Legend of the Ghost Dog (3 page)

When the latch on the puppies' kennel was not fastened properly, the gate could swing open in the wind. It might have been Silla who was responsible, or it might have been me. To this day I don't know. I just know we were wakened before dawn by the sound of every dog, pup and adult, barking at the top of their lungs. They only did that when something was circling the kennel, and only two creatures ever stalked the dogs' enclosure. Bears and wolves.

We all ran down together, my folks, Silla and I, and our brother Jim, who was temporarily home on leave from Vietnam. The sky was dark, and I remember seeing the northern lights in the sky — the amazing living ribbon of color and energy that usually left me breathless. But today, I was breathless from fear. Whatever had frightened the dogs had run off, but the gate to the pups' pen was wide open.

For one terrible moment I thought they were gone, every last one of them. But when Daddy shone the light inside I saw them huddled in a corner of the pen, one on top of the other. Only one of them was missing.

Caspian.

Daddy locked up the pens tight, and Silla and Jim and I went calling for Caspian as loud as we could. We were desperate, Silla and I — both of us knew something had happened to him. It was as if his fear had been written in the wind — we could feel it, fresh, like the smell of blood. Silla begged Daddy to let us go into the woods to look, because she felt Caspian was lying there, hurt — that he couldn't get back to us on his own. But Daddy wasn't going to let his fragile young daughters venture into the woods, even with Jim as protection. He did not even permit us to take walks there near the creek, where the treeline began.

When I was a child I thought there wasn't a thing in the world my father was afraid of, but I came to learn he was afraid of those woods. Silla kept pleading with him to let her go after Caspian, and he kept refusing, and as we were still all standing around arguing I saw Caspian creeping toward us, dragging himself, really, from the border of the woods toward the kennel path.

We could all see something had been after Caspian, and had taken a pretty good bite of him. He was limping and exhausted and his neck was bloody. But there was something more than that — it was the way he was creeping, low to the ground. Whatever had happened to Caspian out there, whatever had gone after him, it was plain to me and Silla that the dog was terrified. I felt it too — the same terror that was in Caspian's eyes vibrated deep within my core. He was only a pup, still just four or five months old. Anybody who worked with dogs would know immediately to stand still, to be calm, to not rush Caspian or frighten him. Anybody would know that.

But Jim had been away many long months, being a soldier instead of a dog handler, and it seemed to me he'd come home on leave almost as frightened as Caspian. Maybe he just forgot what he knew about dogs, or maybe it was something else, maybe the war had just changed him and he couldn't read the dogs anymore.

Whatever it was, when Jim saw Caspian, he lunged at him. Maybe he just meant to grab Caspian's collar so the pup couldn't run off again. But he scared Caspian.

What happened next was over in a flash. Caspian snarled and leapt at Jim and sank his teeth into his arm. Silla and I screamed at Caspian to let go, and my father
hollered and swung a stick, landing a stinging blow on Caspian's back. Caspian did let go of Jim then, and for one terrible second or two I thought he might attack my father. It was the only moment in my life I ever doubted Caspian, and I will regret it until the day I die.

I sat on the edge of the couch studying the map, growing hot in the layers of fleece and long underwear I had put on. The Dorothy Creek trail was not too far from our cabin — in fact I was pretty sure Henry and I had been on it for a while, before Henry had taken off. According to the trail map there was a waterfall at the end of it, but it was probably too far to go today. From where our cabin was located, I probably wouldn't even make it to the mouth of the creek, but I was going to try.

It was noon and the thermometer read just thirty-one degrees Fahrenheit. Fortunately the sky was cloudless and the sun blazing. I figured that as soon as Henry and I got going briskly enough, I'd be taking off some of my fleece layers.

“Henry! Walkies!” I called.

Henry, who had been lying as still as a rock near the wood-burning stove, looking as if he'd been deep in a coma for some time, sprang to his feet.

I laughed. It must be amazing to live like a dog, totally in the moment. Whatever was going on at that very second, it was all about that and nothing else for Henry. So completely uncomplicated.

“Okay, buddy, let's get your leash,” I said.

Henry shot in a quick circle on hearing the word
leash
, then stopped, staring at me intently and wagging his tail so hard I was surprised he didn't propel himself forward all the way out of the room.

“Wait, I'm coming too!” Jack called.

Tell me I did not just hear that
, I thought.

A walk alone with Henry meant time to think, and the freedom to stop whenever I felt like it if something caught my eye — the ripple of wind through leaves, or the unique formation of a tree trunk. I loved to take photographs when I hiked at home, and I was even more eager to get some great shots of the Alaskan wilderness, which was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Jack had no patience for the time I took setting up a shot — he would chatter and complain and spoil my concentration.

Even if I wasn't taking photographs, a walk with Jack meant endless requests for food, and complaints about the speed and direction of the walk, along with more general gripes about the temperature, the itchiness of hats, the ridiculous and unfair reason he was the only human on the planet not to have the newest PlayStation.

“You don't really want to come with me,” I told my little brother, who had run into the room holding three fleeces, two of which were Dad's. “You'll be tired in ten minutes and wanting to turn back, just like always.”

“No, I wanna go!” he protested. “I won't get tired, I promise! I read online that there's all kinds of cool stuff in Alaska — wolves and bears and snakes. And Joe said Alaska's so big sometimes you can still find a new animal nobody ever even heard of before! If I did that, they'd have to name it after me, right? Right, Tee?”

I sighed. I knew my brother well enough to know he was set on coming with me. And though Dad was home and working in his office today, there was no real reason I couldn't be the awesome big sis I was and let Jack tag along. He'd get tired and quit and I could have another hike later by myself, if I felt like it.

“Okay. But you have to listen to the rules first,” I said.

“Rules?” Jack asked. “You don't get to make rules.”

“I didn't make them, Jackster. They're from the packet of trail maps I got. We're not in Woodstock anymore. There are special rules for hiking in Alaska, and if you're going to come with me, you have to listen to what they are first.”

Jack looked dubious, but he sat on the couch expectantly.

Henry raced back into the room, saw the two of us sitting, and flung himself to the floor in heavy exasperation. I opened the envelope of trail maps and pulled out the Hikers' Guide.

“One: Always travel with an up-to-date trail map and a compass or GPS device. Two: Always have more water than you think you'll need, and a well-packed first-aid kit. Protein bars are also recommended. Three: Dress warmly in layers, with appropriate hiking boots and socks. Check the weather service for updates immediately before leaving.”

“This is boring,” Jack complained. “And I can't carry stuff — I'm too small.”

“Shush,” I said. “I'll bring the pack. You have to listen to all the rules or you can't come. There are only two more.”

Jack sighed and made a face. Henry was looking at me so intently he seemed about to levitate off the floor.

“Four: Tell someone what trail you will be hiking, and when you expect to return. Five: If you encounter any
wildlife, keep a safe distance and be respectful. Bear sightings are rare in this area, but move away quickly if you see one, making as much noise as possible.”

“Cool!” Jack yelled. “We might see a bear? That would be epic! What if it chases us? It would eat you first, 'cause you're bigger, right? This is going to be so rad!”

I tried to hide my smile.

“Just put your layers on,” I said. “That blue fleece is Dad's, you know. Find yours.”

Jack raced out of the room.

“And a hat and gloves, with the mitten shells!” I called after him.

Henry was standing directly in front of me, literally quivering with anticipation.

“I'm sorry,” I said, kneeling down and giving him a hug. “I told you we were going, then we didn't go. Come on — let's get your leash.”

Ever in the moment, Henry had forgotten that I'd disappointed him in the very recent past. He jumped up and executed a perfect pirouette of excitement, then dashed down the hall to the place by the front door where I kept his leash.

I grabbed a second bottle of water from the fridge and followed Henry to the front door, stowing the bottle in my pack.

“Let's go!” Jack said, his voice coming from behind me.

I stood up and looked him over. He'd found his own fleeces, but at least one of them was on backward. In one hand he held his coat, and I could see his gloves and mittens were all crammed in one small pocket. At least he'd put on a hat — Jack had a legendary hatred of hats, and this one had been especially purchased for him to wear in Alaska. It was a purple and white Scandinavian-style winter hat with two colorful tassels hanging down the front. The price tag had not yet been removed. I had to give credit where credit was due — the kid was trying.

“You look great,” I said, helping him zip up his coat and sort out his gloves and the fat mittens that went on over them. A small, mischievous part of me decided to leave the price tag on the hat.

“Come on!” Jack said. “We're gonna miss everything!”

I loved that Jack thought there was some kind of schedule of wildlife in the Alaskan wilderness.

“You're forgetting one of the rules,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.

Jack's forehead momentarily creased, then his face brightened.

“Dad, we're going!” he yelled.

I walked past my brother and opened the door to Dad's office.

“We're going to head up the Dorothy Creek trail for a mile or two,” I told him. “I don't think we'll get that far, and we can take the loop that heads back toward home if Jack gets tired.”

Our father was sitting at a small desk overflowing with papers. His laptop had been put on a chair off to one side. He was an old-school writer — he needed to have stuff on paper, in spite of the monumental disorganization that came with it. He took off his glasses and squinted at me, rubbing his eyes.

“That's great. That's really great that you're taking Jack along — you're aces, kid.”

“Thanks,” I said, warming at the praise. “I'll figure out dinner when we get back.”

In the hallway, Jack was practically jumping up and down. He had Henry's leash clipped to his collar. Henry looked at me with pleading eyes, his expression saying,
Now? We're going now, right?

“Let's go!” I said, throwing open the heavy front door.

The sunlight was absolutely brilliant. The small, undulating hills stretched in every direction. There were no trees
nearby, but I knew they were out there — at least in the direction I'd gone the first day. We would start on the same trail that led north from the cabin, and the Dorothy Creek route was a wide, gravely trail we'd hit soon.

“How come we're going this way?” Jack asked.

“'Cause this is the way we're going,” I told him. That was the kind of logic Jack understood, and he accepted it without pestering me further.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp, fresh air. It was hard to get used to how cold it was here — it was April, after all. But the sun was powerful and warmed my face, its brightness giving the illusion there was more warmth in the air. After a few minutes of energetic walking, my body was heating up anyway.

“You're going too fast,” Jack complained. “How come we have to go uphill all the time?”

“Well, because the trail is going uphill,” I said. “It leads up to that little ridge up there.”

Henry wasn't having any problem with the hill — he was straining on his leash so hard it was like being on one of those rope tows that pull you up a ski slope.

“Here, take Henry,” I said, offering Jack the leash, which he carefully took, putting his hand through the loop and wrapping it around his wrist as I'd taught him.

“Wow!” Jack exclaimed, as Henry surged upward. “I don't have to do anything!”

“Yep, just don't let go of him, and don't fall down,” I said.

Now I could walk in peace, as Jack happily experimented with how far he could lean back and still be pulled up the hill by our beagle. My legs felt strong, and the sun was delicious on my face. When we reached the ridge, there really wasn't all that much to see, just more hills, and in the faraway distance, the snow-capped Kigluaik Mountains. We walked in silence for a long time. I would have happily gone on like that for several hours. But when the sun went behind a cloud and the air suddenly felt cold, Jack stopped.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I want to go home.”

It usually made me nuts when Jack did this — bugged me to let him tag along someplace with promises that he wouldn't get bored or tired, only to become exactly that.

But I was in a great mood. We still had almost two weeks left in Alaska, tons of time to explore, to read, to have all the quiet time I needed.

“Tee, I'm tired,” Jack repeated.

“Okay,” I said. “We should be coming up on a turnoff soon — that will be the old miner's trail — and it loops right back to the cabin. We'll be home in a half hour, maybe less.”

“A half hour?” Jack grumbled, but it wasn't real grumbling, I could tell. He knew I could have forced him to keep hiking if I'd wanted to.

“Downhill is much easier than uphill,” I reminded him.

We found the turnoff more or less where I thought we would, and looped back south. The path was wide here, with gravel and stone and weeds growing through it. It was easy going and we were making good time when Henry came to an abrupt stop and Jack almost fell right over him.

“Hey, stupidy-dumb dog!” Jack exclaimed.
Stupidy-dumb
was Jack's current catchall insult.

“He's smarter than you are,” I said, but I was watching Henry curiously.

“He is not,” Jack retorted.

Henry was standing statue still, his tail extended and his nose in the air. He seemed to be listening for something with every cell in his body. Or maybe listening wasn't quite the right word. Expecting. Everything about my dog said he was on full alert.

I looked around. I couldn't be sure, but it seemed like we might be close to the spot where Henry had been spooked the day before. I could see a good distance up the trail from where we were standing, to where a copse of willow bushes began and gave way to trees.

Then I saw it, a shadow moving along the bushes, low to the ground but definitely not small in size. The hackles on Henry's back stood up, and he tried to growl but it turned quickly to a whimper. The shadow stopped, as if it had heard Henry. For a moment it seemed as if the world stood still, my beagle frozen in place, the dark shape by the willow bushes unmoving. A chill ran up my spine.

“What? What's Henry doing?” Jack asked.

It was as if the sound of his voice broke the spell. The shadow shape melted into the willow bushes. Henry's stance relaxed slightly.

“It's nothing,” I said. “He's just hungry. Come on, let's get home.”

I took the leash from Jack and walked quickly in the direction of home. I only looked back once, as we were about to go down the next rise.

I could see nothing but the unremarkable line of willow bushes.

And yet I knew something was there, watching me.