her, because it began a slow, mournful yowl. Anna stopped at the edge, she could feel with her foot where the ice, having thawed a bit and refrozen, was lumpy and rough, beyond it a flat white surface. She started to talk, to herself at first, coaching her way along, then to the dog, urging it soothingly to come, Come here, don’t be afraid. She whistled, she made kissing sounds, but after lurching toward her in a rattle of chain, the animal took up again its pitiful call. Of course! Caught in a trap, poor thing, out there in the middle of the ice.
She swore at the man who’d set it. For what, the fox, the coyote, the mink, animals she’d seen and drawn, here, on someone else’s land,
her
land for now? She had to stop its suffering, this stupid cruelty. Would the dog see her as the cause of its agony, go for her hand? Why in hell didn’t she bring a flashlight. She moved closer, sliding her feet while scarcely aware of them. Of course it wasn’t the dog from the bridge, it was bigger, darker, and she knew nothing about traps, could she open the jaws? Okay, it’s okay, we’ll get you loose, she cooed, barely feeling the ice shiver beneath her.
A trapped smell of pond water hit her nostrils as the ice parted, a clean cracking, a zigzag sound like muted lightning, and the cold iron smell rose as her body dropped, her clothes screening for a moment the shock of water, a convulsion of cold quick to her body, into her fear of depth—Willard told her this pond was crazy deep—her scream brief, more surprise than pain, as her weight took her under, though not far, a deep childhood fear of drowning, from being swept off a winter beach by a rogue Pacific wave, stunned her. Her feet soon pushed into mud, her momentum sinking her into a crouch, silt clouding upward, toward faint light in the ice above, in the broken bobbing pieces, and she uncoiled herself upward, thrashing through the surface, her mouth wide and gasping, her wail in the brittle air weaving wildly into the dog’s yowl. Anna flailed, treading water, but her limbs were already stiffening, leaden, ice broke again and again under her clawing hands, she seemed to have no breath. Regrets charged absurdly through her, stunningly irrational, why did I come, why am I not home, there’s no ice there, reasons not to die after all, the simple gorgeousness of sun, warmth, of love, of safety. She would remember that it was not searing cold that killed her hope but the slow-motion weight of her body, dense, turning as slow as the primeval pond itself, and not far away the dog’s confused barking, the rattle of its trap. But then a beam of light swept the ice and someone clutched her under the arms and she was pulled backwards until her heels dragged bottom and she was set down on the snow. “You took a ducking, girl,” he said, his face craggy behind the flashlight. “Let’s get you walking quick. I’m your neighbour.” He helped her to her feet and held her steady as he led her back up the hill. Her voice came out wobbly and sobbing. “That dog,” she said, “he’s caught out there.”
“I’ll free him later from the other side,” Red Murdock said. “Ice always bad there, where you went in.”
She was shaking too much to talk when they reached her kitchen and she let him sit her on the daybed he called a lounge while he turned the fire up in the oil stove and stoked the
Warm Morning.
“Can you get out of those clothes?” he said, helping her off with her parka. Her red flannel pajamas were plastered to her skin, her jeans thick with water. “Dry off good and come back to the stove, you don’t want a chill now. Put a couple blankets around you.”
She fumbled with the laces of her leather boot but her fingers moved like claws.
“Here, let me.” He knelt and loosened her boots, tugged them off, shook water from them.
In the cramped bathroom, a former pantry, shedding her sodden clothing was difficult, more like moulting she shook so, maybe she
She swore at the man who’d set it. For what, the fox, the coyote, the mink, animals she’d seen and drawn, here, on someone else’s land,
her
land for now? She had to stop its suffering, this stupid cruelty. Would the dog see her as the cause of its agony, go for her hand? Why in hell didn’t she bring a flashlight. She moved closer, sliding her feet while scarcely aware of them. Of course it wasn’t the dog from the bridge, it was bigger, darker, and she knew nothing about traps, could she open the jaws? Okay, it’s okay, we’ll get you loose, she cooed, barely feeling the ice shiver beneath her.
A trapped smell of pond water hit her nostrils as the ice parted, a clean cracking, a zigzag sound like muted lightning, and the cold iron smell rose as her body dropped, her clothes screening for a moment the shock of water, a convulsion of cold quick to her body, into her fear of depth—Willard told her this pond was crazy deep—her scream brief, more surprise than pain, as her weight took her under, though not far, a deep childhood fear of drowning, from being swept off a winter beach by a rogue Pacific wave, stunned her. Her feet soon pushed into mud, her momentum sinking her into a crouch, silt clouding upward, toward faint light in the ice above, in the broken bobbing pieces, and she uncoiled herself upward, thrashing through the surface, her mouth wide and gasping, her wail in the brittle air weaving wildly into the dog’s yowl. Anna flailed, treading water, but her limbs were already stiffening, leaden, ice broke again and again under her clawing hands, she seemed to have no breath. Regrets charged absurdly through her, stunningly irrational, why did I come, why am I not home, there’s no ice there, reasons not to die after all, the simple gorgeousness of sun, warmth, of love, of safety. She would remember that it was not searing cold that killed her hope but the slow-motion weight of her body, dense, turning as slow as the primeval pond itself, and not far away the dog’s confused barking, the rattle of its trap. But then a beam of light swept the ice and someone clutched her under the arms and she was pulled backwards until her heels dragged bottom and she was set down on the snow. “You took a ducking, girl,” he said, his face craggy behind the flashlight. “Let’s get you walking quick. I’m your neighbour.” He helped her to her feet and held her steady as he led her back up the hill. Her voice came out wobbly and sobbing. “That dog,” she said, “he’s caught out there.”
“I’ll free him later from the other side,” Red Murdock said. “Ice always bad there, where you went in.”
She was shaking too much to talk when they reached her kitchen and she let him sit her on the daybed he called a lounge while he turned the fire up in the oil stove and stoked the
Warm Morning.
“Can you get out of those clothes?” he said, helping her off with her parka. Her red flannel pajamas were plastered to her skin, her jeans thick with water. “Dry off good and come back to the stove, you don’t want a chill now. Put a couple blankets around you.”
She fumbled with the laces of her leather boot but her fingers moved like claws.
“Here, let me.” He knelt and loosened her boots, tugged them off, shook water from them.
In the cramped bathroom, a former pantry, shedding her sodden clothing was difficult, more like moulting she shook so, maybe she
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