Wilderness (10 page)

Johnny wiped the snow off his face. The sled
jumped before he got his hand back to the handle. He
stayed on – it was easy. He held on to the stick. He
had to push his palm down on it, to trap it between
the handle and his hand. He had to use the weight of
his wrist and arm to keep the stick in the air, above
Rock's snout.

He listened. He couldn't hear the snowmobile. Just
his dogs and Tom's dogs. Their breath, their steady
pace.

They were going to find her. Johnny looked at the
dogs' backs. They were straight, and the ears were up.
They knew where they were going.

They were going to find her. Johnny could think
that – he could feel it and know it – as long as they
kept moving.

They charged through the dark. They went under
high, thick trees. They felt them, right over their
heads, and it was even darker. Tom could see nothing.
He could hear the dogs, but he couldn't see them.

 

 

It was dark now. It was cold. Gráinne heard the click,
the central heating coming on. But it would be ages
before the radiator was warm enough. She rubbed her
arms.

She was at the window, looking at the light outside.
The light moved as her mother moved. She was
looking at the plants and flowers she'd planted there,
years ago. She was trying to find them with a torch.

She'd seen the torch on top of one of the shelves.

“Oh, look.”

It had seemed funny, when her mother decided to
go out and look for her flowers in the dark. But she'd
been gone too long, or something. It wasn't funny
now.

Gráinne couldn't see her mother properly. The light
was on in the kitchen, so the window was like a
mirror. She could see herself and things behind her.
She could have gone across to the switch and turned off the light. But she didn't want to do that. She
wasn't sure why not. It would have looked too much
like she was spying. Something like that; she wasn't
sure. It just seemed better to leave the light on.

Then she thought:
She can see me.
She couldn't see
her mother, but her mother could see Gráinne, at the
window, staring out.

She sat down at the table. She shouldn't have stood
there for so long. Like a little girl looking for her
mammy.

She didn't like this. The good feeling was slipping
away. The confidence she'd felt when she'd listened to
her mother, when she'd known when to nod and
listen. She didn't think that feeling was there now in
her. She wished her mother would come back in,
before it became too hard to start again.

She thought about looking for her father. But then
her mother would come back in and think she had to
go.

She felt stuck, between her mother and her father.
One bad move would let one of them down. It wasn't
fair. She hated the way she was always on trial. She
could feel the anger now. She tried to remember the
good feeling she'd had a few minutes before; she tried
to feel it. But it was disappearing, and now she didn't
want it. She wanted to be angry. It was something she
could actually trust. Something she knew and
recognized. She could feel it rising through her.

She heard steps on the path outside. Her mother
was coming back in.

Gráinne tried to stop it. She rubbed her arms, hard.
She tried to rub the anger away, like sand off her skin.
The door opened. She felt the cold from outside
slither around the kitchen. She rubbed her arms.

 

 

The trees weren't as thick here. Tom could see
Johnny, just ahead of him. He could see the tracks of
Johnny's sled. He could see his own dogs run along
the tracks. He kept his knees bent. It was easier to
stay on that way.

He looked back quickly, and saw the light. It was
far behind them, among the trees, and gone, and there
again.

He shouted.

“They're behind us.”

He heard Johnny.

“OK.”

They were still on the main path. Johnny could
make out where the sleds and snowmobile tracks had
flattened the snow. It was the way they'd come earlier,
on their way to the hut.

“Where are we going?” Tom shouted.

“This way,” Johnny shouted back.

“Where?” Tom shouted.

“Following Rock,” Johnny shouted back.

That made sense. Rock was the leader. He'd know
where they were, and where they were going.

But Rock followed Kalle. That was why they were
moving now, through the darkness. Rock was running
after Kalle's hat. Johnny had tricked him so easily. But
that didn't worry Tom. It was one of the interesting
and complicated things about people and dogs and
how they lived together. The boys were following a
dog that was stupid enough to think that the hat was
Kalle, but the dog was a brilliant dog, and they were
right to be following him.

The ground was still mostly flat. The trees were
close again, on either side of the path, so the snow
wasn't too bad, because the trees were like a roof. It
was darker again, but Tom could see.

Johnny tried to see ahead, to see if he recognized
anything they were passing. This might have been
another path that other sleds and snowmobiles used
all the time. He was flying into the dark, and really
quickly. He just had the dogs' backs; they were the
only things he had to navigate with. There were no
stars. Anyway, he didn't know much about stars. His
dad had started to explain it to him once, about the
stars and how sailors could cross the oceans just by
looking at them. But it had been boring, the way his
dad had tried to tell him.

He hoped he'd see something soon. Something that
could tell him how far they'd come. He rubbed more
snow from his face. The stick with the hat shifted, but
he didn't let it slide from under his hand. His hand
hurt a bit, where he had to push down the stick. But
it wasn't bad.

He looked behind. He adjusted his weight; he bent
his left knee. He looked, and saw the lights that Tom
had seen. The snowmobile. He wasn't worried. It wasn't
a race. He wasn't afraid of being caught. If Aki caught
up with them, fine. There'd be more people to find their
mother. That was what it was about. It wasn't a game or
adventure. They were going to find their mother.

He heard Tom.

“How far?”

He shouted back.

“Don't know.”

Then he thought of something else. He shouted it.

“Are we there yet?”

He did it in the whiny voice that drove their dad
mad when they were going anywhere in the car.

He heard Tom laugh. And Tom shouted back.

“Are we there yet?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Wil-derness!”

A huge rock went past Johnny's face. He saw it;
then it was gone. He'd been moving, not the rock, but it felt like the rock had shot past him. He gripped the
sled. He went over a bump, and ducked under a very
low branch; he felt the snow on his shoulders.

Tom didn't know where he was; he hadn't a clue.
There was nothing he thought he'd seen before. But
he wasn't lost; it didn't feel like that. Because of the
dogs. He would never have walked through darkness
like this. Or cycled. Not for money, or anything. It
wasn't the dark; he wasn't afraid of the dark. It was
what was
in
the dark. What was waiting. Holes, rats,
crooked fingers, teeth. Not seeing; not being able to
see. That was what frightened him.

But he wasn't really frightened now. The dogs were
with him and he was going to find his mother.

A branch shot out at him. It slashed his face. He
could feel the sting. He thought he could feel the
blood on his cheek. The trees were close; they were
trying to grab him.

But he wasn't really scared.

He looked behind again. He held on extra tight; he
tried to make his legs heavy. He couldn't see anything.
Then a branch brushed his back. He heard it before
he felt it – another tree trying to grab him. He turned
back again, and looked straight ahead.

Tom liked Aki. And he really liked Kalle. But they'd
let him down. That was how it felt. They'd gone off,
and come back without his mother. But that wasn't it.
He didn't blame them for that, even though it was their wilderness and they were supposed to know
everything about it. But he didn't blame them. It was
more about the feeling he'd had when he watched
them getting ready to leave the hut the second time,
when Kalle was checking his belt and Aki was
checking the first-aid box. They should have been
faster. And they should have looked worried. But
they'd been more interested in not upsetting Tom and
Johnny. They'd pretended that it wasn't really an
emergency. They'd treated Tom and Johnny like kids.
Tom and Johnny
were
kids. But that was where lots of
adults got it wrong. Kids didn't need to be treated
like
kids, or how most adults thought kids were – stupid.
Your mother is missing. It is very dangerous. We must
find her. Quickly.
That was what they should have
said. Tom and Johnny would have agreed with them,
because Tom and Johnny already knew it. But,
instead, they'd smiled and offered them hot chocolate.

Tom could feel the hot chocolate in his stomach. It
was sloshing around as the sled bounced and turned.
He tried not to think of it.

The dogs were different. The dogs were honest.
The dogs weren't looking around and thinking,
He's
too young.
They weren't slowing down because he was
only ten. The dogs were doing what they were
supposed to do.

They'd find her.

Johnny lifted his arm, but it was too late. The branch had already hit him. It felt like a screech,
across the side of his face, just under his eye. It was
black for a minute – he couldn't open his eyes. The
pain was chopping at him. He put his hand back on
the sled. And opened his eyes.

He could see.

But the pain was horrible. It was much stronger,
sharper than the cold. It burst out of the cold. He
closed his eyes. The pain was right above them.

He waited for it to fade.

The dogs kept going.

It was like the times he'd eaten ice cream too fast
and got brain freeze. The worst pain ever, until it
began to fade, and it became a joke. This pain started
to fade, but it wasn't going to be a joke.

He opened his eyes again.

He knew where he was. It was the way the trees
spread out, and the tops of the stones he could see
jutting out of the snow, around the trunks of some of
the trees. They'd been there earlier. It was where
they'd fallen out of the sled, where Rock had picked
up Kalle's cap.

Johnny lifted the stick, and the cap. He put his foot
on the brake. The dogs stopped. Johnny looked
around. It was definitely the same place.

Tom's dogs stopped.

“What?” said Tom.

“This is where we fell off,” said Johnny.

“Is it?”

He looked around.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“But Mam fell off after us,” said Tom.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

Tom rubbed the snow from his face.

“So we should have passed her back there,” he said.

He looked behind, where they'd just come from.

“Ages ago.”

“I know,” said Johnny.

“Will we go back?” said Tom.

They could hear Aki's engine. They could see the
lights.

“No,” said Johnny.

“Why not?” said Tom.

“She's not back there,” said Johnny. “We didn't see
her.”

He pointed back, at Aki's light.

“And they haven't seen her either.”

“Where is she?” said Tom.

It was hard saying the words; he was afraid he'd cry. He wasn't sure if Johnny had heard him. It took him
ages to answer.

“Don't know,” said Johnny. “But I bet I know what
happened.”

“What?”

“She didn't fall off,” said Johnny.

“What happened then?” said Tom.

Aki's engine was getting nearer.

“Hastro did something,” said Johnny.

“What?”

“He decided he was the leader, or something,” said
Johnny. “And he ran off, with Mam still on the sled.”

Tom could see it in his head. The rogue dog waiting
until Rock was far ahead, then making a break for it,
pulling his mother's sled down a narrower path, away
from Rock and Kalle, making the other dogs go with
him. He could easily see it. But –

“Why didn't she jump off?” he said.

“Don't know,” said Johnny. “Maybe she didn't know.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe she just thought she was way behind everyone
else.”

They heard the engine. They saw the lights behind
them, jumping along the trees.

“Will we wait for Aki and Kalle?” said Tom.

“No,” said Johnny.

Tom would have liked the adults with him now. He
knew they wouldn't be angry. But he knew that
Johnny was right.

“Yeah,” he said. “They'll just stop searching for
Mam, because they'll think they've found us and that's
enough. They'll bring us back to the hut first. And it'll
have to start all over again.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Let's go.”

The pain wasn't bad now. There was no blood going into his eyes. And it was much colder when they
weren't moving. His arm ached as he held up the stick and hat, over Rock's snout. But it didn't matter.

The dogs began to move.

“Where will we go?” said Tom.

“Just follow the dogs,” said Johnny.

Johnny was right, Tom thought.
Follow the dogs
. That was enough. Tom took his feet off the brake. And
his dogs began to pull. They began to pick up speed.

The snow was falling thick. Johnny could feel more of it than he could see. He didn't mind. The flakes
landed on his face, where the branch had hit him. It
smothered the stinging feeling.

Then he couldn't feel as much snow on his face. They were in thick trees again. He could feel the
branches brush his shoulders. He didn't like it. The
dogs slowed, and speeded up, like they were fighting
their way over snow that no sleds had gone over before.
But he couldn't see much. It was the darkest yet.

Tom could hear the trees breathing – he was sure
he could. And he could feel their fingers. The dogs
were slow now, so it felt like the twigs and pine
needles were pulling at Tom's sleeves and hat. The
trees were close, and they were closing in. The path
was getting narrower, and he wondered if it was a path
at all. They'd soon be stuck under heavy branches and
thorns. There were snakes in Finland. There were
wolves; there were bears.

Needles swiped his face. He cried out – he thought
he did. He wasn't sure. He tried not to – the needles did
it again, across his face, like a prickly cloth. The old hot
chocolate charged up his throat. He swallowed it back.
He felt horrible; he wanted it to stop. He wanted Aki's
lights to charge right up to him, and then the trees
would just be trees, and the bad things would be pushed
back by the light. He wished he'd never come here.

Then the sled wouldn't move. They were stuck.
They were caught. He wanted to call out to Johnny,
but he didn't know if he could. His throat was dry and
sick. He heard a dog bark, somewhere.

Rock barked.

Just once.

And Johnny felt the pull. He felt his sled move, only
a tiny bit, a couple of centimetres. But he could feel the
strength and effort. Rock's bark had been an order.
Pull
.
Johnny was sure of it. Siberian huskies hardly ever
barked; Aki had told them that. Johnny got off the sled.
His legs went deep into the snow, way over his boots,
over his knees. The sled moved forward. He could hear
the dogs pant. He held on to the sled, and the stick
with the hat. He pushed. His boots got sucked into the
snow. He thought they'd come off as he pulled them
out. He curled up his toes. He tried to grip the inside of
the boots; his socks had slid down. He pushed.
Forward, two more steps. He called to Tom.

“OK?”

Tom didn't answer. Johnny looked back. His sled
moved. He had to turn back again. His face went right
into a line of snow and pine needles. He kept pushing.
He pushed his face out of the needles. He called again.

“OK? Tom?”

Tom still didn't answer.

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“OK?”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

Rock barked.

“Hear that?” said Johnny.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “I can see you.”

Johnny's sled moved forward a metre, and stopped.
He felt the dogs strain; he felt it in his hands, through
his gloves. He pushed. He heard the dogs scrabble
and pull.

Tom was off his sled too. It was like pushing
straight into a nightmare, going further asleep instead
of waking up. He wanted to pull back, even to just let
go. Let Hupö and Pomp and the sled go ahead and
turn back, to the adults. He heard himself groaning.
He sounded like an engine. He pushed, so hard he
lifted the sled off the snow. His boots were stuck. He
thought he was going to fall forward; he was falling.
But his foot came out of the snow; he got it out – the boot was still on it. He stepped forward, and the other
foot came out. He kept groaning. It was easier that
way. It stopped his teeth from chattering. It helped
him feel stronger. He pushed again. He felt the dogs
pulling; he heard them panting. He pushed. He felt
the sled move. He heard Johnny.