Wilderness (4 page)

“Who's that?” said Johnny.

The Belgian man tapped Johnny on the shoulder.

“This is him, I think.”

And they saw him.

No one spoke.

Kalle was the man Johnny and Tom had met the
day before. He was still very tall and very wide, and he
still had the knife on his belt.

“So, good morning, Kalle,” said Aki.

Kalle didn't answer, but he nodded at Aki. He
walked past all the adults, to the dogs.

He still wasn't wearing a hat.

“So, this is Kalle,” said Aki. “Kalle is the dog man.”

“He owns them?”

“Right.”

He pointed at Kalle. Kalle was collecting strips of
leather, pulling the strips, making sure they wouldn't snap. Tom had seen the leather strips the day before.
They were the things that held the huskies to the
sleds.

“Kalle is how you get your dogs to go,” said Aki.
“The dogs will follow Kalle.”

He smiled.

“Four dogs for each.”

He patted the Belgian man's stomach as he passed
him.

“Five for you, perhaps,” he said.

The Belgian man laughed, but his wife or girlfriend
looked annoyed.

Aki winked at Johnny and Tom.

“Come,” he said.

He showed them how to get the harness over a
dog's head. He let them do it. And the dogs let them
do it. The dogs licked their hands as they put the
leather straps over their ears. It was easy.

They looked around. They were way ahead of the
adults. Some of them stood there, holding the
harnesses, as if they were going to put them over their
own heads. Their mother couldn't decide which end
of the harness to start with.

The dogs licking their hands was a sign of
friendliness, Aki told them. “And,” he said, “when the
dog puts your hand in the mouth, it's cool. He likes
you.”

“Just as well,” said Johnny. “Look.”

The husky had Johnny's gloved hand in his
mouth. Johnny could feel the teeth through the
cloth, but the dog wasn't pressing them into his
hand.

Tom put his hand in front of his dog's mouth, and
the dog took it.

“How do you do?” he said.

He patted the dog's head. The ears sprang back up.
They were like little triangles stuck on top of its head.
He did it again. The ears sprang up again.

The harness went around the dog's mouth, across
the snout. The dogs let it happen; they didn't pull
back or snarl. Tom's dog even pushed its head
forward, to help him get the harness on. Aki bent
down and helped him tighten the strap a bit, so the
harness wouldn't slip over the dog's head.

Tom looked around again. The woman from
Belgium was sitting down. Her reindeer hat was in a
dog's mouth. She was laughing. His mother had her
arm around her dog's neck. She was laughing too, but
she was grunting a bit as well.

“So,” said Aki.

Everybody looked. Some of the dogs looked.

The big man was standing beside Aki. Aki looked
small beside him. Kalle didn't nod or say hello. He just
stood.

“Kalle wears a hat only when the temperature goes
under minus thirty,” said Aki.

Tom and Johnny heard gasps.

“If Kalle wears a hat, it is very cold. You need two
hats.”

Kalle hadn't budged since Aki had started talking.
Johnny wondered if he could understand what Aki
was saying.

“Kalle shows you how to hitch the husky dog to the
sleigh or sled.”

And, before Aki had finished speaking, Kalle
grabbed the collar of Johnny's dog and pulled the dog
over to the sled. The dog didn't object or pull back. He
went side by side with Kalle.

Kalle picked up a leather strap. It was long, and
attached to the front of Kalle's sled. The sled was
bigger and longer than the others; it would have eight
dogs to pull it. Kalle brought this dog to the front of
the long strap. Then he clipped two side straps to the
dog, to the collar, and to the harness. He grabbed
another dog, and led him – or her; Tom wasn't sure if
it was a boy or a girl – and put him beside the first, on
the other side of the long strap.

Aki pointed at the first dog.

“This dog,” he said.

He patted the dog.

“This husky dog is the lead dog,” said Aki. “He
leads, I guess. He is the boss of the husky dogs. And
Kalle is the boss of him. He goes where Kalle wants
him to go. The other husky dogs follow him.”

Aki brought up his hands and moved them, as if he
was flicking reins.

“So,” he said. “No reins, yeah? The husky dogs will
follow this one, even if you hold reins and go mush-mush.”

“What's his name?” said Tom.

Kalle spoke for the first time that morning.

“Rock,” he said.

It was the perfect name. Even the adults thought
so. They looked less worried. The man from Belgium
nodded.

“A good name,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“A good dog.”

“Yeah.”

Tom liked the dogs' tails. They were bushy, and
curved over their backs. It was the tails that told Tom
the dogs were happy and excited. They knew they
were going for a run.

Gradually, all the dogs were hitched to the sleds. It
took a while with their mother. One of her dogs was a
messer.

“Ah,” said Aki. “The famous Hastro.”

He grabbed the dog, to help their mother. The dog
had two different coloured eyes, a brown and a blue.

“Why is he famous?” said Johnny.

“He is not famous,” said Aki. “But he wants to be,
I guess.”

He patted the dog.

“Is that right, Hastro?”

He backed the dog into place, and hooked the strap
to his harness. Then he stood up straight and stepped
back.

“Hastro thinks he is the lead dog,” he said.

“Oh, God,” said their mother. “One of those ones.
Can I not just have a harmless eejit?”

Aki laughed.

“Eejit?” he said. “What is eejit?”

Johnny pointed at Tom.

“Him,” he said. “He's an eejit.”

Tom hated that. He hated when his brother
stopped being his best friend, and became nasty. He
hated when it happened; he never saw it coming.

He blinked back the tears.

“Johnny,” said his mother.

“Sorry,” said Johnny.

“To Tom,” said his mother.

She put her arms around both boys.

“Sorry,” said Johnny.

Tom nodded. He wasn't going to cry now. Did tears
freeze? He wouldn't find out.

Their mother held them for a bit longer, until she
felt them getting restless. They were fine again. She
let them go. They walked over to Kalle's sled. They
didn't look back at their mother.

The adults stood on the sleds. They stood on the brakes at the back. There were four dogs for each
sled, two on each side of the long strap. Some of the
dogs pulled a bit, but not too hard. They wanted to go.
They wanted to run.

The boys looked around. Their mother waved at
them. She looked a bit nervous, taking her hand off
the sled.

Aki stood near the boys.

“Why can't we have a sled of our own?” said Johnny.

“Each,” said Tom.

“Guys,” said Aki. “You are too young.”

“That's stupid,” said Tom.

“Everybody always says that,” said Johnny. “Is being
young a criminal offence or something?”

“I explain,” said Aki. “You are not too young, OK?
But too light. Not enough of the kilos on the brake,
yeah.”

He stamped his foot.

“The brake doesn't work. The husky dogs bring you
to Russia.”

He pointed.

“East,” he said. “Not good.”

“I thought they all followed Rock,” said Johnny.

“Yes,” said Aki. “But you need the kilos for the
brake. Guys, I'm sorry.”

They were annoyed and disappointed, but they
knew he was right. He was being honest. They both
liked him.

“Where's your sled?” said Tom.

“There is no sleigh or sled for Aki,” said Aki. “I travel
in style.”

He pointed at a snowmobile.

“Why?” said Tom.

Aki waved one of his hands, left to right, and back.

“I go forward and backward. People fall off the
sleigh or sled, I pick them up. I reunite them with the
sleigh or sled. I go ahead and make the fire for the
coffee.”

“What coffee?”

“There is no husky safari without coffee,” said Aki.

“That's stupid,” said Tom.

Aki lifted his hands.

“Guys,” he said. “It is my job. People like the coffee
in the wilderness.”

They liked the sound of that word. Wilderness. They looked at each other and grinned.

Kalle stood beside his sled. He didn't need to stand
on his brake. His dogs wouldn't run away. Tom and
Johnny went over to him. They were to sit beside each
other, in front of Kalle, in a narrow hollow. They
climbed in. They sat back. They were nearly lying
down.

“Move over,” said Johnny.

“Move over, yourself,” said Tom.

They pushed each other.

“Lads,” they heard their mother. “Behave yourselves.”

“He started it,” said Tom.

Johnny pinched him, but Tom hardly felt it because
of all his padding. But he thumped Johnny. And
Johnny thumped Tom. It could have gone on like that
for ever if Kalle hadn't stopped it.

They saw Kalle's face coming closer to them. They
stayed absolutely still as the face came down from
high above them. They saw the black stubble on his
chin. They saw one big black hair sticking out of his
nostril. They saw the nose that looked hard enough to
batter its way through solid rock.

They saw his eyes. Kalle stared at them. For a long
time.

No one was talking. No dogs were whimpering.
The wind wasn't shaking the trees.

Kalle spoke.

“Your – country?” he said.

“Ireland,” said Johnny.

“In – Ireland,” said Kalle, “children – obey – the –
mothers. Yes?”

“Yes,” said Johnny.

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Kalle.

His face rose over them. They could see the trees
again, and they heard people move and cough. Kalle
was standing up again. He held a blanket as thick as a
rug. He flapped it, and it dropped gently on to Johnny
and Tom. Kalle was bending again as he tucked the blanket around the boys. They didn't want it – they
weren't in a hospital or something – but they didn't say
anything.

“Thanks,” said Johnny when Kalle was finished.

Kalle didn't answer.

“SO,” said Aki. “We go.”

Suddenly, Johnny and Tom were moving, fast. They
started laughing. They were gliding over the snow,
behind eight dogs. The dogs went straight for the gate.
Out the gate, and they saw more snow than they'd
ever seen before. More snow than they'd even
imagined.

Johnny had to do it; he couldn't stop. He had to
shout – it was so exciting.

“Wilderness!”

And Tom joined in, like an echo.

“Wil-der-ness!!”

 

 

People were pouring out now. She saw women and
men shake hands, or hug. A woman stopped in front
of her. She looked uncertain, and unhappy. She took a
piece of paper from her pocket. She looked at it. She
looked around, at the faces all around her. She moved
a bit; she dragged the luggage trolley with her. She looked round again. She began to look angry.

It wasn't her mother.

Too young – she looked.

Too angry.

Gráinne was scared she'd miss her, that she'd
missed her already, that she'd gone past Gráinne while
Gráinne was looking the wrong way. She looked behind her. There were more people waiting. Most of
them were like her, waiting for someone off a plane.
But there were others leaning on trolleys, sitting on bags, standing, waiting to be met or recognised. They
were talking into mobile phones, and texting. They were tired and pale, and some of them were nearly
crying.

She turned and saw more people pour into the
arrivals hall. A man and woman in wheelchairs were
met and quickly surrounded by a gang of people. They
laughed and shouted. They annoyed her; they got in
the way. They were too happy, and she couldn't see
around them, or over their heads. She was afraid she'd
miss her mother. There were too many people to stare
at; they wouldn't move slowly. It was too confusing.

“Gráinne?”

Gráinne stood there.

“Is it Gráinne?”

“Yes,” said Gráinne.

“Hello.”

The woman who stood there was her mother. She
was the woman in the photograph – her eyes, and the
way her hair was on her forehead. She was the same.

Gráinne didn't know what to do.

She'd expected to feel suddenly full, lost time
charging back into her – she didn't know. She'd
expected it to feel right. But, now, she felt nothing. It
was like there was a wall in the way. Waiting had been
much easier.

She wanted to run away. She didn't – she did. She just didn't know.

She didn't run.

“Hi,” she said.

“It's – gosh,” said the woman. “It's so great to see
you. And thanks for meeting me.”

What did she mean? Why wouldn't Gráinne have
met her?

Maybe her mother saw the questions race over
Gráinne's face.

“Here,” she explained. “Thanks for meeting me
here
. The first person I meet when I come home. You. It's –”

She laughed. But it wasn't a real laugh.

“It's perfect,” she said.

She smiled. Her eyes were wet.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'll shut up. I told myself not to
talk too much.”

She'd never heard this woman's voice before. It
wasn't in Gráinne's memory. Nothing clicked, or came
back. She'd looked nice in the photograph. She looked
nice here too.

“I like your bag,” said her mother.

Gráinne looked at her bag. It was just a bag. Plain
and black, like a sack.

She shrugged.

“It's a bit like mine,” said her mother.

But she didn't have a bag. She'd cases and stuff
piled on a trolley. It was hard to tell if she'd come
home for good, or just for a visit. Gráinne couldn't see
a shoulderbag.

“I mean,” said her mother. “I have one a bit like yours.”

“Oh,” said Gráinne. “Cool.”

“It's in the mess, somewhere,” said her mother.

She smiled again.

“It's quite crowded here,” she said. “Will we go
somewhere?”

“Are you not staying with Granny?”

“Yes,” said her mother. “I mean, before that. We
could go somewhere, for breakfast. Just the two of
us.”

“OK,” said Gráinne.

“Where?” said her mother. “It's been years. I don't
remember anywhere nice in Dublin.”

Gráinne didn't like choosing. She was no good at it. She didn't know nice places.

“I know,” said her mother. “We'll take a cab to your
granny's, and I'll leave the bags there. And then we
can go somewhere. For breakfast. Sound good?”

She sounded American. Just a little bit.
Sound
good?
Gráinne liked it – and she didn't. It made her
mother even more foreign.

“OK,” said Gráinne.

“Grand,” said her mother. And that sounded Irish.

She started to push her trolley. Then she stopped.

“Do you want to call me Rosemary?” she said. “You
probably don't want to call me –”

She laughed again, that nervous laugh.

“What did I call you?” said Gráinne.

“What?”

“What did I call you?” said Gráinne. “I don't
remember.”

She watched her mother try to smile. She watched
the smile turn crooked and break up. She saw her
close her eyes. She heard her.

“I'm – sorry.”

They looked at each other.

“Mama,” said her mother. “That's what you called
me.”