I half expect Pilot to charge him, but he only grips the snow, seeking the earth beneath his fingers, trying to reassure himself that he’s safe on solid ground.
Mr. Foster grabs Nash by his jacket and jerks him so that their noses touch. “Lay one more finger on your kid. I dare you.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” Nash chuckles. “What’s a big man like you gonna do?”
He’s taunting Mr. Foster, thinking he won’t do a thing. But I don’t forget the ledge behind both men. I don’t dismiss the damage two angry hands could do with one shove.
I reach down to help Pilot up, but he scrambles to his feet on his own. Together, Pilot and I watch Mr. Foster to see what our teacher may do under pressure.
With a jolt, Mr. Foster releases Nash. Then he holds up a stiff finger and points it at Nash’s face in a silent warning. For once, Pilot’s daddy keeps his mouth shut, but he can’t manage it without an infuriating grin.
Nash reaches for his son and rubs his knuckles into his hair. “You know I was playing, right? I used to do that kind of stuff all the time. Always made you laugh before.”
Pilot swats his father’s hand. “It never made me laugh.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because you have your mama’s sense of humor. Which is to say you’re both dry as a turd on a summer day.”
As Nash laughs, I notice the way his left hand shakes at his side. He’s twitchier than usual, if that’s possible.
Ms. Wade approaches the ledge, keeping a wary eye on Nash. “Looks like a good twenty feet.”
“We’ll have to go around somehow,” I add.
“Can’t,” Nash says. “This stretches on too far. We’ll just climb down and keep going.”
I look at Nash. How can he be sure? I don’t remember this ravine. Does he? A horrible thought occurs to me amid the howling wind. What if we’re lost?
“What about Farts?” Elton asks.
“Oh, I’ll carry the stupid thing,” Nash responds. “Put him in the pack and zip it up so his head sticks out.”
I’m surprised at Nash’s offer, but then no one is completely rotten, even if it seems that way. We’ve all got a little good, and a little ugly. Some just have more of one than the other. Nash looks at his son to see if the suggestion helped make amends, but Pilot only hands the pack’s contents to Mr. Foster to store in his pockets. Then he slides the dog and the pack onto his own back with a mighty grunt. Good thing Farts is still mostly a puppy, or there’s no way he’d manage.
Now that that’s settled, we look at Ms. Wade.
“Oh, get off it,” she says. “I could climb down this thing three times over again before any one of you buffoons could.” To prove her point, Ms. Wade makes her way to the side. “Plenty of footholds. Just make a slow go of it.”
“I’ll try first,” I say, grabbing Ms. Wade’s arm. “I can find the best way down.”
But Elton is already swinging his leg over the side.
I scowl. Did he not hear me?
I hold my breath as Elton navigates the rock wall. He moves quickly and efficiently, finding a foothold, testing it, and dropping down. Before I know it, Elton has made it to the bottom. I frown, because his color is yellow like mine, which means he shouldn’t have been the first down. He should have been more cautious. Wanted to watch and wait even if he pretended otherwise.
“I’ll go next,” Pilot says, getting into position. Farts barks the entire time the boy navigates down, increasing the anxiety twisting my insides. I watch every move Pilot makes, hoping the snow will suddenly stop, calculating how badly he’d be hurt with each step.
Twenty feet high—a broken leg, maybe worse.
Fifteen feet—a sprained ankle to be sure.
Ten feet—he’s in the clear, I think.
Ms. Wade looks to me after Pilot is on safe ground. “You gonna insist on going before or after me?”
Sucking in a breath, I slide toward the edge on my belly and squirm backward until my bottom half hangs over the side.
I don’t want to go any farther.
I can’t.
But Ms. Wade is watching. How much harder will it be for her to do this if she watches me struggle?
My hands begin to sweat. How is that possible when they’re so numb I can hardly feel them? My gloves dangle from inside my pocket as I work my fingers into the first rock crevice, unable to focus with snow rushing past my eyes. The stones are slick from the blizzard, so I dig my nails in until they bend backward.
How did Elton and Pilot do this? Why am I having trouble when they didn’t?
I bite my lip, and my arms shake as I take one miniscule step down. Pilot must notice I’m struggling, because he calls out.
“You got it, Sloan! Just go slow.”
His concern causes fear to snake around my wrists and ankles. If he’s worried enough to say something, then I must be about to fall.
My vision blurs. My brain buzzes.
I take another step—
And I lose my grip.
I scream, and feel myself falling. Hear the sound of my leg bones snapping in my mind. But at the last possible second, I find my grip on a larger rock. I’m still breathless and can’t see more than six inches in front of my eyes. I’m frozen with fear. Can’t go up, can’t go down, and it’s just a matter of time until I fall for real.
“For goodness’ sake, girl,” Ms. Wade calls out. “You’re not that high up. Move that rear or I’m going to start throwing rocks at you.”
Farts barks from below and Nash bellows somewhere above me and just like that, a sliver of my terror dissolves.
I stretch my leg downward and find a new place to squeeze in the tip of my boot. Summoning every ounce of courage I have, I release the rock I’m gripping and search for a new, lower hold. I do this again, and again, and again, and when at last I’ve reached the ground, and Pilot slaps me on the back and Elton says I climb like a girl, I beam with satisfaction.
Because this was a fear I didn’t even know I had. And I overcame it. Not one other person was on that cliff face but me. And I did it anyway.
I pick up Farts and kiss him on his wet nose. He thanks me kindly by windshield-wiping my face with his tongue.
Ms. Wade climbs down next, and though I hear her moaning the entire way, she completes the descent twice as fast as either of the boys. After she steps onto the ground, she leans over and grips her side.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Ms. Wade, how bad does it hurt?”
Her reply comes in the form of fresh droplets of blood, red starbursts staining the white quilt of snow. She straightens after another moment, and assures us she’s fine. Tells me to quit fussing.
The next thing I hear is the ruckus of Nash and Mr. Foster arguing. Voices raised, a scattering of rocks tumbles down the ravine. We all look up, and I catch sight of Mr. Foster as he nears the edge.
My stomach plummets.
My hand is already in the first hole when Pilot yanks me backward. “The guns are up there with them,” I yell. “I left them!” But now Ms. Wade is helping drive me away, saying it’s no one person’s responsibility to watch over those rifles.
I struggle against Pilot until the two men’s bickering becomes a mighty roar. There’s a rustling sound, and a moment later I see Mr. Foster appear. He throws my mag off the side of the cliff and it lands with a soft whump in the snow. Farts barks at the thing like it’s got sharp teeth and a hankering for basset hound blood.
I’d be relieved, but my daddy’s gun is still up there—the one that could put a hole through a bear’s gut and keep on going.
When I look up again, I see Nash scurrying toward the side. He’s on his stomach and that beautiful heirloom rifle is jammed down the back of his pants. Mr. Foster makes a play for it, but Nash slaps his hand and nearly tumbles twenty feet down in the process. Mr. Foster swings his arms wildly, trying to keep his own feet on solid ground, and Nash makes for the earth below.
“I know what you were trying to do,” Mr. Foster yells at Nash.
Nash
grunts as he climbs, but still manages to retort with, “I wasn’t doing nothing. Just trying to get the guns down is all.”
As soon as Nash is within arm’s length, I snatch my father’s rifle. Nash snaps at my fingers as he jumps the rest of the way down. But Ms. Wade has my back, and my gun.
“You’ll step away if you know what’s good for you,” she says to Nash. “What were you doing to him up there?”
Nash ignores her and looks to his son. “Nothing he didn’t deserve.”
“No,” Pilot says between clenched teeth. “You’d never do anything to anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“Now, now, you’re trying to challenge me. And you know I don’t like being disrespected.”
Pilot opens his mouth to add more, but it’s Elton who speaks next.
“Why isn’t Mr. Foster coming down?”
Almost at once, we stop what we’re doing—cradling a rifle to our chest or confronting a nasty father or fingering a wound that’d be better left alone—and we gaze skyward.
“Mr. Foster?” Elton calls out.
When the man doesn’t appear, and not a single sound makes its way down the ravine, our eyes slowly move to Nash.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Oh, lay off it. I didn’t put a finger on the man. He was too busy clawing at my face like a dang woman for me to get a lick in.”
“If you hurt him … ” Pilot threatens, his voice low.
“He’s still up there,” Ms. Wade says. “I hear his boots in the snow.”
We listen.
We listen hard.
And that’s when I hear it too—quick steps. Alert steps. A low whine and a quick yelp and a growl that rumbles down the cliff and beneath my skin.
The sound of wolves.
I grab my father’s gun, tuck it under my arm, and throw myself toward the rocks. Pilot has his arms around me in a flash. “I’ll go! Stay put,” he says. I scramble toward the cliff again, and again Pilot pulls me back. “Just make noise, Sloan! Do it now!”
As the whines and growls grow in volume, and desperation boils through my veins, I yell and cry and shout ugly words. Elton and Ms. Wade and even Nash join me. We sound like madmen. We sound like animals. As Pilot climbs into the sky, we harmonize, offering our own howls to the dawning winter moon.
Mr. Foster releases a cry of pain. Or at least I think it’s pain. I can’t make out what’s what amid the chorus of wolf and man colliding. Pilot is only halfway up the cliff when I remember our advantage.
I grab my .22 mag from Ms. Wade and take aim at the clouds. A shot rings through the dusk, but the growls only increase. Tossing my gun, I take my father’s rifle and prepare to chase the first shot with a second. Nash yanks my elbow, causing me to nearly shoot his son in the process.
“What are you doing?” Nash hisses. “Don’t waste bullets unless it’s to kill those things.”
I grit my teeth and jerk away. Point that barrel toward heaven and send a bullet blasting through the clouds.
This time, something happens. There’s a yelp from above, and a patter of receding steps. Then one ferocious growl, a snap of teeth, and at last I see Mr. Foster.
He spins toward us, his face contorted with terror.
Then he falls.
He falls for twenty feet and crashes into the snow with a terrible crunch.
Elton is the first to his side. “Mr. Foster! Mr. Foster, are you all right?” He touches the man’s exposed cheek gently with slim, shaking fingers. When Mr. Foster doesn’t move, Elton lays a hand on the man’s back and closes his eyes in concentration.
At last, the boy lifts his head. “He’s breathing.”
Mr. Foster stirs ever so slightly. “Course I am.”
Ms. Wade laughs with relief as Nash says, “I coulda shoved you off that cliff a lot more graceful than that, man.”
Mr. Foster rolls onto his side with a groan, takes several slow, calming breaths, and finally sits up.
“Does anything hurt?” Pilot asks.
Mr. Foster rolls his neck and releases a groan. “I think the pinkie toe on my right foot made it through okay.”
I help Mr. Foster to his feet, and he staggers before finding his balance. “The snow cushioned some of the impact.”
“Well, dang,” Nash says. “Guess we all coulda just lunged off the side. Would have saved a bit of time.”
Elton looks toward the cliff and asks, “Those were wolves up there, huh?”
Mr. Foster grows serious. “Yeah. I counted six.”
“You didn’t … ” Elton begins. “You didn’t get bit, did you?”
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Foster says. “But I suddenly have an insatiable craving for red meat.”
Elton’s eyes grow large. “You think you’re gonna turn into one of them?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Stop kidding around. We need to get out of here.” Pilot picks up my .22 and motions toward the trees with the barrel. “It’s almost dark, and this blizzard’s going to kill us if we don’t get to the next shelter.”
Elton gazes at the cliff again, shielding his eyes against the snow. “Maybe it’s good. Maybe the wolves won’t be able to come down like we did.”
We don’t respond. We just march toward those trees, toward the river, raising our knees higher to pass through the deepening powder. Mr. Foster stumbles several times as he walks, but what worries me is the way he holds his arm close to his body. If it’s a broken bone, he could get an infection. Happens to people in town who break something and put off traveling to Vernon’s doctor.
But despite his fall and Ms. Wade’s heavy breathing, I feel a sense of relief as we move farther from the cliff. Maybe Elton is right. Maybe the wolves won’t find a path down, and our only hurdle now is the weather and those few miles that stand between Mr. Clive’s boat and us. We figured we’d be in Vernon tonight, but surely now that we’re down the cliff we’ll be there tomorrow.
My mouth waters thinking of the honey-glazed chicken and roasted corn I’ll eat beside a roaring fire, and the sleep I’ll get on Edna’s couch, with a crochet blanket pulled to my shoulders and the sound of my father talking with Edna’s husband close by.
“Is that what I think it is?” Elton asks after we’ve walked for some time.
We stop and look back. A chill races across my skin, makes my fingertips tingle. In the distance, atop the cliff, is the silhouette of nine wolves. Maybe Mr. Foster counted wrong, or maybe the other three didn’t show themselves. How many more could there be?
The wolves watch us watching them, and a memory springs to mind. I recall the two wolves chasing the snowshoe hare across the field. How fast they claimed that animal as their prize. I remember wondering how the rabbit’s heart must have raced. How it must have known without doubt that it would be eaten.
I think about this as we turn our backs on the wolves, and head deeper into the woods. I try to bury the worry, because we’re not rabbits. We are humans. We are hunters.
We are not prey.
Ms. Wade can no longer pretend that she is well enough to travel far distances. The smell from her wound makes the back of my throat tighten, and when Mr. Foster removes her bandage and rubs the open wound with snow, she weeps from the pain.
We’ve been out in the cold for two full days, and though the blizzard has eased, snow still dusts the rooftop of our rickety shelter. So we watch each other’s Rudolph-red noses, and wait for night to pass.
When Nash’s stomach protests, the man says again—two hours into us dozing and shifting, shifting and dozing—that Mr. Foster should never have thrown the venison and cheese at the wolves. That now we have nothing but an empty pack to get us to the river.
“I suppose you’d rather I’d offered my fingers,” Mr. Foster growls through a sleepy haze, losing his patience in this blistering cold.
“What need do I have for your fingers?” Nash says.
“Maybe if you hadn’t been fighting me for the guns like a gorilla,” Mr. Foster
retorts, sitting up, “the wolves wouldn’t have come at all.”
I do my best to ignore the conversation, and instead thumb the slip of paper in my pocket back and forth. I’m certain nobody notices, but then Elton bites his lip and says, “Why do you always do that? Put that hand in your pocket?”
I pull my fingers out, mortified.
“Leave her alone, Elton Von … Whatever.” Pilot rolls onto his side, face scrunching in thought. “Why’d you choose that strange name anyway?”
Mr. Foster and Nash stop their complaining and turn their attention to us. Because even though people in Rusic try to keep their personal lives private, our town thrives on gossip.
“Let’s go back to the note in your pocket,” Elton says. But even Ms. Wade is paying attention now, pulling herself up as best she can.
“Let’s not,” Pilot says with a smile.
Elton sighs, realizing we’re not going to let it go, and enjoying that he has a captive audience. It must feel good to have people pay attention to you after being ignored for so long. “Christopher Anders is a ridiculous name.”
“Why?” Mr. Foster asks.
Elton rolls his eyes. “It just is. Christopher Anders is someone my mom wants me to be. But I’m different, and thank goodness for that.” He says this with a determined look. “So I gave myself a new name, based on people I like.” He counts off on his fingers. “Elton John is a musician to end all musicians. And Dean for James Dean, a true rebel.”
“What about the Von part?” Pilot asks.
Elton shrugs. “You can’t have a name like Elton Dean without throwing in Von for good measure.”
Pilot and I laugh, and Mr. Foster bumps Elton’s shoulder.
“It’s a fine name,” he says.
Elton grins. “The fact that you realize that means you might be okay. And the fact that you almost got eaten by wolves means you’re a legend.”
Mr. Foster smiles while clutching his arm, recalling his fall.
“Your turn now,” Nash says, studying me. “All of Rusic has been watching you walk around with that stupid paper for the better part of a year. So go on, what is it?”