Wilderness

  “Or flints.”

  “Shut up.”

  Tom was really annoyed, too angry to be frightened. He wanted to kick and shout. But something stopped him. Something about the way Johnny had spoken. And something else as well, that settled in his head – they’d done all this together, him and Johnny. They’d found their mother. Now Johnny had an idea. It was like Johnny’s voice had grabbed Tom’s anger and gently pulled it back. He wanted to hear, to find out what they had to do.

  He looked at Johnny.

  “What?” he said.

  Johnny turned to his mother. He nudged her shoulder. Her eyes stayed shut. He shook her.

  She looked at him.

  “I should stay awake,” she chattered. “Right?”

  “Right,” said Johnny. “We need to light the fire.”

  She held her mouth still – she tried to – for a second, then she spoke.

  “That’s grand.”

  “OK,” said Johnny. “But, you know the way you pretend you don’t smoke?”

  Tom nearly laughed. He’d forgotten, completely.

  “I don’t,” she said.

  She stopped.

  “OK,” she said.

  “Where do you hide your lighter?”

  “Pocket.”

  “Which one?” said Johnny.

  She lifted her right hand – she was able to – very slowly, and she tapped the pocket at the side of the trousers part of the suit.

  “You do it,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t feel my fingers.”

  Tom heard the scratching sound. Johnny unzipped the pocket.

  “I promise not to tickle you,” he told her, and he put his hand into the pocket.

  “I love you, boys,” she said.

  She smiled – she tried to.

  They had to work fast. She was falling asleep again.

  “Got it,” said Johnny.

  The lighter fell out of his hands, into the snow. He grabbed at it, and had it in his glove again.

  “I’ll have to take the gloves off first,” he said. “Hold it a sec.”

  Tom took the lighter, and watched Johnny take his gloves off.

  “No,” said Johnny, like he was thinking out loud.

  He looked at Tom.

  “You do it,” he said. “You’re better at it than me.”

  It was true. Tom could always light matches better than Johnny. They never broke. And he could always make lighters go, first time.

  He pulled off his gloves and dropped them. His fingers were freezing. He put the lighter on a glove and rubbed his hands together, really hard. He picked up the lighter. It was a white plastic one, with an ad for a pub or something on the side. He put his thumb on the small metal wheel, the thing that would spark the flint. He lay on his stomach and chest – he did it all really quickly. He put the top of the lighter just under a couple of twigs. He pulled his thumb down, hard, against the wheel.

  “Yes!”

  The flame – it came first time. He watched it chew and crawl along the twig. It jumped to another twig, and another. He watched it grow. He got his face away from the fire. They wouldn’t have to blow, to keep it lit. The snow was falling on it, but the fire reached a branch’s haircut and began to slowly eat it – and another branch. The snow wasn’t heavy and soon they could hear the little hiss as each flake fell into the fire.

  “Good job,” said Johnny.

  “Thanks,” said Tom.

  He put the lighter into one of his pockets. He zipped it.

  They ran to the trees and came back with their arms full of needles and twigs and small sticks. They moved the branches, so the flames would catch the higher branch, and climb. They found more branches and made a pile of them near the fire, but not too near. They didn’t want to start another fire.

  Johnny was on his knees now, beside his mother, away from the fire, so he wouldn’t get in the way of the heat, or burn his boots and feet. Tom got down beside him. Their mother’s eyes were closed again.

  Johnny shook her.

  “Wake up.”

  He shook again.

  “Wake up.”

  He put his cold glove on her cheek. Her eyes still didn’t open. He got some snow and put it on her neck. She didn’t wake. She might have been too cold, as cold as snow, already. He tried again, more snow on her neck. He rubbed it on. He took off his glove and put his hand on her neck. He rubbed. And Tom rubbed her forehead. He got some snow and rubbed it across her skin.

  They felt her move.

  “God,” she said.

  Her eyes were open. She felt the heat. She looked.

  “Look at that,” she said.

  “Can you move over on your side?” said Johnny.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  They heard her gasp.

  “Give me a hand, lads,” she said. “But don’t roll me into the fire.”

  “Hang on,” said Johnny.

  The ground in front of the fire was wet and getting softer. It would soon be like a swamp. The boys went over the snow, and came back with armfuls of pine needles. They put them, spread them, on the ground. They checked to make sure she was still awake. They went back for more, and more. They made a bed for their mother, and themselves.

  They put their hands under her shoulder and side, and pushed her up and a little forward, and helped her lie on her side, and on the needles. She gasped, and groaned. They knew she was in pain, every time she moved. But she was facing the fire, and she’d hardly moved her legs.

  “Lovely,” she said. “Cuddle up to me, boys.”

  “Wait,” said Johnny.

  They untangled her dogs. They released their own dogs from their sleds. The dogs were quiet. They rubbed against the boys’ hands. It was hard to tell which of them was Hastro, except for his different-coloured eyes. He kept well away from Rock.

  The boys tied the dogs’ straps to the fallen tree.

  “We’ve no food for them,” said Tom.

  “Our ones ate their dinner before we left the hut.”

  “But Mam’s,” said Tom.

  “They’ll just have to wait till tomorrow,” said Johnny. “And it serves them right.”

  Tom laughed.

  “No dessert for them fellas,” he said. “Are you hungry?” he then said, seriously.

  “No,” said Johnny.

  “Me neither,” said Tom.

  But they both were.

  They went back to their mother. She was still awake. She held up the arm that wasn’t under her body.

  “Come on,” she said. “Take turns.”

  Tom got there first. He didn’t push, and Johnny didn’t try to stop him. Tom lay down in front of his mother, right against her, with his back to her tummy. He did it gently, so he wouldn’t do anything to her broken leg. Her arm went around him, and Tom felt the happiest feeling he’d had in all his life. His pillow was soggy muck and slush; it was horrible on his face. But that didn’t matter. They’d saved their mother, and now her arm was around him. She was his mother again, and he was a different boy. That was how he felt. He’d done something tonight that had changed him. The achievement rested in his tummy, like great food, and in his head, like a brilliant joke he’d be able to tell again and again. And he loved it.

  Johnny sat beside them, close to his mother’s face. The needles were still dry; he was pleased with that. He wanted to lie down. He want to cuddle up to his mother too. But he was the older brother, and he liked that. He liked that he was the only one not
lying down.

  “What happened then?” he said.

  His mother lifted her head, so she could rest it on his leg. She moved her head again, a bit, and looked up at him.

  “What?” she said.

  “What happened after Hastro broke away?”

  “Well, I went with him,” she said. “Like, I didn’t want to be rude.”

  The boys laughed, and she felt Tom’s laughter in her arm, right through her, and in Johnny’s leg.

  “I don’t know what happened exactly,” she said. “The sled hit something, and I landed on that rock there. And I heard it.”

  She groaned.

  “The ol’ leg,” she said. “Not nice. I think the sound was worse than the pain, though. But the pain was bad. The shock, though; God.”

  She was able to talk without stopping and gasping, or trying to make her lips and tongue obey her.

  They heard her sigh.

  “And here we are, lads,” she said. “On our picnic. And what about you fellas?”

  “What?”

  “What happened you?” she said. “How did you find me?”

  They told her the lot. They took turns; they didn’t bash into each other’s words. They told her about going into the hut, and how she wasn’t there. They told her about Kalle and Aki going first, and coming back without her. They told her about sneaking out of the hut, and about the hut as well, because she hadn’t seen it. They told her about taking Kalle’s hat, and hitching the dogs to the sleds, and making them go by dangling the hat in front of Rock’s nose, and about their journey through the dark, about the lights of Aki’s snowmobile behind them, but how they kept going because they wanted to find her more than anyone, and about their fight through the branches and the dark, and how they’d shouted, and how they’d heard her, and how they’d kept going and shouting until they found her.

  “God, lads,” she said. “You’re amazing. Both of you.”

  By now, Johnny was lying beside them. They were like a sandwich, and Tom was the cheese or meat, between his mother and Johnny. It was hours and hours to daylight – they didn’t know what time it was. They didn’t know how long they’d have to wait, or how long the wood would last.

  Johnny stood up, to put more of the wood on the fire. He gently dropped two large branches on to it. It was still a good fire.

  “That was a stroke of genius, though,” said his mother.

  “What was?” said Johnny.

  “Using Kalle’s hat,” she said. “For the scent.”

  “Yeah,” Tom agreed. “It wouldn’t have worked without the hat.”

  He’d nearly been asleep, but he was awake again.

  “That was Johnny,” he said. “He thought of it.”

  “Brilliant,” she said. “And Rock followed the hat all the way.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom.

  “No,” said Johnny.

  “What?”

  Johnny went over to the sled – they watched him – and he picked up the stick.

  “No hat,” he said.

  Tom could see him clearly in the firelight. Johnny was holding up the stick. Kalle’s hat wasn’t there, at the end of it. And he knew; Johnny wasn’t messing. It wasn’t on the ground, and Johnny hadn’t hidden it.

  “When did it fall off?” Tom asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Johnny.

  “Hang on,” said their mother. “Does that mean he came on his own? Without the scent?”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny.

  He went across and patted Rock. All the dogs were lying down. They’d made beds in the snow.

  “God,” said their mother. “That’s a bit spooky.”

  “It’s brilliant,” said Tom.

  “I know,” she said. “I know. But, like, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Only if you’re not a dog,” said Tom.

  She kissed the back of his head.

  “I love you, mister,” she said. “And you too, Johnny.”

  “And Rock,” said Tom.

  “And Rock,” said their mother.

  “Can we get a dog when we go home?” said Tom.

  “No,” said their mother.

  “Ah –”

  “OK, OK, OK,” she said. “Yes.”

  “A husky?”

  “Can you get them at home?”

  “Yeah,” said Tom.

  “Right so,” said their mother. “For Christmas.”

  “Cool.”

  But they weren’t home yet. They knew it. Johnny put more wood on the fire. He lay back down on the ground. He swapped places with Tom. Tom was nearer the fire, and Johnny was nearer his mother. It was his turn.

  “You’re special,” she said, very quietly, just for him.

  They watched the fire. They fell asleep, one at a time. They woke with a shock – the cold, the fire. They slept again. They woke. They listened. The boys got up and fed more of the wood to the fire. There wasn’t much left. They lay down. They dreamed. They woke.

  They slept.

  Johnny woke.

  Something had rubbed against him. In his sleep, while he was still in his dream – something rubbed. Fur, breath.

  He woke.

  He didn’t move.

  He saw them.

  The dogs.

  The dogs were lying all around them. Around Johnny, Tom, their mother. Behind them, and in front. They’d come as far as their straps would let them.

  Johnny looked. His mother’s eyes were open.

  “Amazing,” she whispered.

  “They stink,” said Johnny.

  “Yep.”

  They lay awake. Tom snored, just once. Like a furry bullet. Johnny and his mother grinned – they felt each other grinning. They closed their eyes.

  Johnny could feel the snow, on his face. It was heavier again. He kept his eyes shut. He didn’t look at the fire.

  The Door

  Her mother had opened the front door, but she closed it again.

  “Well,” she said.

  She kept her hand on the latch.

  “This has been great,” she said.

  They were going to see each other again. They were meeting the day after next, in town. They were going to see a lot of each other. Gráinne would go to New York, sometimes. Her mother would come home twice a year.

  A few minutes earlier, when they were sitting in the kitchen, her mother had suggested that Gráinne come and live with her in New York. Gráinne had said no.

  Her mother had cried a little, but she’d nodded.

  “It was just an idea,” she’d said.

  “Yeah,” said Gráinne. “It’s cool.”

  It was dark now. Gráinne was standing beside the switch. She turned on the light. They were suddenly bright and blinking.

  Her mother laughed, then stopped. She let go of the latch. She lifted her arms and put them around Gráinne.

  Gráinne didn’t hug her back. She couldn’t do it; she didn’t really want to. But she let herself be hugged. She heard her mother sniff. She could smell her mother’s soap. She felt the arms come away, and she saw her mother wipe her eyes, and smile.

  “I’m crying too much,” she said.

  She pushed her hair back from her forehead. There were bits of grey in her hair. Gráinne thought it was cool. It looked kind of deliberate, the same colour as her jacket.

  “Well,” said her mother, again.

  She put her hand on the latch. Gráinne heard the click. The door was open. She heard the outside noises getting louder. br />
  “I’ll phone you,” said her mother. “Tomorrow night. Right?”

  Gráinne nodded.

  Her mother stepped back a bit, so she could open the door properly. She looked at Gráinne. And then she looked away, past Gráinne, and up a bit – up the stairs.

  “Hello, Frank,” she said.

  She smiled.

  Gráinne turned, and saw her father on the stairs, two steps down from the landing.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re looking well,” said her mother. “I forgot to tell you.”

  “Thanks,” said Frank. “Rosemary. You too.”

  The phone rang in the kitchen.

  He came down the rest of the stairs. He got around the bannister without touching Gráinne or knocking the pile of jackets and hoodies that always hung there. He smiled – he tried to.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  He went down to the kitchen.

  It was weird, Gráinne thought. These people were strangers and, still, they were her parents. She’d have to get used to it. Actually, she thought she liked it. Two parents, two cities, two different countries.

  The phone stopped ringing. He’d picked it up.

  “I’m definitely going this time,” said her mother.

  She smiled. Gráinne smiled.

  She wanted to go to her father. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t leaving, but she didn’t know if she could. They said so little to each other. Maybe he wanted her gone.

  She knew that wasn’t true.

  “’Bye,” she said.

  “’Bye,” said her mother.

  She leaned across and kissed Gráinne’s cheek.

  “My honey-boo,” she said.

  Gráinne remembered the name. It rushed to the back of her eyes. Her mother used to call her that. How’s my honey-boo; here’s my honey-boo.

  Her mother stepped out, to the porch.

  “See you very soon,” she said.

  She held the car keys. She had Gráinne’s granny’s car.

  “Yeah,” said Gráinne. “See you.”

  She started to close the door. She wanted to see her dad. She needed to go down there, to the kitchen.

  The car was parked out on the road. Gráinne could see it, behind the hedge.