Ice Dogs (16 page)

“I love dogs,” Chris says.

I slowly climb out from under my fur blanket, wincing as I move. Daggers stab my feet. I think of the pain in the river, and then the freezing after. The absolute cold that had locked my body. My muscles spasm at the memory.

I crawl to the stove and feel around in the dark for the matches. My fingers close around them and I could cry with relief at how much easier it is to pick them up. Moments later, the darkness of the yurt is lit with the flaring match. The light slices into my eyeballs, but my heart hums with the joy of it. I shove the match into the stove and in an instant, the kindling flares. The heat bounces off my chest.

“Chris, hand me your wet clothes.” I shrug off my own heavy anorak, my body still shivering. “I'll lay them out around the stove.”

When I peel off my leggings, I notice my underclothes aren't as wet as I thought. The water hadn't seeped in that far. Probably why I'm not dead. But my mukluks feel tight, my feet must be swollen. I'm afraid to think of what they look like. I wiggle my toes and suck in a breath as the pain shoots up my legs. My hands are cracked and swollen like zombie fingers. I can only imagine what my face looks like. But I'm still alive.

We're all alive.

A warm glow from the stove drifts across the little room. The dogs haven't moved. Whistler sprawls in the center with Gazoo curled up next to her. Dorset is draped across Chris's neck. Amazingly, they're all still attached to the gangline, but stretched out so they didn't tangle. All I can see of Chris is his head sticking up and his arm wrapped around Dorset. When I shuffle out to grab more wood, I rip the tarp covering off and bring it in, too.

“We can wrap ourselves in the tarp until our clothes are dry. It'll help keep the heat in. It's getting warm in here already.”

“Where are we? Agh, my feet! And my eyes. My brain is all mushed up. What's a yurt?”

“We're in my old yurt. It's like a round tent, but with a wood platform and wood supports on the walls. Lots of mushers use them. My dad used to set it up in the fall so we had a midway place to go to on our runs. Mom sold it to Cook last year.”

I remember how angry I was for that betrayal. But now I could kiss her for it.

“Good, that,” Chris says.

The heat on my face seems to wake up my brain. I stick out my aching fingers and hold them toward the stove. It pops and crackles now, spreading a painfully delicious heat through me.

I glance again at the dogs and a rush of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. Relief that everyone is still here with me. Gratitude for their loyalty and body heat, pride that I get to share my life with these amazing animals. My throat aches as I watch Bean's chest rise and fall. He's laying fully stretched out next to Chris's head. When he catches me looking at him he knocks his tail lazily on the floor.

Chris hands me his sopping clothes and this time, I don't even care we're both half naked.

“If Cook set this tent up,” I say, “that means we're not far from his yard.”

“Where have I heard that before?” But there's a smile in Chris's voice.

“As soon as we get warm, we go. We're almost there, Chris. I know it this time.”

We will all surely starve to death here if we don't keep moving. All the food we brought from the trapper's cabin was lost to the river. Now I wish we'd eaten all of the hare right away. Even the dog food is gone. I worry that if I sleep, I may not wake up. We have to make a last effort while we still can.

After I stoke the stove full of wood, I unclip all the dogs, who only move enough to huff at me and then tuck their heads back in. They're so tired, they don't even seem to mind being inside. Bean gives one long, tongue-curling yawn, with a grumble deep in his throat. They're trying to conserve energy. Starving, tired, and only interested in sleep.

With the tarp wrapped around us, and the fire doing its thing, Chris and I slowly warm up. It must be midnight or later by now. Slivers of light from the fire escape out the vents in the stove. Partial light against the black night. It illuminates the dogs with a comforting glow. I lay beside Chris, surrounded by soft, wet breathing, and try to keep my eyes open. As nice as it is to hear my dogs around me, I don't want that to be the last thing I hear.

 

A deep, predawn darkness stretches across the trail ahead of us. We've been on this trail for what feels like years now. The dogs did not want to go. It was the first time I've ever had to coax them to get up. I wanted to cry at how listless they were, the sparkle in their eyes missing.

I didn't know what to do with Bean. There was no sled bag to put him in, nothing to keep him from sliding around on the plastic sled floor. I thought of trying to hold him somehow, clip him to the handlebar and make him sit, but in the end, I knew I had to leave him free.

Whistler had lost her booties, but that was a good thing since I wouldn't have been able to take them off for her before they froze on her feet. Gazoo actually looked as if he was going to mutiny when we first got going, tucking his tail down, refusing to move. I gave him extra special attention, stroking his head, whispering in his ear what a handsome, brave dog he is, and I promised him a big steak once we all get home. That seemed to convince him since he's running now. Well, I wouldn't call what we're doing actually running, but we're moving forward.

“I can't see a thing,” Chris says beside me.

“That's okay. The dogs can.” I'd tell Chris that they can smell the trail, too, feel it under their feet. That they like running at night better than any other time. The dense air pushes the scents closer to the ground. But talking takes too much energy.

I desperately hope that Bean is still on the trail ahead. When we started, he hobbled forward, as if to lead. He should not be running at all. He's limping so heavily, he's going to injure his other shoulder to compensate. This is the worst kind of injury for a sled dog. But I can't carry him. I can hardly hold myself up.

We're obviously on Cook's trails. They're hard packed and wide. We'd be making good time if —

I double over on the runner suddenly, and retch. Nothing comes up, but my stomach twists painfully. I taste bile. My arms, legs, head all feel light. As if they aren't solidly attached. I wipe my mouth and wonder what color my pee is. I can't even remember the last time I peed.

Chris grabs his stomach and retches, too. His outline in the dark is bent over on the runner beside me. A robust sound comes out of him, and I rub his back.

“When's the last time you peed?”

“What?” Chris rubs his face. “You have got to be the strangest—”

“We're dehydrated, Chris. Dangerously dehydrated.”

“Oh good, something to add to the list of stuff that's trying to kill us.” Chris's voice is rough. He has the look of someone broken. As if he knows we aren't going to make it.

I think about the snow I'd melted in the pot on the stove. How I couldn't get the dogs to drink it. Only Blue licked at it half-heartedly, as if he was just trying to make me happy. They were either too exhausted, or too far dehydrated to want to drink. The few mouthfuls each that Chris and I took wasn't enough. I guess we were too exhausted to drink too.

I pop a handful of snow into my mouth and regret not taking the time to melt more in the pot. The snow trickles down as I hold it on my swollen tongue. My whole life I've known not to eat snow. Dad has told me how it takes my body too much energy to melt it, but I can't help it. I'm so thirsty. And hungry. I feel completely empty.

Chris does the same beside me and I don't say anything. I know we've run out of time. None of this matters. If only I could just sit here for a minute to rest. I've never been so tired.

Pale light seeps through the branches. I see Bean now, lurching ahead on the trail. His head bobs with every step, each one breaking my heart into a million pieces. The rest of the dogs are barely trotting. Even Drift has switched to a lopsided pacing gait. I pedal with a foot, but it's painful. When I stumble, Chris grabs my arm to steady me. The trail climbs a hill, and we both try to waddle beside the sled on ravaged feet. My head pounds. My heart feels as if it's going to explode out my body. My right leg buckles and I fall half on the runner.

The sled stops. I hang my head.

I have nothing left.

Chris crumples beside me and, inexplicably, seeing him give up like that enrages me. I glare at him. “Get up!” My voice is raw, savage.

The dogs sit, watching me over their shoulders. Bean disappears around a corner. A burning need to get them to safety spreads fire through my limbs. I shove at Chris's shoulder, then reach for the handlebar and pull myself up.

“GET UP!” I yell at Chris.

He squints, his chapped lips pulling tight, and climbs slowly to his feet next to me.

“There you are,” he says. “Thought I'd lost you.”

All of us are barely walking now. No, we're weaving. Staggering up the hill. Every movement is an effort that takes all my will power. I recycle my reasons for moving. One step. Mom. One step. Dogs. One step. Chris. A tiny breeze could tip us over.

And then I see it.

And the dogs hear it. All ears perk at once. Their tails stiffen.

Ahead, dogs begin to howl.

“Is that real?” Chris breathes.

We sag against each other as the team trots toward Cook's yard.

M
Y HEAD FEELS AS IF IT'S
been buried in sand. My throat hurts. Breathing hurts. I turn my head and my neck hurts. When I open my eyes, the bright lights stab needles into my retinas. I raise my arm to cover my face, and see tubes coming out of the top of my hand. Then I see my dad's face.

“AUGH!”

Uncle Leonard jumps back as if he's been electrocuted. “You trying to give me a heart attack?” He turns his head and shouts, “Sandy, she's awake!”

And now I remember. Cook's. Ambulance. Hospital.

“Stay right here.” Uncle Leonard pats my hand, then races out of the room yelling for Mom. As if I'm about to go anywhere.

Finally, Mom appears beside me and takes my hand in her icy ones.

“I'm here.” She smiles down at me.

“You . . . you look like a vampire,” I manage to say.

She lets out a short laugh, then her white face rearranges and she's bawling. Little blue veins pulse under her bloodshot eyes. Her lids are puffy and red. The normally sleek strands of her hair are hanging in limp strings. Her hand flutters to her red nose and wipes it. She leans down, smoothes my hair off my face. Kisses my forehead.

“And you look like you're grounded. For life.”

“Bean! The dogs!” I bolt upright and immediately feel as if I'm going to yak.

“They're fine, Vic. Jeremy Cook took care of them. He even took Bean to the vet. We can't believe you found his yard. You must have done some kind of circular route. He followed your tracks to see you'd crossed at Devil's River.”

I hear voices coming from the hall. A moment of panic grips me.
How long have I been here?

I turn back to Mom. “Is Chris okay? Where is he?”

“You both have some bad frostbite and dehydration, but the doctors say you'll recover. He's in the next room.” Mom squeezes my hand. “He's been asking for you, too.”

She looks down at me and her eyes start to tear up again. We both talk at once.

“Mom, I'm sorry I went without telling you.”

“I'm sorry I didn't take you to Cook's.”

Mom suddenly lunges at me and wraps me in her arms. “Vic, Vic, Vic,” she chants, rocking me.

“Mom, too tight, Mom!”

We laugh and she wipes her nose, then holds me at arm's length. “You are so stubborn. But I heard from Chris all you did. How you found him and saved him and I'm so proud of you. So proud.” She rubs my arm. “Your dad . . . would be so proud of you, too.”

“Mom,” I rush to get this out before the knot in my throat completely prevents me from talking. “I know it wasn't your fault. And it wasn't my fault. Sometimes stuff just happens that you can't control.”

Her hands go to her mouth and she nods, tears spilling from her eyes.

“But I really, really, really want to stay in Alaska. And run dogs, Mom. I want to hear wolves, and maybe learn guitar, and start going to parties. Maybe we should have a party.”

I feel as if I've just let go of something heavy. Like I could float off this bed right now.

Mom leans down and hugs me. “Baby, we're not going anywhere. I love living in Alaska, too. This is home. This is everything you live for, I know that. And I know that I haven't been a good mom since losing Dad.” Her face looks pained as she continues. “Vicky, I'm sorry I belittled your relationship with your dad that day. I know you relied on each other out there. I didn't mean what I said, and I should've said this sooner. But now we should promise each other something.” She looks me in the eye. “We shouldn't try to deal with things on our own, okay? We've still got each other, let's not forget that.” Her last words squeak out, and then she starts to bawl, which gets me started and we're both hiccupping and blubbering when Uncle Leonard walks in.

“You sure know how to get attention, kiddo,” he says. His stride is so much like Dad's long, purposeful stride. “Search-and-rescue crews, game wardens. You've been on the local news every night.”

Mom wipes her eyes and looks from me to Uncle Leonard. “I'm just going to talk to the doctors down the hall, Vic. I'll be right back.” She stands tall, smoothing her hands down the front of her shirt in a gesture that is so familiar, I'm almost overwhelmed again.

I twist around and wrestle down the metal arm of the hospital bed. Uncle Leonard helps me as I swing my legs over the side. My feet are wrapped.

“Looks like you have some mending to do before the White Wolf.” Uncle Leonard gives me a playful punch on the arm that actually hurts.