Hear the Wolves

  They’ll never stop!

  I run faster. Can barely catch my breath. Can hear them coming. No, it’s my imagination.

  Or is it?

  Up ahead there’s a fallen tree. It’s enormous. Too large to crawl over quickly. The perfect size for a wolf to leap over with ease. They’re going to get us. We don’t stand a chance.

  “Go around,” Elton yells.

  “No, go under. Look, there’s a hole!” Pilot replies.

  We run, and then I know without a shadow of a doubt that I do hear the wolves.

  When Pilot speaks again, his voice is pure panic. “Go under, Elton. Go, go, go!”

  Elton doesn’t need to be told again. He flies toward the tree, eyeing both ends, still wondering if it’d be faster to run around instead. No. Pilot’s right. He has to do as he’s told.

  Elton slides onto his belly like a batter going for home. He gets stuck halfway, but wriggles frantically until he’s on the other side.

  I wait for Pilot to go ahead, but he shoves me toward the fallen tree. “Go under! Hurry, Sloan!”

  The wolves howl. They’re so close. They’re right behind us.

  “No, Pilot!” I scream, tears in my voice. “You first. You go first!”

  But Elton grabs my ankles and pulls and Pilot shoves my shoulders and screams something, I don’t know what, and then I’m halfway beneath the tree and now I can barely see him.

  I can’t see my person my lasso my Pilot!

  I’m half-deaf but I hear it when the wolves catch up. When they find Pilot all alone. I see it when Pilot falls on his stomach and crawls toward us. And I feel it when I grab his hands and yank hard, hard, hard but not hard enough.

  The wolves pull him backward.

  He disappears from sight.

  A wolf growls and makes a sound like it’s launching itself forward. But then there’s a new sound. A snarl so unlike those wolves. It takes me a moment. Then I know. It’s Pilot’s dog.

  Elton tugs on my arm, saying we have to go. We have to. But I’m frozen. If I go back under that tree, I’m dead. If I stay here, I’m dead.

  The dog’s snarls grow brave and bold, like he’s been afraid every day of his short dog life but those wolves are not taking his person. Pilot yells and I know that the dog is fighting a wolf.

  Pilot’s dog yelps.

  Pilot screams.

  I throw myself beneath the tree, desperate to help, and my heart explodes from my chest.

  A wolf stares at me. Mere inches away.

  I scream and wiggle backward. The wolf tries to crawl after me, but decides halfway to return to Pilot and the basset hound. Once I’m on my feet, I glance at where I last saw Elton. But he’s gone.

  I fly through the snow, following Elton’s footprints, knowing I must get to him before the wolves do. Knowing the two of us have to stay together to stand a chance. I follow his footsteps, but somehow, someway, his tracks vanish. The snow has returned, quietly, sneakily. Maybe his tracks were covered. But no, that’s not possible. Not that fast.

  Crazy with fear, I stop searching for Elton and simply run. Because I heard the way Pilot screamed. It was the same sound his daddy made. The sound Mr. Foster would have if given the chance.

  Pilot is … he’s …

  No.

  No, no, no!

  I have to go back.

  I have to find the river.

  I have to die out here as I was always meant to.

  I stumble to a stop and crouch down. Press my hands to the snow. If only I had my gun. If only I had my father, sister, mother, lasso. I need something to help me survive. But I have nothing. I am only me—

  Sloan Reilly.

  And that is not enough. I can’t fight a single wolf, much less a pack. These animals will hunt me, chase me, crunch on my bones. Will they leave anything at all?

  Tears flow, and I breathe so fast I can’t fill my lungs. I may suffocate before they find me.

  Where is Elton? I think suddenly. Do they have him already?

  No, he’s a smart kid. He’ll find the river.

  He has to.

  I have to.

  I take a few tentative steps, and I listen. Try to hear Elton or the dog or a wolf. There’s nothing. But I can hear the subtle rush of … something.

  The river?

  THE RIVER!

  I grab my knees, hunch over, suck in oxygen. Can’t get enough. Have to stop. Can’t stop. I’ve got to run, but my body won’t cooperate. The echo of Pilot’s scream rings through my head, and I stand upright. I have to get to my father, who can keep me safe. Who will never force me to be alone again.

  Alone.

  I’m alone.

  Except for the woods and the snow … and the wolves. They are here to keep me company, just as they were two years ago.

  A snapping sound reaches my ear.

  Just the good one. Just the right one.

  It’s that same young gray female. The one who’s been hunting us, keeping her pack on our trail, all this time.

  She strides closer, teeth bared, two good ears to track every move I make. She looks at me with gold eyes that seem to say—

  Blood. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood.

  As the wolf stalks toward me, I notice there’s red smeared on her muzzle. She’s already made a kill, but it wasn’t enough.

  She stops at the perimeter of where I stand—a small clearing surrounded by soaring red alders.

  I suppose that’s it then. A chill rushes over my skin as I watch the wolf watching me. The memory of those two wolves tracking that rabbit invades my mind once again, and I’m filled with that same dread.

  My legs itch to run, but instead I take one small step back and nearly trip over something in the snow.

  The wolf growls.

  It’s easier to give up than I imagined it’d be. I have no hope of fighting this animal. If she wants me, I am hers. A strange calmness settles over my shoulders.

  I’m crippled with sadness from the loss of people I love, and the thought of going on without Ms. Wade’s no-nonsense loving care, or Mr. Foster’s passion for knowledge, or my mother’s soft hands in my hair and her lips on my forehead and her arms around me saying, You can go and be anything, anything.

  And I am crippled by the thought of going forward without Pilot. Who made it seem as though I could survive it all as long as he was nearby.

  But those people are gone. And as for me—

  Well, I guess I was always meant to die in these woods.

  As the gray wolf takes a step in my direction, I close my eyes. I will not give her the satisfaction of running me down. I will stand here, my feet firm in the snow, and I will find a good place in my mind to go.

  I hear the soft crunching as she comes closer.

  How quiet she is.

  I breathe in, I breathe out, and though my body shakes so hard I’m afraid I may collapse, I keep my eyes cinched shut and I block out the world. Use that same ice that once covered my heart to cover my entire self. And there, behind my eyes, I allow my entire life to blaze forth.

  I recall my father teaching me how to hold a rifle, the butt firm against my shoulder. His callused hands are strong around mine, and I imagine that with him here, and this heavy gun in my control, nothing bad could ever happen.

  I remember one afternoon when Maren dressed me in my mother’s nightgown and painted our faces with mud. We danced in the rain and stole carrots from our neighbor’s garden and used them as swords against invisible enemies.

  I remember the first time I realized Pilot had grown big. The way he smiled at me—old friends who hadn’t spoken in years—and how everything my mother told me about crushes became interesting.

  I remember when my mother recognized the art in me, and so she made me stand before her painting and I saw blue and blue and blue. And then she made me stand real close, and suddenly—a rainbow of colors hidden within all that blue, like magic! And now, for whatever reason, I wonder about that painting and those secret colors. br />
  I wonder too if I could capture more dark and light in the world using nature, and do something well other than shooting.

  I wonder what I’d see if I went to Anchorage and entered that competition.

  I wonder if I could leave Rusic and live a big, loud, unafraid life and make new memories.

  Something snaps in my brain. And I remember that I was once brave. That I am still brave. I demanded we get help for Ms. Wade and I punched Nash Blake in the nose and I shot the wolf that almost killed Elton. I kissed Pilot and I walked across the frozen river first.

  I made my way to the river. I made it! The old Sloan is here, right where I left her. And I am here too—a yellow girl who isn’t as yellow as I thought.

  And Elton, he wasn’t yellow when he admitted he was lonely, was he? And Pilot, he wasn’t orange after he lost his daddy. And my own daddy wasn’t green when he hugged me so hard after Mama left—just the once—that I felt the bones in his rib cage.

  Mr. Foster and Nash and Ms. Wade, they’re like Mama’s painting. All those secret colors beneath one big, bold hue.

  I figured I was yellow.

  I figured wrong.

  I am a rainbow of courage and fear, of sadness and hope, of vulnerability and intuition.

  I am a painter’s palette of colors. And now I’m standing here, waiting for death and refusing to run because I am brave and just because you’re scared for a little while doesn’t mean you have to be scared forever.

  My eyes flick open, and I see that lethal animal standing a mere three feet away. I look into the face of the wolf and I think—

  I want to live!

  I want to live and see and do and be anything, anything!

  The exact moment I decide this, is the exact moment the wolf attacks.

  But she doesn’t know Sloan the Brave.

  Sloan the Brave was born to fight.

  I take a defiant step toward the wolf, and she halts, confused. “Come and get me!” I scream, taking a second step. My boot hits the thing it did earlier, and I glance down to find a branch lying in the snow. Perfect for one of Elton’s torches.

  Or for a weapon.

  I grab it and swing hard. Blood pumps through my veins and my heart rages and though my arms shake from adrenaline and—yes, okay—fear, I’m able to hold that branch steady.

  I don’t wait for the wolf to launch another attack. Releasing a wild cry, I sprint toward her.

  “I don’t run from you,” I roar. “You run from me!”

  The wolf darts out of the way, and I swing again, swirling in great circles, my mouth open to the falling snow. I howl, savage, like the wolves until my voice grows hoarse.

  The animal seems uncertain of how to react. She’s threatened, and hungry, so the hair rises on her neck and her lips pull back from her teeth in vicious growls. But she also seems tensed to flee.

  I allow this sliver of optimism to slip inside right as the gray wolf latches on to my branch. She takes the thing between those powerful jaws and snaps her head back and forth. She growls, digs her back legs into the ground, pulls backward.

  My fingers lose their grip and the branch soars from my hand. I fall onto my rear, which I know is bad. She springs forward, snarling.

  I leap to my feet and kick, but the gray wolf keeps coming. For one horrible second, I believe I’ll die moments after I realized I wanted to live. She dashes ahead, growling murderously, tired of playing games. Her teeth sink into my leg as my world blazes with heat and pain and terror and color. Red.

  “No!” I yell, because I don’t want this. I don’t want to be eaten. “No, no!”

  I lean back, and with my free leg, I smash the animal in the face. It takes four strong kicks before the wolf releases her hold.

  I struggle to my feet, but the wolf is there in an instant. She bites down on my forearm and pulls with those lean legs. The animal wants me on the ground. I can see her eyes on my face, driven by primal urges to open my throat. I know this because I am a hunter too.

  I reach into my pocket and grab the stone I found for Elton. Mustering every ounce of strength I have remaining, knowing this is my last stand, I grip that rock and I slam it into the gray wolf’s nose. I hit her again and again, screaming in her face, and finally the wolf breaks away with a yelp.

  I stumble from the absence of her weight, and something drops from my pocket. It’s the art invitation, dislodged when I grabbed the stone. The young wolf takes it into her teeth and I snatch the other side. I pull, leaving the corner in her mouth.

  “No, you can’t have it!” I roar at her.

  Jamming it back into my pocket, I hobble toward the branch and take it into my hands, dripping blood from my calf and arm. This time though, I don’t swing. I simply hold it there against me in a show of controlled power. The wolf grows uneasy at the sight of that branch. I stare her in the eyes and gasp to catch my breath, and I tell her with my posture, my human head held high—

  I am not easy prey.

  I am strong.

  I fill my lungs and square my shoulders and make myself appear as large as possible. And then I do the thing that makes my legs shake beneath me—

  I turn my eyes away from the wolf.

  I am unafraid. I am unbeatable.

  You are not a threat.

  I take a small step away from the wolf, keeping my body turned to the side so as not to show her my back. When she doesn’t immediately attack, I take a second step.

  I take a third step. A fourth. And by the time I lose track of how many slow steps it’s been, I know that the wolf has given up, and that I have won. I look back only once and see her watching me. We stare into each other’s eyes, and something unnamable passes between us. Eventually, the wolf grows bored, and turns to trot away.

  And that is how my dance with death ends. Not with wild cries or cutting stones or swinging fists. But with the whisper of wolf feet against the snow.

  Once I regain control of my senses, I hear the river. The hum of the water increases as I move closer. I have to grit my teeth against the pain spreading up and down my right side, but I keep going, keep pushing.

  Finally, I see the wide-open stretch of sky. It’s all here—the rocky bank, the water, the boat. It looks exactly the way it did two years ago, except I’m not the same girl I was then. And I never will be again. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

  I stumble twice as I run toward the water. My head throbs, and my vision is blurry, but as I get closer I know I’m not imagining things.

  There in the boat is Elton Dean Von Anders. He’s already working his Boy Scout hands over the engine, pulling that cord over and over. He wipes his brow and tries again.

  “Elton,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. I stand upright and try to repeat his name, but sorrow closes my throat. I thought I’d lost him like I lost Pilot. Like I lost Mr. Foster and Ms. Wade and my mother. I cover the wound on my arm and open my mouth to speak again.

  That’s when I hear his voice.

  “I couldn’t find her,” he says. “I looked—”

  We see each other in the same moment.

  He looks at me, those warm brown eyes. That same blond buzz cut and shoulders growing wide. But there’s something different about him. The lasso around his waist is gone.

  I don’t need it anymore.

  But I still need him.

  My friend.

  Pilot drops whatever he’s holding and we rush toward each other, the snow falling over our heads. He grabs my shoulders and I wince.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice louder than it needs to be. He has a gash on his face, but that’s all right. If you live in Rusic, you learn to love scars. I love them already. “Sloan, say something,” he commands. “Sloan!”

  I swallow, lean against him because I can’t believe we made it. Can’t believe he’s here and one day I can show him how to hold a rifle and maybe one day he’ll kiss me again and we can be there for each other to lean on because that’s how it’s supposed to b
e.

  My heart sings and my mouth turns upward in a tired smile. “Here,” I say. “I’m here.”

  Pilot guides me toward the boat, and I hold on to every question I have for him, like how he got away, and what happened on the other side of that fallen tree. One look in his eyes says he has questions for me too. But we focus on boarding the boat, and on Elton throwing his arms around me, saying he knew I was too stubborn to die, and did I see how brave he was back there?

  I almost laugh. But then I notice something, and it breaks a piece of this hopeful ending we’re making.

  “Pilot, where’s your dog?”

  Pilot lowers his eyes, and slowly shakes his head. He tries to speak, but in the end, it’s Elton who steps forward and pats Pilot on the shoulder, saying, “That dog was brave in the end. That’s all that matters. He’s a hero, that stinky dog.”

  Pilot wipes away a tear. “Let me try the motor.”

  I sit down, sorry all over again at the loss of that basset hound. He wasn’t my dog. But he was one of us. And he saved Pilot. I’ll never forget him.

  My heart twists as the motor on Mr. Clive’s boat springs to life. As we move gently away from the bank, I gaze ahead. I decide I will enter that art competition. I will forget about my lasso. I will feel fear again, but when I do, I’ll remember that fear can be overcome.

  I will live big and loud and brave because I walked through the woods twice, and I was stronger the second time through.

  As Pilot steers the boat, I look at the woods once more. To say goodbye. To hold my chin to the sky and be proud.

  But instead all I can focus on is the swiftly moving blob racing along the shore.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Elton asks.

  Pilot turns and sees what Elton and I do.

  Farts races through the snow, legs flying, floppy ears swinging. He runs faster than I’ve ever seen a dog run. When he sees that we see him, he barks once, sharply, and then turns toward the water, and without pause, he dives into the river.

  Pilot laughs like I haven’t heard him in years, and he pulls Farts from the freezing water and covers him with his jacket. “Dumb dog,” he says. “You dumb, dumb dog.”