Wilderness

  “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 s
leigh 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!!”

  The Airport

  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.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a white path. It was long and straight, and it disappeared as they went over it. The sleds were going faster than a car – that was what it felt like. And they were nearer the ground; they could feel it right under them. They could hear the runners, the blades, beneath them. They could hear them scratch and glide over the ice.

  They looked straight ahead. At the dogs.

  The dogs didn’t gallop. They didn’t lift their legs and throw them back, the way horses seemed to, pushing themselves forward. The dogs trotted, little steps, like they weren’t in that big a hurry. The boys had seen dogs on Dollymount beach, charging across the sand, tongues out, heads down to the level of their backs. But these dogs weren’t like that. They couldn’t be; they were tied to the sled. But Tom and Johnny knew: if they had been ordinary dogs, they’d have been pulling too fast, bashing into each other, getting themselves caught in the straps.

  They were coming to a hill.

  These weren’t ordinary dogs. They were working together. They had to save their energy, so they didn’t dash. They pulled and charged a bit at the start, to get the sled moving. But then they calmed down. Rock, the leader, didn’t look at them or howl. But he slowed down, and so did they.

  But that was the thing. They didn’t slow down. They were going like crazy. When Johnny looked to the side it was a white blur, and a bit scary. Then he looked straight ahead again, and the dogs were just trotting away, their breath steaming out. They were much, much stronger than their size. Their tails were up, and their breath was like laughter.

  The hill was nearer. It wasn’t that high. The boys saw Aki on his snowmobile, on top of the hill. He was waving, telling them to come forward. Tom tried to look behind, at Kalle, to see if he was waving back. But he couldn’t turn properly. He was afraid he’d fall out of the sled; it was bouncing a bit on the ice.