Read Online The Snow Child: A Novel by Eowyn Ivey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eowyn Ivey
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saw no sign. Once again he became aware of the quiet, the strange calm of the forest.
From behind him came a high, chirpy whistle like a chickadee’s call, and he turned, expecting to see a bird, or maybe the child. Instead, a bull moose stood not fifty yards away. It raised its head slowly, as if the massive, many-pointed antlers were a ponderous burden. Snow sprinkled its long nose and brown hackles. It swayed its antlers slowly side to side. Never had Jack seen such a magnificent animal. On lanky legs, it must have stood more than seven feet at the withers, and its neck was as stout as a tree trunk.
In his wonder, Jack nearly overlooked the obvious—this was his quarry. He had hunted only a few times as a boy, mostlyrabbits and pheasants, although he had a vague memory of deer hunting with his cousins one cold, wet morning. This was different, though. This wasn’t sport or boyhood adventure. This was livelihood, and yet he was so ill prepared. He couldn’t remember much of that deer hunt, but he knew he had never taken a shot.
He expected the animal to spook as he chambered a cartridge in the rifle, but it was only mildly interested and went back to eating the tips of willow branches.
Jack rested his cheek against the wooden stock and tried to steady his grip. His exhalations rose as steam in the cold air and clouded his vision, so he held his breath, aimed for the moose’s heart, and pulled the trigger. He never heard the explosion or registered the rifle’s recoil. There was only the moment of impact, the animal staggering as if a great weight had come crashing down upon it, and then its fall.
He lowered the rifle to his side and took a few steps toward the moose. It kicked its legs and twisted its neck at a miserable angle. He chambered another round. The moose flailed in the snow, and for a second Jack looked into its rolling, wild eyes. He raised the rifle and shot a bullet into the animal’s skull. It did not move again.
Jack’s knees were unsteady as he leaned his rifle against a tree and went to the dead moose. He put his hands on its still-warm side and at last understood its size. Its antlers could have held Jack like a cradle, and his arms could not have circled its barrel chest. It had to weigh more than a thousand pounds, and that meant hundreds of pounds of good, fresh meat.
He’d done it. They had food for the winter. He would not go to the mine. He wanted to jump up and whoop and holler. He wanted to kiss Mabel hard on the lips. He wanted someone like George to smack him on the back and tell him well done.
He wanted to celebrate, but he was alone. The woods had a solemn air, and beneath the thrill in his own chest, there was something else. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was trickier. He grabbed the base of each antler to reposition the head. It was heavy, but by leaning into the antlers he was able to jostle the head and neck around. Then he took his knife out of his pack and sharpened it on a steel, all the while considering the feeling in his gut. At last he knew—it was the sense of a debt owed.
He’d taken a life, a significant life judging by the animal laid out before him. He was obliged to take care of the meat and bring it home in gratitude.
But it was something about the child, too. Without her, he never would have seen the moose. She led him here and alerted him when, like a clod, he had passed by the animal. She moved through the forest with the grace of a wild creature. She knew the snow, and it carried her gently. She knew the spruce trees, how to slip among their limbs, and she knew the animals, the fox and ermine, the moose and songbirds. She knew this land by heart.
As Jack knelt in the bloody snow, he wondered if that was how a man held up his end of the bargain, by learning and taking into his heart this strange wilderness—guarded and naked, violent and meek, tremulous in its greatness.
The work was beyond Jack’s strength and experience. He had carved up
From behind him came a high, chirpy whistle like a chickadee’s call, and he turned, expecting to see a bird, or maybe the child. Instead, a bull moose stood not fifty yards away. It raised its head slowly, as if the massive, many-pointed antlers were a ponderous burden. Snow sprinkled its long nose and brown hackles. It swayed its antlers slowly side to side. Never had Jack seen such a magnificent animal. On lanky legs, it must have stood more than seven feet at the withers, and its neck was as stout as a tree trunk.
In his wonder, Jack nearly overlooked the obvious—this was his quarry. He had hunted only a few times as a boy, mostlyrabbits and pheasants, although he had a vague memory of deer hunting with his cousins one cold, wet morning. This was different, though. This wasn’t sport or boyhood adventure. This was livelihood, and yet he was so ill prepared. He couldn’t remember much of that deer hunt, but he knew he had never taken a shot.
He expected the animal to spook as he chambered a cartridge in the rifle, but it was only mildly interested and went back to eating the tips of willow branches.
Jack rested his cheek against the wooden stock and tried to steady his grip. His exhalations rose as steam in the cold air and clouded his vision, so he held his breath, aimed for the moose’s heart, and pulled the trigger. He never heard the explosion or registered the rifle’s recoil. There was only the moment of impact, the animal staggering as if a great weight had come crashing down upon it, and then its fall.
He lowered the rifle to his side and took a few steps toward the moose. It kicked its legs and twisted its neck at a miserable angle. He chambered another round. The moose flailed in the snow, and for a second Jack looked into its rolling, wild eyes. He raised the rifle and shot a bullet into the animal’s skull. It did not move again.
Jack’s knees were unsteady as he leaned his rifle against a tree and went to the dead moose. He put his hands on its still-warm side and at last understood its size. Its antlers could have held Jack like a cradle, and his arms could not have circled its barrel chest. It had to weigh more than a thousand pounds, and that meant hundreds of pounds of good, fresh meat.
He’d done it. They had food for the winter. He would not go to the mine. He wanted to jump up and whoop and holler. He wanted to kiss Mabel hard on the lips. He wanted someone like George to smack him on the back and tell him well done.
He wanted to celebrate, but he was alone. The woods had a solemn air, and beneath the thrill in his own chest, there was something else. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was trickier. He grabbed the base of each antler to reposition the head. It was heavy, but by leaning into the antlers he was able to jostle the head and neck around. Then he took his knife out of his pack and sharpened it on a steel, all the while considering the feeling in his gut. At last he knew—it was the sense of a debt owed.
He’d taken a life, a significant life judging by the animal laid out before him. He was obliged to take care of the meat and bring it home in gratitude.
But it was something about the child, too. Without her, he never would have seen the moose. She led him here and alerted him when, like a clod, he had passed by the animal. She moved through the forest with the grace of a wild creature. She knew the snow, and it carried her gently. She knew the spruce trees, how to slip among their limbs, and she knew the animals, the fox and ermine, the moose and songbirds. She knew this land by heart.
As Jack knelt in the bloody snow, he wondered if that was how a man held up his end of the bargain, by learning and taking into his heart this strange wilderness—guarded and naked, violent and meek, tremulous in its greatness.
The work was beyond Jack’s strength and experience. He had carved up
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