the boy did not understand.When he questioned her, she would point to the scar on her face, the scar fromthe Father's knife.Theboy was not allowed to know her words. The Book would tell him everything. TheBook was all he would need.Heturned a page and read another passage."Amortal, born of woman, few of days and full of trouble, comes up like a flowerand withers, flees like a shadow and does not last. Do you fix your eyes onsuch a one? Do you bring me into judgment with you?"Hepaused again, gazed absently at the flame, his lips moving in silence. Stillthe hunger gnawed.Helooked again at his mother. She was stringing tiny blue snail shells on stiffthreads of sinew. The shells would adorn the sackcloth doll that rested on herlap, a family heirloom whose ivory head had lost its amber eyes.Shenoticed the boy staring. Again she looked away.Hishunger had turned on itself, clawing in his belly like a ravening wolf. He fedthe wolf the words of the Book."Whyis light given to one in misery, and life to the bitter in soul, who longs fordeath but it does not come, and digs for it more than for hidden treasures, whorejoice exceedingly and are glad when they find the grave?"Theboy stopped reading. He closed the Book. His pulse pounded, his hands trembled.The wolf would not be sated.Hestared until his mother finally looked at him.Fora long moment she peered into his eyes. Then she rose to her feet, holding herswollen belly, and went to the window. Out in the cold night, wind-blown ghostsof snow whirled over moonlit tundra.Surelyhe would not return tonight.Shewalked to the table, leaned over and blew out the candle. The sod house fellinto darkness.Theboy waited anxiously.Hismother's hands were always warm. Even in the cold she wore no gloves. She heldhis face tenderly, then took his trembling hand and led him through thedarkness of the room.Faintgray moonlight fell across the bearskin bed. His mother lay on her side andpulled him down to her, speaking the strange, forbidden words.Sheopened her dress, lifted out a pale, pendulous breast. His hands gropedhungrily. He pressed his wet mouth to the dark aureole, his strong teethseizing the nipple. The boy sucked ravenously. Soon, warm gorging milk flowedforth, bathing his tongue, filling his mouth, seeping out over his chin. Hesucked the breast and lapped the milk, and held her body tight.Minutesswiftly passed, the boy's hunger unrelenting. At last he pulled away, panting,his open mouth dripping spittle. Slowly, his languid eyes opened.Hefroze, gaping into the morbid light of the moon."Whatis it, Job?" his mother asked. She turned to the icy window.Outside,in the darkness, the Father stood staring, his starving eyes glaring like awolf.
1. Sunlight flared off the glistening snow,blinding her path to the turn. For a flashing moment, fourteen-year-old KrisCarlson couldn't see the flag. She cut too late, displacing snow instead ofarcing the curve, and for a few frightening seconds lost her balance, nearlyspilling over the icy curl. She recovered quickly into the flat, her newstiffer skis gaining speed and stability for the run into the next turn. Withluck, she'd pick up the lost seconds in the final sprint. She'd have to. Sixpoints behind the fifteen-year-old downhill leader, Claudia Lund, she couldn'tafford another mistake.Thenext turn, even tighter than the last, glittered with surface ice, sheered to asheen. Kris leaned deep into the arc, adjusting her radius in the middle of theturn with a subtle twist of her ankles. Her shoulder banged the flagpole as shecleared the twist, hopping into a quick series of steep moguls, her kneesbobbing like a set of springs.Finalturn. She knew this one, she'd skied it in her mind a hundred times. She heardher father's voice: "Load the tail, skid the shovel." There was afine line between going all out and not making any mistakes. It was a lineshe'd have to cross. She banked full speed into the long turn, loading up hertail, building critical power for the final sprint.Krisshot out of the turn at record speed. The crowd roared — she had it locked.Soaring into the final run, she hugged her knees and schussed for the finish.Agrin grew across her face. Her dad would be at the bottom. He was always there,waiting for her.Shewanted nothing more than to make him smile.* * *The old moose trickled a bright redtrail of blood in the snow. Hunks of flesh had been torn from its body, itsmatted fur glistened with sweat. It lumbered into the narrow ravine, tottering,weaving, out of breath, stopping at last at the frozen bank of the surgingSawtooth River.Icefloes churned and heaved in the current with a roar like muffled thunder. Themoose drew a kind of power from the sound, the vibrations rising up through theanimal's trembling limbs. The surge of strength suffused its body, steeling thebeast for battle. The regal moose raised its crown and turned to face thewolves.Lopinglightly over the shelf ice at the shore, the five silver, silken huntersquickly circled their prey. They snarled, salivating, growling guttural andwild. The moose whirled, stumbling, its labored breath trailing dragon cloudsof fog. They had circled before, and the bull had escaped. Now they wereclosing in for the kill.Thedark-eyed lead wolf lunged, tearing a gash in the great beast's rump. Anotherseized its leg, its razor fangs cutting deep. The moose groaned and scooped itstowering head, impaling the animal in its tangled rack. The wolf yelped,staggered back. The moose charged, stomping, its pounding hooves crushing thecowering wolf's ribs.Thepack backed off. The wolf was dead. The moose trotted off up the frozen shore.Snowfell softly in the windless ravine. Ahead, high above the rumbling Sawtooth, ablack wooden bridge spanned the gorge. The moose clambered up the craggy slopeas the wolves resumed their hunt.* * *Kris was traveling with her fatherand her seven-year-old brother, Paul, in her father's red Chevy pick-up, comingdown through the mountains from Garrison Pass. Her new skis rattled in the bedof the truck. Kris had kept on her lilac snowsuit, zippered to the neck; herblack hair hung straight to her shoulders, her bright blue eyes were smiling.She had won the Women's Junior Downhill race, first place in the girls'twelve-to-fifteen year age bracket, setting a personal best on the half-milecourse down the north slope of Dome Mountain. The ski resort, on the edge ofthe Alaska Range, fifty miles from their home in Healy, always held the firstdownhill races of the Spring season. Kris was already looking forward to thenext. She had her eye on the Alaska Alpine Championships."Dad?Do you think Mom will come to the Winterhaven trials?"Herfather studied the oncoming road through the falling veil of snow. "Shewon't want to miss it, Sweety. Not after we show her what you won today."Paulsat between them, twisting the trophy in his small hands, trying to unscrew thetiny gold skier from the mount."Pauly!"cried Kris, pulling the trophy away from him."It'sa boy, it's not a girl," he said.Krisexamined the figure. "You can't tell," she said."Ican tell," said Paul.Krisruffled his hair with her hand. He grabbed her wrist, pretended to bite it,growling. Kris tickled him."Nono no!" he shouted, squealing with laughter.Kristurned back to the road, a smile on her face. A black bridge appeared throughthe falling snow.
2. "The 'woo' bridge!" Krisexclaimed."'Woo'bridge!" echoed Pauly.Thetruck rolled onto the bridge, and a resonant "woo" sound rose up fromthe tires. All three passengers grinned, staring into the white wall of snow asthe deep bellow of the bridge filled their ears.Thenthe blood drained from their faces.Thecolossal moose came charging out of the whiteness directly toward them. Kris'sfather instinctively slammed the brakes and pulled the wheel. The truckcareened across the bridge, just missing the bloody, frothing bull, slidingpast it through a madhouse of leaping wolves. He hammered the brake, but theice had them. They continued to slide, smashing through the guardrail and outover the gorge.Krisscreamed, a high shrill scream of unblinking terror, as they dropped throughthe air toward the river of ice.Thetruck pierced the tumbling floes with a bone-crunching jolt. Kris's headbounced against the dash, her body flung wildly as the seatbelt grabbed. Sheglimpsed her father's bloody, vacant face as the truck plunged headlong intothe frigid water. They plummeted swiftly, sinking in the current, the cabraging with the inflowing torrent.Paulscreamed and gurgled as the water engulfed him. Her father tossed about, limpand unconscious. Kris tore at her seatbelt. The water rose quickly to herchest, neck, chin, mouth —Shewas underwater, the truck tumbling in the current. The snowsuit miraculouslykept her from freezing. Feeling blindly, she found the buckle, unlatched herseatbelt. Pauly clawed at her side. She opened her eyes to see him, and thefrozen water clamped her eyeballs with icy talons. She saw her brotherthrashing in the glacial murk. She reached for him, fought to undo hisseatbelt. Her eyes went gelid, seared with the cold. She undid the belt, thenturned, grabbed for the door handle. The door was jammed. She yanked on thelever, it wouldn't budge. The window crank, too, was stuck. The door had beencrushed when they'd broken through the rail.Kris'slungs burned. Her vision darkened.Outof the dark came a glimmer of gold. She grabbed the trophy, slammed it againsther window. Once. Twice. The third time the window shattered. She scrambled outquickly, shards of glass tearing her snowsuit, frozen fingers of water grippingher. She reached back through the window for Paul.Hewas gone.Shepeered into the murk, her eyes stinging, the icy water clawing her corneas.Groping wildly, she could not reach her brother.Kriswas out of breath.Shepushed away from the truck, pulled frantically for the surface, ramming hardinto a ceiling of ice. Unable to see, she groped along, feeling for a gap. Herhands fell on the snaking roots of a tree trunk. She climbed the roots, an icefloe pounding at her back. At last she emerged from the teeth of the river,gasping, coughing, screaming for air. She crawled off the log onto the broadsnow surface of a massive floe.Pitch-blacknight had fallen in the middle of the day. Kris could not see — her eyeballshad been frozen into rocks by the cold. With a violent shiver, she collapsed,and the raging Sawtooth carried her away.Two hours later, in the river townof White Circle, Kris Carlson's body was hauled from the ice.
3. They fear me. I have torn them in mywrath.They haveno hunger these men who hunt with dogs. They tear me from my mother'swomb and drag me through the snow. They gape at me with their mouths. Theystrike me with their fists. They mass themselves against me. They seize me bythe neck and dash me to pieces. They cast me into the mire, and I become likedust and ashes. My skin turns black and falls from me, and my bones burn withheat.Let themhope for light but have none. They'll never see the eye of day, the eye of dayis shut. I know there is no light. I know freedom comes with blood. I know thewolf. The wolf will not betray me.I slashopen their kidneys and show no mercy. I pour out their gall on the ground. Iburst them again and again. I sew sackcloth upon my skin. I eat flesh like awolf. My strength is in the ice. My strength is in my loins. My strength is inthe muscles of my belly. I make my tail stiff like cedar; the sinews of mythighs are knit together. My bones are tubes of bronze, my limbs like bars ofiron.I am thefirstborn of Death.These menare full of fear. They will know my power. They will die, just like the rest.All ofthose who fear the wolf will perish by my hands.I will eatthem. All of them.* * *In the clear, cold, aurorean night,across the frozen tundra, three Inuit dog sleds glided over the snow. Thestampeding teams of Alaskan huskies pumped clouds of steam into the brisk nightair, while two Inuit mushers ran, rode, and pushed the sleds behind them.Inthe first sled, Shakshi, a large Yakuutek hunter with high Mongoliancheekbones, leathery, wind-burned skin, and an icy black moustache, locked hisdark eyes on his wheel dog, Tiuna, whose silver tail hung low. Roluk, the hugeSiberian lead dog at the head of the team, threw a glance back at thefreeloader, yapping in complaint. Shakshi shouted a command, yanking histugline. The dogs came to a halt.Thesecond and third sleds drew to a stop behind him. The musher of the second,Anokuk, a broad-faced Yakuutek with a rifle over his shoulder, turned hisslitted eyes behind him. The third sled, with its full gangline of pantingdogs, was riderless.Lashedto the sled was a giant cage.Shakshidismounted. He walked up the line of his dogs, slowly, menacingly. When he cameto Roluk he paused; like a priest giving benediction, he touched the lead dog'shead with the back of his hand. The dog barked sharply, once. The mushercontinued slowly down the other side, past the swing dogs, the team dogs, theheavy pullers in the middle of the line. He paused at last beside Tiuna,staring down at her. The wheel dog whimpered, sullenly. She knew she had offended.Shakshi leaned over and smacked her — a wallop on her rump. Tiuna snapped backto life.Shakshireturned to his sled, eyeing his comrade. Anokuk nodded back toward the thirdsled. A guttural groan like the sound of an animal emanated from the giantcage.Thetwo hunters approached warily, Anokuk un-slinging his rifle.Thecage, tightly lashed to the sled, was made of thick, interwoven saplings.Inside, barely visible in the feeble light of the moon, a massive form laybound in hides and chains.Thecreature stirred.Shakshinodded to Anokuk. The narrow-eyed hunter raised his rifle barrel, aimed throughthe bars, and fired.Theshot rang out across the tundra. The dogs grew silent. Shakshi and Anokukglanced at one another — the groans had stopped.Thehunters drew close to the bars, peered into the darkness of the cage. A bloodred tranquilizer dart had stuck through the pile of hides. The mammoth body laystill as a corpse.Shakshinodded to his comrade, and the two men returned to their sleds. The dogs jumpedto their feet, barking with freshened vigor. Tiuna, of all of them, looked mostready to go. As he mounted the whalebone runners and reached for his tugline,Shakshi noticed something on his sled. A hide had blown loose. Beneath it, thelifeless eyes of a Yakuutek stared out at him. A chunk of the dead musher'scheek was missing, gouged from his face. Shakshi touched the wound with hisgloved hand. Teeth marks scarred the torn flesh.Shakshicovered the head, lashing the hide securely to the sled. Then he gave thecommand to his dogs and they bolted into the night.
4. Fairbanks International Airport hadjust come into view when the air traffic controller's voice came over theheadset. "Charlie Five-five, this is Fairbanks Tower, do you read me,over?"JoshMarino recognized Dean Stanton's voice, gravelly and low like the grumbling ofa lion. "Roger, Fairbanks," Josh replied, "this is CharlieFive-five, requesting landing, over." He pictured the cotton-haired old mansitting in the tower, his crumpled brown-bag face and heavy-rimmed glasses, acigarette dangling from his lips as he growled into the mike."CharlieFive-five, drop to twelve hundred and turn right zero-three-zero. You haveRunway Three.""Roger,Fairbanks," Josh answered. "When are you gonna quit smoking?" hewanted to add, but didn't. The old man will probably die with a cig in hismouth. "Descending to one thousand two hundred feet," Josh repeated."Turning right zero-three-zero for the straight-in to Number Three,over."Thetwenty-four-year-old pilot flew his company's single-engine Cessna back andforth from Anchorage to Fairbanks so often that hearing Dean Stanton's voicewas like hearing the subway driver call out your stop. "Charlie Five-five,you're cleared for landing." Josh wore a khaki jacket, high leather boots,and a belt-sheathed jackknife. His tousled black hair stuck out in feralprofusion from his red headband and his over-size earphones. He worked for asmall electronics company down in Anchorage, but still kept his one-roomapartment in Fairbanks, still considered the central Alaskan city his home. Hewas working toward his Masters in electrical engineering, and flew back to takeclasses at the University of Fairbanks on Saturday mornings twice a month. Andhe taught some classes at a local school, too, though that was more a labor oflove than anything else.Joshadjusted the flaps, grabbed the control yoke in his left hand and eased thethrottles back with his right. The plane banked and angled down toward thebroad stretch of runway ahead. The snow had been cleared and the black asphaltglistened. I could land this baby with my eyes closed, he thought, and for amoment, he actually tried it. One second the runway was fast approaching, thenext second everything went dark. A shiver of fear shot through the pilot; hiseyes popped open despite himself.Mustbe how my students feel, he thought, and wondered if he could teach them how toland a light plane. This would be quite a feat even with their eyes wide open —considering the fact that his students were blind.* * *Dean Stanton watched the Cessna 207Skywagon roll to a stop on Runway Three, then removed his glasses, rubbed hiseyes, and crushed his cigarette out on the linoleum floor. Behind him stoodDavid Adashek, the Fairbanks Chief of Police, a large, rock-chested man,bursting from his jacket and tie. Adashek was scratching his gray-haired head,staring down with a grimace at the collection of smashed butts scattered aroundStanton's feet.Stantonnoticed him looking. "Cleaning crew'll get 'em. Albert and Ace —Spic'n'Span. They get 'em every night.""Whydon't you just find yourself an ashtray, Dean?"Stantonlifted the headset off his ears, laid it around his neck. "FAA won't allowashtrays." He pointed to a sign next to the door. NO SMOKING.Adashek'seyebrows went up. He scanned the rest of the room. Three other controllers wereat work in the tower; all of them were smoking. The place had a heavier haze inthe air than the strip bar on Wolf Run Road. "I thought you boys had tofollow the letter of the law in here."Stantonlit up another one and blew out a lungful of smoke. "How long you been inAlaska, Chief?"Adasheknodded wearily. The ‘80’s seemed like a lifetime ago. "Long enough to knowI shouldn’t ask," he said.Hestepped up to the broad window, his eyes squinting into the arctic light. JoshMarino's tiny white Cessna was taxiing off the field. Beyond him, far off onthe horizon, silver clouds were forming above the snowy peaks. Adashek staredat the mountains, and for a long moment, didn't speak."It'sbeen two hours since they touched down," he said at last. "What doyou suppose is going on out there?"Stantonleaned back in his swivel chair, folded his hands behind his head."Knowing Jake, he's probably trying to make a deal on some furs.""Knowingthe Yakuutek," said the Chief, "he better not be looking for anybargains."
5. The Yakuutek hunter pointed hisrifle at Jake O'Donnell's head. Jake's eyeballs were wrenched to his temple,locked on the tip of the barrel. Not much more than a four-inch gap between thecold steel and the red-haired pilot's brains. This made using the brains aneven more difficult task than usual."Saysomething, Donny! He's gonna kill me, for Chrissake!""Saywhat?" asked his copilot. Donny was facing the other Yakuutek, who washolding a gun to Donny's chest. "I been talkin'. Nobody'slistenin'!""Tell'em I ain't lyin' goddammit!"He'ain't lyin'! Goddammit."Thehunter pressed the barrel of his gun into Jake's ear. Jake shuddered. Then,slowly, he turned his head, looked up the barrel into the Inuit's eyes."I...I told you. I 'ain't got the goddamn money!"Thehunter didn't speak. He wiped his brown hand down his shaggy black moustache.Was this fella angry or just trying to make up his mind?"Believeme, amigo. It's the truth, so help me God."Thebarrel didn't move. The Inuit's eyes stared deeply into Jake's. Jake struggledto take in a breath. If the gun hadn't unnerved him, the man's stare certainlydid.Jakeglanced at the big cage lying on the snow under the right wing of the GoonyBird, his aging twin-engine DC-3. Inside the cage, the mountain of a creaturelay barely visible, asleep under its cocoon of chains and hides."Look,"Jake said in a calmer voice, "you can keep the son-of-a-bitch. We'll sendsomebody back with the money.""Yeah,that's right!" chimed in Donny. "Keep the fucker. We'll let theSheriff collect him himself."Thetwo big hunters held steady.Jakeshot a nervous glance at Donny. "I don't think they want to keephim."Donnylooked at the cage. "Can't say I can blame 'em. Fucker don't look toofriendly."Avoice crackled from the empty cockpit."Hey,"Jake said, suddenly lighting up. "I bet that's the Chief now!"DeanStanton's voice continued sputtering from the radio. The hunters looked mildlycurious... or suspicious — it was hard for Jake to tell."That'shim, ain't it, Donny?""Yeah,that's Adashek all right. I can tell by the voice.""He'sthe badge with your money," Jake said. "We can talk to him, he'lltell you all about it." Jake began slowly backing toward the door to theplane. The hunter followed him with the barrel of his gun."Comeon," he said, leading him slowly back. "Right up here, we'll talk tothe man himself, I swear to God."Donnystarted moving with Jake, then stopped abruptly. His hunter had poked thebarrel of his gun into Donny's considerable belly. Donny raised his hands insurrender. "Okay, okay... you're right, you're right. It's only the Chiefof Police, no big deal, just a whole big pile of money waiting for you, waitingback there with your name on it and all you gotta do — " he suddenlygasped as the man again jabbed his gut with the rifle. Donny coughed, put hishand on the barrel, eased it gently back. "Okay, I'll shut up."Jakewas backing up through the doorway into the plane, the hunter following himwith his gun. Stanton's voice was still crackling through static on the cockpitradio. "Whiskey Four-O — ... do you... over."Thehunter followed Jake through the cockpit door into the nose of the DC-3, hisgun held to him like metal to a magnet."Niceand easy," Jake said, reaching for the radio mike. He slowly unhooked itand adjusted the frequency. Then he thumbed the button and spoke to DeanStanton."FairbanksTower this is Whiskey Four-O-Three, over."Jakewatched the hunter's black eyes as the air traffic controller's voice camethrough in reply. "Whiskey Four-O-Three this is Fairbanks Tower. We readyou loud and clear."* * *Dean Stanton handed his microphoneto Chief Adashek."Areyou all right, Jake? Did you find—"Jake'sstatic-broken voice interrupted him. "Just fine, Chief, except for the .22your friend here's been pointing in my face for the past half hour. Apparentlyyou and your Eskimo friends had a little miscommunication.""Idon't understand," the Chief said."Wellneither do I!" Jake shouted. "Mr. Yackety-Yack here thought he wassupposed to collect his reward money upon delivery of the prisoner."TheChief glanced uncomfortably at Stanton. "It's not money he's looking for,Jake.""What?!""There'sa Yakuutek man in jail here for manslaughter. If we get the prisoner back herealive, their man will go free. That's the arrangement we made with thetribe.""Manslaughter,huh. Gee, that's great, that's really great. Tell me, Chief, who'd the guy kill— a pilot?""Ifyou just explain to him—""Goddammit,you explain it to him! He sure as hell ain't listening to me!"Adashekglanced at Stanton, who shrugged his shoulders. The Chief raised the miketo his lips. "Shakshi, are you there? Can you hear me?"Adashekwaited, but heard no reply. "Is he there, Jake?""Yeah,he's here. He just don't talk much.""Thenlisten to me, Shakshi, please. It's very important that you do not cause anyfurther delay. We will release your friend when the prisoner arrives herealive. That was the deal. I urge you, he is extremely dangerous and must—"Ahowl came over the radio, followed by a blast and a burst of static."Jake?Do you copy?"Therewas no reply, just the steady crackle of static. The Chief looked frightened."Whiskey Four-O-Three, do you copy, over."Stantontook the mike back from him, played with the frequency. "WhiskeyFour-O-Three this is Fairbanks Tower, do you read me, over."Nothing.Adashekand Stanton looked at one another.
6. Jake's face had gone white. Hestared speechless at the radio. The hunter had slammed it with the butt of hisgun, knocking it loose from the console.Jakelooked up at him. "That little yell o’ yours is the most you've said allday."TheInuit, standing bent in the low doorway, wiped his long moustache again,glaring at Jake.Jakelooked past the hunter into the cargo hold. It was crammed full of bags,crates, packages, and mail. "Look, Shocky, or whatever-your-name-is, Idon't know what happened out there to your friend, but you captured thisgoddamn lunatic and now me and my partner gotta take him to the Chief. So whydon't we see if we can strike ourselves a little bargain here."Jakemoved gently past him into the cargo hold. He pulled a large box out of a sackand ripped it open. "It's coming on Christmas, Shocky. Why don't wecelebrate a couple weeks early?" Inside the large box was another boxwrapped with ribbons and gold paper. Jake tore it open and pulled out...ADustbuster.Heheld it up for the hunter, turning it in his hands. "Whaddya think,Shocky? Your wife, maybe? Tidy up the igloo real—"TheInuit swung his rifle, batting the Dustbuster, crashing it against the wall. Heanchored the gun on his shoulder and advanced toward Jake.Jakecrawled backward in terror, stumbling over the mounds of baggage and boxes."Wait a minute!" he cried desperately. "I’m sure we can worksomethin' out!"Thehunter aimed his gun.Jakegrabbed a stuffed duffel bag and hugged it to his chest. "Donny! Help!Somebody! Please!"Shakshinoticed something and relaxed his hold on the rifle."What...what is it?" Jake stammered.TheInuit was staring at the top of the duffel bag.Jakelooked at the opening. A small furry white tail was sticking out."What...this? This here?" Jake clawed open the bag. The Yakuutek'sface widened in amazement.Alitter of half a dozen snow-white fur balls spilled out onto Jake O’Donnell'slap. They couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.TheYakuutek stared at them, his mouth agape. This proud hunter from the ArcticCircle had apparently never laid eyes on a cat.Jakeheld one out in his trembling hands. "You like the kitty, Shocky? She’sone o’ Lily's litter. Lily is Frank Dieter’s cat. We were taking 'em back tothe pound in Fairbanks."TheYakuutek hunter set down his rifle. He took the tiny creature into his arms asif some great miracle of the Earth Mother had been handed him, a precious giftfrom the White Spirit of the North. A small smile crossed his face, a smile ofawe that Jake thought he'd probably not forget for a long, long time."Youall right in there, Jake?" he heard Donny shout."Yeah,"he called back.Hewatched the Inuit cradling the kitten. "What do you say, Shocky. Wannatrade the monster for the kitties?"
7. The snowman had no head.Threechildren, bundled in parkas and scarves and boots and gloves, were on theirknees rolling a ball of snow across the white-blanketed schoolyard. Theystumbled over each other like puppies, the sound of their laughter echoingsharply off the high brick wall of the schoolhouse.Kriscould hear them from the parking lot. She was sitting in the car with hermother, Linda Carlson, a 42-year old widow whose raven-black hair had alreadybegun to gray. Linda was talking to her, but Kris was no longer listening toher words. Carried away by the echoing shrieks of the children, she had driftedoff to another time and place, far away in a distant corner of her memory,where her tiny brother Paul was searching for a carrot he'd dropped in thesnow.Graduallyshe became aware of her mother speaking her name."Yousee, honey, that's exactly what I'm talking about.""What?"said Kris irritably, turning from the window. She wore a stylish pair ofsunglasses that reminded Linda of pictures of her own mother from the 1950's."Nowdon't get defensive. You weren't listening, that's all.""Iwas listening.""Youwere a million miles away.""No,I wasn't," Kris mumbled. In her mind she saw Paul gleefully holding up hiscarrot."I'mnot going to argue," said her mother. "We've already decided aboutthis.""Youdecided about it.""Youhad your say. I listened. I determined that you're just giving up. I won't letyou do that.""Mom,I'm eighteen years old. I can make my own decisions. I always have to do ityour way.""That'snot true. You didn't want a dog. Did I force you to get a dog?""Idon't like dogs," Kris said emphatically. "And they don't likeme.""Honey...the Burton's Shepherd didn't know you, that's all."Krisrubbed her hand nervously. "I don't want to depend on an animal likethat."Lindalooked at her daughter. She reached out, took one of her hands tenderly in herown. "It's okay to admit you're afraid of dogs. There's nothing wrong withbeing afraid." She continued to hold her daughter's hand, gently caressingit. "Don’t you think that might be what's happening here, too?"Krispulled away. "Spare me the psychotherapy, Mom.""Youloved the cross-country. What's so different about this?""What'swrong is that this is what you want. You couldn't care less about what Iwant. You're treating me like a child.""Well,maybe if you didn't act like such a..." She stopped herself. "Somedayyou'll thank me, Krissy.""Right,Mom. So original."Lindasighed. She yanked on the door handle and climbed gruffly out of the car. Krisheard her walk to the trunk. She's probably forgotten something, Kris thought.She's always forgetting something. She didn't used to be like that..."Kris,where's your bag?" She was rifling through the messy trunk."Iput it out, Mom. Did you take it?""Ithought I told you—. Oh. Here it is."Lindaslammed the trunk shut, walked around and opened Kris's door."Giveme your hand."Fora long moment, Kris didn't budge. Then she suddenly remembered something, thereason she'd finally agreed to come here at all. She reached for her whitecane, took her mother's hand, and climbed carefully out of the car."Mom?"she asked as her mother shut the door. "Do you see a Beetle in thelot?"Hermother looked at her, puzzled. "A beetle?""Yeah,you know, the car, the old Volkswagen Bug.""Oh,uh..." She scanned the parking lot. Next to the schoolyard, where thechildren were jamming a stick nose into the snowman's eyeless head, she spotteda rusty, mustard VW Bug."Yes,over there, there's a yellow one in the corner."Kris'sheart skipped a beat."Why?"her mother asked. "Whose is it?""Oh...nobody," said Kris. Her mother eyed her inquisitively as they headed intothe school.
8. "I wish you'd sit down andrelax." Andrea Parks had been watching Linda pace the floor since she'dcome into her office."I'mfine," said Linda."Youdon't look fine. You look worried."Lindastopped walking and turned to her friend. Andrea, as always, looked cool,casually elegant, and efficient. She wore a short white blazer, a fitted skirt,and a pale blue silk scarf beneath her short blonde hair. Sitting, legscrossed, on the edge of her desk, she looked like a woman in complete controlof her life.Lindahad felt that way, once. She wanted to feel that way again."What?"asked Andrea. "What is it?"Lindashook her head. After a moment she started to speak, but was interrupted by thering of the telephone.Andreareached across her desk. "Director Parks. Oh, hi George." She raisedher finger and nodded to Linda, indicating the call would be short.Lindaturned to the window that overlooked the training room. A fifty-foot-longsimulated ski slope dominated the enormous room. Slick white carpet covered theslope, with a handrail along one edge and safety nets mounted under each side.Two blind children, not more than ten years old, were clinging to the railinghalfway down the slope, their skis splayed out awkwardly beneath them.Atthe bottom, loudly coaxing them on, stood a compact, muscular African-Americanwoman with extremely short-cropped hair, wearing Spandex and bright redhigh-top basketball shoes. Linda had seen the woman before at the school.Andrea had said she was a veteran of Iraq. She was surrounded now by half adozen children of various ages, all in skis, flopping about like penguins whilewaiting their turn on the hill. Linda could not find Kris among them, andwondered if she was still in the waiting room.TheBlind Learning Center was the only one of its kind in the entire state ofAlaska. The school was widely renowned for the range of its programs and thequality of its well-trained staff. Many of the students' families had moved toFairbanks from other parts of the state so their children could regularlyattend.Lindaand her daughter lived in the town of Healy, at the northeast corner of DenaliNational Park. Fairbanks was only 70 miles away, an easy drive up Highway 3along the frozen banks of the Nenana River. Linda had made the drive a thousandtimes. She was a part-time social worker carrying a case load at a communitymental health clinic in the city. A year after Kris lost her sight in theaccident, she'd begun taking her along on the commute, leaving her forcross-country lessons at the school while she went to work at her job in town.It had been good for Kris, she'd thought. It had helped her to forget."Well,at least you've stopped pacing."Lindaturned.Andreawas hanging up the phone. "Won't you please sit down?" she said.Lindashrugged. She took a seat on a Wassily chair beneath a framed poster of a sandbeach rimmed with palm trees."Iwant you to stop worrying," Andrea insisted. "Kris had a great timecross-country skiing with us.""Shedid," said Andrea. "But lately she's been... I don't know — pullingback again. She won't take even the slightest risk. It's like she's lost allher self-confidence.""Youknow that's not the least bit unusual at this stage. It takes years—""It'sbeen four years since the accident, Andrea. She's stopped making any progress.She sits around moping, feeling sorry for herself. I can't seem to do anythingright. I'm walking on eggshells."Lindastood again and walked to the window. She watched the kids on their skis,tacking their way down the make-believe hill. "You didn't know herbefore," she said thoughtfully. "She was so... exuberant. So full oflife. Just like her dad."Andrealeft her desk and walked over to stand by her friend. They'd known each otherfor three years now and the two women had grown close. "I'm sorry,Linda," she said. "I know how you feel. But it takes time. Youknow that better than anyone."
Copyright © 2012 by Michael AbbadonAll rights reserved.
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