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Authors: Eowyn Ivey
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raised welts, and at times swarms of mosquitoes so thick he had to fight panic. In the spring when he first began felling trees and turning over the soil, mosquitoes rose from the disturbed earth in clouds. He wore a head net; it was hard to see, but without it he couldn’t have endured. When he wiped the horse’s flank with his hand, his palm came away bloody with engorged insects.
That was one blessing—it was too cold for mosquitoes now. Gone, too, was the lushness of summer, the thick green of cottonwood boughs, the broad leaves of cow parsnip, the flare of fireweed. Bare of foliage, the snowy benches and ravines rose to the mountains like a weather-bleached backbone. Jack watched through the naked trees and saw no sign of life. No moose, no squirrels, not a single songbird. A mangy raven passed overhead, but it flew steadily on as if seeking richer grounds.
When Jack told his brothers he was moving to Alaska, they envied him. God’s country, they’d said. The land of milk and honey. Moose, caribou, and bears—game so thick you won’t know what to shoot first. And the streams so full of salmon, you can walk across their backs to the other side.
What a different truth he found. Alaska gave up nothing easily. It was lean and wild and indifferent to a man’s struggle, and he had seen it in the eyes of that red fox.
Jack came to a log and made a halfhearted attempt to brush the snow away before sitting on it. He laid the rifle across his knees, took off his wool hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. For some time he sat bent over, his elbows on the rifle, head in his hands. Doubt crouched over his shoulder, ready to take him by the throat, whispering in his ear, You are an old man. An old, old man.
If he were to fall dead in these woods, nothing would rush to his aid. The north wind would blow down from the glacier, the ground would stay frozen, and a red fox like the one he had looked in the eye might be the first to sniff at his dead body and take a nibble here and there. The ravens and magpies would come to tear away at his frozen flesh, maybe a pack of wolves would eventually find its way to his carcass, and soon he’d be nothing but a strewn pile of bones. His only hope would be Mabel, but then he thought of her struggling under his dead weight. He stood and shouldered his rifle.
He had only cried a few times in his adult life—when his mother died, and when he and Mabel lost that little baby. He wouldn’t let himself now. He put one foot in front of the other and walked without seeing or feeling.
It was the quiet that pulled him out of his gloom. A quiet full of presence. He brought his head up.
It was the child. She was before him, just a few yards away. She stood atop the snow, arms at her sides, the hint of a smile at her pale lips. White fur trimmed her coat and leather boots. Her face was framed by the velvety brown of a sable hat, and she wore Mabel’s red scarf and mittens. The child was dustedin crystals of ice, as if she had just walked through a snowstorm or spent a brilliantly cold night outdoors.
Jack would have spoken to her, but her eyes—the broken blue of river ice, glacial crevasses, moonlight—held him. She blinked, her blond lashes glittering with frost, and darted away.
“Wait!” he called out. He stumbled after her. “Wait! Don’t be afraid!”
He was clumsy, tripping over his own boots and kicking up snow. She sprinted ahead, but stopped often to look back at him.
“Please,” he called again. “Wait!”
A sound came to Jack’s ears like wind stirring dried leaves or snow blowing across ice, or maybe a whisper from far away.
Shhhhh.
He did not call out again. He ducked beneath tree branches and waded through the snow as the girl led him farther and farther into the forest. He had to watch his feet to keep from tripping, but each time he looked up, she was waiting.
And then she wasn’t. He stopped, squinted, and scanned the snow for her tracks. He
That was one blessing—it was too cold for mosquitoes now. Gone, too, was the lushness of summer, the thick green of cottonwood boughs, the broad leaves of cow parsnip, the flare of fireweed. Bare of foliage, the snowy benches and ravines rose to the mountains like a weather-bleached backbone. Jack watched through the naked trees and saw no sign of life. No moose, no squirrels, not a single songbird. A mangy raven passed overhead, but it flew steadily on as if seeking richer grounds.
When Jack told his brothers he was moving to Alaska, they envied him. God’s country, they’d said. The land of milk and honey. Moose, caribou, and bears—game so thick you won’t know what to shoot first. And the streams so full of salmon, you can walk across their backs to the other side.
What a different truth he found. Alaska gave up nothing easily. It was lean and wild and indifferent to a man’s struggle, and he had seen it in the eyes of that red fox.
Jack came to a log and made a halfhearted attempt to brush the snow away before sitting on it. He laid the rifle across his knees, took off his wool hat, and ran his fingers through his hair. For some time he sat bent over, his elbows on the rifle, head in his hands. Doubt crouched over his shoulder, ready to take him by the throat, whispering in his ear, You are an old man. An old, old man.
If he were to fall dead in these woods, nothing would rush to his aid. The north wind would blow down from the glacier, the ground would stay frozen, and a red fox like the one he had looked in the eye might be the first to sniff at his dead body and take a nibble here and there. The ravens and magpies would come to tear away at his frozen flesh, maybe a pack of wolves would eventually find its way to his carcass, and soon he’d be nothing but a strewn pile of bones. His only hope would be Mabel, but then he thought of her struggling under his dead weight. He stood and shouldered his rifle.
He had only cried a few times in his adult life—when his mother died, and when he and Mabel lost that little baby. He wouldn’t let himself now. He put one foot in front of the other and walked without seeing or feeling.
It was the quiet that pulled him out of his gloom. A quiet full of presence. He brought his head up.
It was the child. She was before him, just a few yards away. She stood atop the snow, arms at her sides, the hint of a smile at her pale lips. White fur trimmed her coat and leather boots. Her face was framed by the velvety brown of a sable hat, and she wore Mabel’s red scarf and mittens. The child was dustedin crystals of ice, as if she had just walked through a snowstorm or spent a brilliantly cold night outdoors.
Jack would have spoken to her, but her eyes—the broken blue of river ice, glacial crevasses, moonlight—held him. She blinked, her blond lashes glittering with frost, and darted away.
“Wait!” he called out. He stumbled after her. “Wait! Don’t be afraid!”
He was clumsy, tripping over his own boots and kicking up snow. She sprinted ahead, but stopped often to look back at him.
“Please,” he called again. “Wait!”
A sound came to Jack’s ears like wind stirring dried leaves or snow blowing across ice, or maybe a whisper from far away.
Shhhhh.
He did not call out again. He ducked beneath tree branches and waded through the snow as the girl led him farther and farther into the forest. He had to watch his feet to keep from tripping, but each time he looked up, she was waiting.
And then she wasn’t. He stopped, squinted, and scanned the snow for her tracks. He
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