At first it appeared to be a mound of snow like the others in the marsh, but larger and strangely formed, and then great white wings, broader than Garrett’s own arm span, beat against the air. Again he heard the sound of bellows and knew it came from those wings. He crawled on his hands and knees around the fallen birch, the snow up to his chest. He crept closer, hiding behind one hummock and then another. When he again focused on the white creature, he saw something else. Blond hair, a human face. Snowflakes pelted his eyes, and he blinked hard, but the face remained among the beating wings and the awful hissing sound. His skin prickled along his neck and sweat ran down his back, but still he crept closer, so close that the next time the creature beat its wings, he thought the air moved against his face.
A white swan, its long neck serpentine, turned its head to the side and looked at him with one of its gleaming black eyes. Then it lowered its head, hunched its wings, and hissed. Behind the wings the face appeared again. A girl crouched in the snow just beyond the swan. She stood, and at first Garrett thought she had spotted him, but she was looking only at the swan. Her blue coat was embroidered with snowflakes, and on her head she wore a marten-fur hat.
It was her, the one they had whispered about all these years. The child no one but Jack and Mabel had ever seen. The girl who made a pet of a wild fox. Winter after winter, not even a passing glimpse, not a single footprint in the snow, and now here she was before him. And she wasn’t the little girl he had always pictured. She was tall and slender, only a few years younger than he.
The swan’s head nearly reached the girl’s shoulders, and its wings enveloped her as it flapped them in warning and hopped toward her. Garrett saw then that one of its feet was bound in a snare loop. It was not the thin-boned hare or downy ptarmigan she had probably intended to catch. The swan was a beautiful giant, muscle and sinew pounding beneath white feather, black eyes set deep and fierce to the black beak. He wondered if the girl would set it free. Perhaps she could slip behind it and snap the snare, but he doubted she could get close enough without the swan attacking her.
Then he wondered—would she kill it? The possibility sickened him, and he didn’t know why. Because the girl was willowy, with delicate features and small hands? Because the swan had wings like an angel and flew through fairy tales with a maiden upon its back? Garrett knew the truth—the swan meat could feed the girl for weeks.
She began to unbutton her coat. Spellbound, Garrett watched even as he felt he should look away. She set the coat on a bush behind her, then her hat as well. She wore a flowered cotton dress with what looked like long underwear beneath it. She bent and removed a knife from a sheath on her leg.
The swan strained at the willow bush that anchored the snare. The girl held the knife and crept slowly around a hummock to the other side of the swan, trying to position herself behind it. But it followed her, turned its head and hopped around to face her. She would never be able to take it head on. The bird’s beak would cut through her skin, break her small bones. It hissed again and swept its wings at her, not to fly but to attack. Garrett lowered himself to the ground, not wanting to be seen.
As the girl stepped toward the swan, the beating of its wings became more powerful, swirling the snow and air, and its hisses turned into a terrible, cracking growl. She circled quickly around its back and jumped onto the swan. Its free leg gave way and it crumpled, but its massive wings still beat beneath her. The girl held tightly, her face turned to the side, and grabbed the swan’s sinewy neck. She slid one hand up until it clenched just below the bird’s head and she held it at arm’s length. It seemed fatigued from the struggle, and for a moment both were still. Garrett could hear the girl breathing.
But then the swan’s neck writhed in her hand and it lunged toward her face. The beak glanced across her cheek. She shoved the swan’s head down into the wet snow and spread herself on top of the bird. Garrett could imagine the heat of the swan’s body beneath her, could hear the bird hissing and sputtering and that growl from somewhere in its strange round body. The swan fought, then calmed, and the girl reached with her knife toward its head, slid it under the neck, and cut sharply upward.
She wiped her face with the back of her bloody hand and then, beneath her, the swan’s wings flapped weakly, spasmed, were still again. The girl collapsed beside the bird, its dead wings stretched broad. The blood spread brightly beneath them and the snow fell.
She didn’t move for some time. Garrett’s legs were stiff from the cold, and he felt the need to stand but, mesmerized, could not.
For the next hour, he watched as she gutted the swan and cut off the head and black webbed feet. Steam rose from the body cavity and strewn entrails. She set aside the liver, the plum-sized heart, the sinewy neck. She steadily skinned the swan until she held a sagging pelt of white wings, white feathers, and bloody skin. Garrett expected her to throw it aside, but instead she laid it out in the snow and carefully rolled it up, the wings folded within the skin. She put the pelt inside a sack. Then she dragged the cleaned carcass away from the kill site, where the scraps and blood would attract ravens, magpies, and other scavengers. Garrett watched her climb a small spruce at the edge of the clearing and begin to tie the carcass and sack to a limb.
She was facing away from him, so as quickly as he could Garrett crawled back the way he had come. When he reached the spruce trees, he hid behind one and watched her kneel in the marsh and scrub her hands and the knife blade in the snow. Then she put on her coat and hat. Garrett turned down the hill and ran.
The snow had stopped and it was beginning to clear. Twilight hinted at winter to come. Twisting swaths of fog rose up from the river, and as he ran down the mountainside, it was as if he were descending into clouds. Overhead he heard a V of migrating snow geese cry their goodbyes into the purpling sky, and for the first time in his life, the sound frightened him.
CHAPTER 39
Mabel and Faina were cutting out paper snowflakes to decorate the little spruce tree in the corner of the cabin when the Bensons showed up unannounced with Christmas gifts. Esther shoved the door open without knocking, and Faina bolted to the opposite side of the room, her eyes wide with fear, her muscles taut as if ready to spring. For a moment, Mabel feared the girl would try to break out the glass window. She went to her and gently took hold of her wrist, hoping to calm her with her touch.
Esther stood stock-still, her mouth gaping. Mabel would have found it amusing had it not been for Faina’s terror.
Mabel straightened, still holding on to the girl’s arm, and took a slow breath.
Esther, she said. I would like you to meet Faina. Faina, this is my dear friend Esther.
Just then George and Garrett bumped noisily through the door behind her, and Esther waved a hand and shushed them as if they were about to startle a woodland creature.
It’s the girl, George, she whispered without taking her eyes off Faina. She’s here. She’s right here, in front of me.
George laughed out loud, but behind him Garrett was silent. The boy’s eyes were dark and wide, until he caught Mabel looking at him, and then he stepped back behind his father.
Mabel nudged the girl.
Hello, Faina said quietly.
My God, Esther said. She is real. Your girl is flesh and blood.
The next few hours were awkward. Esther tried to include Faina in the barrage of gifts and treats, as if she’d known all along she would be there.
Oh, here. This one is for you, Esther said, handing her a wrapped package.
Faina was silent, and at first did not even put out her hands to accept it. Mabel and Jack both moved to intercede, but stopped themselves. The girl took the package and with a somber expression held it in her lap.
Well, go on then. Aren’t you going to open it? Esther said.
Faina looked so frightened and confused, her cheeks flushed an unhealthy crimson, that Mabel longed to open the door to let her escape into the cold.
Do you need help, Faina?
The cabin was stiflingly hot. No one spoke. All eyes were on the girl. Finally Faina began to pull away the paper. When at last she held up a flower-embroidered handkerchief and smiled as if in polite recognition, Mabel thought she would faint with relief.
Thank you, Faina said, and Esther’s eyes glistened.
As the two families gathered for dinner, the tension eased. Faina remained quiet, but she was well mannered, carefully passing dishes when prompted and giving a small smile here and there. Garrett, however, seemed incapable of speaking or looking at anyone, particularly the girl. Her very presence seemed an affront to him, and Mabel did not know what to make of it.
“You know the boy is catching a pile of lynx this year,” George said around a mouthful of fruitcake. “The hare population is up, so there are a ton of cats all over the valley.”
“Is that so?” Jack asked.
Mabel looked at Garrett, and his face called to mind that first summer he came to work on the farm—irritable, petulant.
“Well? The man asked you a question.” George swung his arm across the back of Garrett’s chair. Garrett looked back down at his plate and mumbled incoherently.
“Hmmm,” Jack said agreeably, though Mabel knew he had not heard Garrett’s response either.
“What’s the matter with you, boy? Speak up. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been doing some good trapping this year.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ve gotten a few.” And then his head was down again and he poked at his dessert without ever taking a bite.
Was this the honorary son, the one who now cast sullen looks in everyone’s direction? Wasn’t it at this very table that Garrett had shaken Jack’s hand and said it would be a privilege to be farming partners, to inherit the homestead when that time came?
For the rest of the evening, the boy did not utter a word.
George and Esther went on with their stories. Mabel cleaned up dinner and paced behind Faina. The girl was shrinking in her chair, beads of sweat gathering on the bridge of her nose. Mabel fanned her with a napkin and wiped at her temples.
Too warm, much too warm, Mabel whispered to herself.
At last the Bensons said it was time to leave, and Mabel was relieved to usher them all out the door—George, Esther, and Garrett to their horses and wagon, and Faina to the snowy forest.
CHAPTER 40
Garrett cursed and urged his horse up the steep hill to follow the footprints. He ducked to avoid a spruce branch but still managed to get covered in snow. When he reached the top of the ridge, he reined in the horse, shook the snow from his shoulders, and leaned from the saddle. The tracks were old, shapeless indentations beneath several inches of snow, but they were hers. The horse shifted, antsy to either go back or go on, so Garrett went on, following the tracks as they wove among the spruce trees.
He was tired of the girl. For six years he had listened to Jack talk about her. Faina, Faina, Faina. The angel from the woods. And yet, for all the talk, never once had Garrett seen hide nor hair of the girl. Each winter he watched for her tracks, half hoping he’d spot them, half hoping Jack and Mabel were crazy. Sometimes he would think he saw a flicker in the brush, but it would only be a bird.
So how was it that this winter was different, that everywhere he went the forest snow was riddled with her tracks and he couldn’t be free of her?
Everything about the girl filled him with guilt. He had shot her fox and told no one. He had spied on her. Again and again his mind returned to the scene, to the girl’s struggle with the swan. The emotions it sparked bothered him, but he could not leave it be.
As he pursued her he told himself he was only going where he wanted—toward the mountains, toward the wolverine. And it was true. Wolverine roamed higher in the alpine country, closer to the glacier. He would never catch one in the lowlands where he trapped coyote, fox, beaver, and mink.
He followed the tracks up into a narrow ravine where boulders were hidden by the snow. The horse stumbled occasionally, and finally Garrett dismounted and led the animal. Although getting on in years, the gelding was still steady and sure-footed, and knew the mountains like few other horses.
Garrett’s traps and chains clanked in the burlap sacks strapped behind the saddle. Water ran down through the boulders, beneath the snow. At any moment he expected to see the stout, bearlike paw prints of a lone wolverine. Instead he saw small tracks, this time fresher. The girl again. Probably today. Garrett paused, hands on his knees, to look at the trail. Bare traces on top of the snow, like a lynx or snowshoe hare. The girl was nearly as tall as Garrett, so how could she be so insubstantial as to not sink into the snow? Irritated fascination twisted in his gut. He stomped ahead, erasing the delicate tracks with his boots.
She was near. He was certain. Something in the air had changed. It was the same when he stalked a moose—abruptly the woods quieted and his senses sharpened. When he looked ahead, he saw the girl standing just out of the trees, her blue coat decorated in snowflakes, her hair an unearthly blond. He could turn back, but surely she’d seen him, too. She waited for him. He continued up the ravine, trying to walk slower than his heart raced.
She did not move or speak until he was within several feet of her. She eyed the horse nervously, but when Garrett started to tell her to not be afraid, she spoke over him.
You are the one who killed my fox.
For a moment Garrett could not make his mouth work. How could she know?
Yes, he finally choked.
Why did you come here?
He could have asked her the same. He had no reason to feel inferior to her.
Wolverine, he said. I’m scouting for wolverine.
Here?
There’s got to be one on this creek. I’m sure of it.
The girl turned her head side to side. Fury slowed Garrett’s heart to a dull thud.
What do you know? he asked. You know this whole valley?
She gave a short nod.
Why should I believe you?
Garrett pushed forward, as if to go past her, and caught her scent. Labrador tea, elderberry, nettle, fresh snow. It was so faint that he found himself inhaling deeply, trying to catch more of it.
The girl turned her back and bent to the ground. In the snow was a woven birch-bark pack he hadn’t noticed. She stood it up at her feet and began to pull something from it. When she faced him, she held a dead wolverine by its front paws. Its head was like that of a small bear, its body compact, legs short and powerful. It was a large animal, close to forty pounds, Garrett guessed, and she should have struggled under its weight, but she easily tossed it at his feet. Behind him the horse nickered and pulled back.
What’s this? he asked.
A wolverine.
I can see that. What are you doing with it?
I’m giving it to you. So you can leave.
Garrett was speechless for a moment.
I don’t want it, he said crossly. Not like this.
I’ll skin it for you, said the girl, and she turned again to her pack.
What? Hell, that’s not what I mean. Why should you give it to me?
I don’t want it. You do.
Why’d you kill it, if you didn’t want it?
It was stealing marten and bait. Take it.
Garrett had never been so mad in his life. To think of the years he had tried to find a wolverine to trap, and here was this girl throwing one at his feet like a discarded carcass. And ordering him to leave. He turned back to his horse, grabbed the saddle horn, and mounted.
Won’t you take it with you? The girl’s voice was higher pitched, more childlike than before.
Garrett didn’t answer. He shook the reins, and the horse began to work its way slowly down the ravine.
There are no others here, the girl shouted after him. Just this one.
He did not look back.
Take it with you, she called. So you don’t have to come back.
I don’t want your blasted wolverine, he yelled over his shoulder. And
I’ll be back if I want to. You don’t own this land.
He did not allow himself to look back until he was nearing the ridge. When he did, he saw the girl still standing in the same place, the wolverine at her feet. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought there was anger in the tight line of her lips.
Once Garrett believed he was out of the girl’s sight, he dismounted again. The ground was too treacherous to ride. Beneath the snow, creek water was frozen in pools and ice coated the boulders. He led the horse to a bit of open water in the creek and let it drink. When the horse was done, he crouched and scooped some of the water in his hand and drank. It was sweet and cold, and left him queasy.
He had no intention of going home yet. He still had most of the day ahead of him, and he had not set a single trap.
He had always been respectful of other trappers’ territories. A bachelor not much older than Garrett had claimed the land downstream from Jack and Mabel’s, and he did not trespass there. He hadn’t trapped Boyd’s trails, even when he saw that the old man’s pole sets went untouched, until Boyd bestowed the line upon him. A man could be shot for stealing a trapper’s catch, and even edging in on his territory was considered disrespectful. But this? This was just a girl, a girl snaring a few rabbits. Never mind the wolverine. That had been a fluke, surely.
But he knew it was no such thing—wolverine weren’t caught on a fluke, and he had watched her kill the swan. She was capable.
He wiped creek water across his brow and dried his hand on his coat before pulling his leather gloves back on. It was beginning to snow. He hadn’t anticipated that. The sky had been cloudless this morning. When he had gone to the outhouse before sunrise, he had seen the northern lights twisting and turning through the blackness the way they do only on clear, cold nights. But here it was, only a few hours later, snowing. He looked toward the mountains, but low-lying clouds had swallowed them.