“You need to lie still, Brooks. And get more salt water on that cut.”
Brooks whimpers. Holding his nose in one hand, I kiss it.
The cabin is only a few miles away. I stir juice crystals into hot water and sip a while, trying to calm myself. I give Brooks most of my watery porridge and set out.
Brooks moves like a marionette jerked slowly by its strings. He still doesn’t put any weight on the leg beneath his wound.
“We’re not stopping until we’re home.” He needs to lie still until he’s healed. Brooks whines, pausing every few minutes to snatch with his mouth at his wound as we walk. I listen for the sound of branches cracking above the surge of water as I continue the tale.
The princess freed herself from the dungeon but lost the prince
in the confusion of the escape. In the light of day, she noticed
a smear of blood across her shoulder where the prince had
brushed against her. Unable to find him, she searched for the
dragon whose cave blocked the entrance to the lake from which
all true stories flow. She found the dragon’s prints followed by
a trough where his tail had dragged behind. The prince’s footprints
were almost obscured by those of the dragon. It was hard
to track either one clearly because the ground where the dragon
had passed was bare and scorched.
And so the princess set out to slay the dragon. Fearful that
the prince would not survive, she led her exhausted horse deeper
and deeper into the heart of the forest. In a tangled thicket, the
dragon lurked in a cave that burrowed far beneath the earth.
Along its corridors the dragon had hoarded not only its treasures,
but also the bones of those who had come upon the dragon’s lair.
The moon had risen and the forest was bathed in its blue
glow. Still the princess jumped at every cracking branch, and no
birds sang.
I snap Brooks onto his leash so he keeps up with me and continue hunting for a game trail in the tangled willows along the bank. From beside me, I hear the jerky rhythm of his gait.
After many days the princess stood with her horse beside a
stream that gurgled through the moss. A black enchanted bird
wheeled above her, claws extended, wings silken smooth with
serrated tips. He dropped down and perched beside her, barely
missing her head.
“What are you searching for?” croaked the bird, snatching a
round blackberry from the moss, then another.
“The dragon,” said the princess, looking up from her reflection
in the water. “I cannot return until I’ve slain the dragon.”
“Then you won’t return,” said the bird, “until all happiness
has shriveled away.”
He hopped a few steps and viciously pecked at a berry the
princess held cupped in the palm of her hand. Sticky black juice
pooled on her palm.
“
A
nd what,” he said, “would be the point of that?”
“But I’m not happy now,” said the princess.
“Taste it,” ordered the raven pushing her fingers with his beak.
The berry was sour, and the princess spat it out.
Then she quietly turned away, paying no more heed to the
enchanted bird. But as she traveled on, her worthy steed lagged
farther and farther behind until one day his legs crumpled beneath
him and he lay on the forest floor. Grave with disappointment, his
eyes searched hers until they closed.
The princess wept silently, but still she carried on.
The only trail I find is a low tunnel I have to stoop through. A black pat of bear scat lies directly before me.
“Idiot,” I tell myself, out loud. Meat-eating bears have black smelly scat filled with hair and bone. I do a breaststroke-like motion through the thick brush, yodeling constantly, until I’m back in the spruce trees.
Eyes burning, the princess wandered on through the tangled forest
so slowly that the fallen trees she’d clambered over in the morning
were still visible in the moonlight.
Again the enchanted bird lit on a branch beside her.
“Princess,” said the bird, “you must return, for you are in
great danger.”
“What danger?” snapped the princess. “It seems I’m not the
one who has paid the price.”
“Only this,” said the raven. “That your life is going by
without you.”
“ Are you looking for me?” The gruff voice of the dragon
drifted through the night air.
He slid belly-first into the stream, like a shark breaking the
smooth surface of the waters with his fiery snout.
The raven rose and tumbled, then rose again, flying frantically
until lost from sight.
Up and up the bank, the dragon scrambled toward the
princess. Dripping water, he breathed hot stale steam on her
innocent face.
But in that moment, something happened. Time in all of its
grace stopped, and she was no longer afraid.
A quiet happiness seemed to blow through the clearing and
the still air, filling her senses with every shallow shaking breath
she breathed. The princess stood very still and listened and waited.
The world about her grew brighter and clearer, and on
the horizon a completely different bird—a hawk of mottled
plumage—hung in the vortex of a warm current of air, riding
its draft to the heavens. The princess never did learn who this
strange bird was, but watching it hang and climb, she could only
laugh and dip her head.
This was the moment she’d always dreaded, and now that it had
arrived, she was not afraid. In fact, she welcomed its approach.
She had at last set eyes on her enemy.
“Take heed,” she said, hand on the shaft of her sword. If I die
here, she realized, I will die content.
A wild recklessness seized hold of her. There was a wind
blowing strong in that forest now, and its warmth filled her. She
slid the sword seamlessly from its sheath. “I only wanted to see
you and follow you to your lair. For you have laid waste to those
whom I have loved.”
The dragon snapped his fiery jaws like a dumb beast, and
coals slithered down his scales and hissed as they struck the earth.
“Be warned!” said the princess. She raised her sword and
thrust it in the chest of the dragon.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the princess braced herself on one knee and yanked the
sword free. The dragon vomited porridge-like globs of phlegm and
stumbled, choking, into the pure, pebble-strewn stream.
The earth curved at the distant horizon. Above them both,
planets spun about unknown and uncounted suns. Around the
dying dragon the clean water sang while his pestilent blood
seeped out and mingled with its current.
And then the dragon’s body floated onto its side and
slowly sank.
When the princess had cleaned her sword and returned it
to her side, she looked about at the sunshine splashing through
the forest. And the climbing hawk, who had broken free from
the vortex and soared above her head.
Then through the magical forest came the drumbeat of
hoofs, and both loyal steeds came prancing through the shafts
of sunlight toward her and drew, front hoofs raised, to a stop.
“Princess?” The prince clambered from a hole in the river
bank. He yawned and shook his head. “I’ve been asleep, I think.
And I dreamed you were gone forever.”
The sound of “forever” echoes through the trees.
The moon trembles, tucked snugly into the sheltering nook between two peaks. I blink at its fading light. Brooks yawns and stretches his front legs, yowling when his wound stretches too.
Hours later, I stop on the bluff, the hot sun in my face. Below me is the clearing where the river I’ve been following and a larger river flow together. Our cabin and cache and shed and outhouse wait, scattered on the bank, as they’ve waited all these years. Water flows by and the sun shines on the rocks of the gravel bar where I fished with Dad. Across the river, mountains loom with Dall sheep huddled on the outcrops, staring down at us. Beyond the visible mountains are further mountains and valleys, layer upon layer east across the territories, where bears and wolves still wander free and people rarely visit.
“We’re home, Brooks. We did it.”
Brooks whimpers and leans against my legs.
“You’re going to sit by the stove now until you’re better. And eat. Think of that. Three meals a day and hot soup between meals.”
I take my juggling balls from my pack. Standing on the cliff before scrambling downhill, I throw them into the autumn air again and again. If I drop one, it might roll all the way to the clearing.
Before I go down, I turn to look at the way I’ve come. A shadow flickers through the tree trunks and is gone before I can even be sure it’s there.
The footing is steep, a scramble. Concentrating, I half slide down the bluff, rocks rolling underfoot, crashing and bouncing as they fall. Brooks whimpers behind me. Reaching the bottom I dust myself off and walk along the last bit of trail and through the clearing.
I’ve waited to come here since I was a little girl. I’ve lived here in my dreams. Dad disappeared from here. Only Mom came to search. Becky and I stayed with the neighbors and didn’t understand.
I hear wings flapping. The raven lands below us somewhere just out of sight.
At close range, home is not quite so intact. Shutters lie rotting on the ground, ripped from windows. The door gapes open. Across the clearing, broken dishes and pans are strewn. I walk inside. Window glass is shattered like bread crumbs all over the floor. The cookstove is on its side, along with the barrel stove for heating. Lengths of stovepipe are strewn about the cabin.
“We can’t sleep here, Brooks.” Panic is once again battering at my head. How many nights until Mom comes? I’ve lost track.
Brooks collapses at my side. His infection must be exhausting him. I will do whatever I have to do. Brooks needs rest—lots of it—warm and inside.
I start to pick up the pieces. When I hold the first broken plate in my hand, I remember breakfast many years ago.
It was spring when Becky’s first litter of puppies was born in the
night. The litter was two pups but only one lived. She named
him Chili and now he lives in the cabin, mostly by the wood-stove,
an arthritic but happy grandpa. Chili was the base of her
team for many years. Now Becky runs his pups and grandpups
when she races.
Mom fried pancakes that morning, and when I finished
devouring my share, I handstanded across the room and into
the bookshelf. Paperbacks rained on my head and Dad grinned.
It was spring and the river ice dropped with a bang. I thought it
was the books on my head.
Returning to the brambled clearing, I lay the two pieces of the plate carefully on the grass, jigsawed together. The clearing is being taken over by rosehip and raspberry bushes. There are areas of crushed grass where a moose has been bedding under the cache. The ladder is propped against a nearby spruce tree. I lean one hand on a rung and it cracks. It needs fixing before I can climb up. After I’ve cleaned the cabin and made it comfortable for Brooks, I’ll figure out how.
The fall sun feels warmer here in the open. Soon the sun will slide between the peaks across the river. I’m here until Mom comes, I think. I’m not walking back with Brooks like this.
Numb, I slide down to the gravel bar and chuck stones— arm drawn back and stiff out from the body—across the rushing surface of the river. Sure there’s a mess, I think, but I can clean it up. Looking back, I take in the array of mountains I’ve spent days walking through. Very strange, I realize, mounding a few almost round rocks to juggle later. At this moment, I’m not worried.
For a few minutes the tide of panic has washed away.
This is my home; it’s where I belong.
I don’t clean up the clearing. I don’t do more than step into the cabin and look at the mess. It can all wait. The shed, however, hasn’t been touched. I slide back the bolt and open the door. Dad built it to open inward so the doorway could never be blocked by snowdrifts in a storm.
Inside is a jumble of gear: toboggan, hand-cranked washing machine Dad made from a forty-five–gallon drum, dog harnesses, fuel barrels, old stoves. A lone lump of rock salt once used for tanning hides is on the table beside mouse turds. I shove it in my pocket. It will do for a start.
Before Christmas, Dad used to hole up in here to make presents: puppets and a stage, pull toys, a rocking horse. Other times, Mom would sit by the stove and carve, but mostly she worked in the kitchen when we were playing or reading.
I make Brooks comfortable on an old sleeping bag I drag out from a discarded sled bag. Then I pry the shutters off the cabin with the hammer that still hangs on a nail just inside the door. I lean the shutters against the walls and go back inside. No room to even walk around until I’ve hauled out some gear. I’m sure there’s a pole bed heaped with musty old blankets in the far corner, but I don’t even try to reach it or the barrel stove in the opposite corner. It’s enough that it’s intact.
Tonight I’ll camp out. I’m not ready to tackle the cabin. Whistling, I unload my pack like every other night and pitch my tent in the clearing. Slowly, the sun slips behind the rosy mountains and the moon rises. I snap off lichen from a spruce tree and kick around until my boot hits the metal grill of the old fire-pit. Split chunks of wood are scattered beside it, rotten and wet, sunk in the earth. I snap dead branches off the trees in the forest and then remember the woodpile stacked against the overhang of the cabin wall.