Wilderness (13 page)

“What?”

“What happened? When Hastro swerved away.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I didn't know. Not at first. I
thought he was taking a shortcut.”

The boys laughed; they couldn't help it. She
enjoyed it; they could see it in her face.

“And it wasn't that long, you know,” she said.
“Between then, and here. I don't think we came that
far.”

“It took us ages,” said Tom.

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

“Well, it didn't feel long when it happened,” she
said. “But, God, lads. It was mad.”

Tom had given punk haircuts to three of the
191
branches. The fresh-cut parts would take the fire more
easily, and the fire would climb the rest of the branch.

They'd made a pile of twigs and needles, and a
tepee of punk branches right over it.

Then he thought of something.

“We've no way to light it,” he said.

It was like being smacked on the head. Tom
suddenly felt tired again, and annoyed.

“Oh, yes, we do,” said Johnny.

“How?” said Tom. “There's no sun and, anyway, we
don't have a magnifying glass.”

“Shut up a sec.”

“Or flints.”

“Shut up.”

Tom was really annoyed, too angry to be frightened.
He wanted to kick and shout. But something stopped
him. Something about the way Johnny had spoken.
And something else as well, that settled in his head –
they'd done all this together, him and Johnny. They'd
found their mother. Now Johnny had an idea. It was
like Johnny's voice had grabbed Tom's anger and
gently pulled it back. He wanted to hear, to find out
what they had to do.

He looked at Johnny.

“What?” he said.

Johnny turned to his mother. He nudged her
shoulder. Her eyes stayed shut. He shook her.

She looked at him.

“I should stay awake,” she chattered. “Right?”

“Right,” said Johnny. “We need to light the fire.”

She held her mouth still – she tried to – for a
second, then she spoke.

“That's grand.”

“OK,” said Johnny. “But, you know the way you
pretend you don't smoke?”

Tom nearly laughed. He'd forgotten, completely.

“I don't,” she said.

She stopped.

“OK,” she said.

“Where do you hide your lighter?”

“Pocket.”

“Which one?” said Johnny.

She lifted her right hand – she was able to – very
slowly, and she tapped the pocket at the side of the
trousers part of the suit.

“You do it,” she said. “I can't. I can't feel my fingers.”

Tom heard the scratching sound. Johnny unzipped
the pocket.

“I promise not to tickle you,” he told her, and he put
his hand into the pocket.

“I love you, boys,” she said.

She smiled – she tried to.

They had to work fast. She was falling asleep again.

“Got it,” said Johnny.

The lighter fell out of his hands, into the snow. He
grabbed at it, and had it in his glove again.

“I'll have to take the gloves off first,” he said. “Hold
it a sec.”

Tom took the lighter, and watched Johnny take his
gloves off.

“No,” said Johnny, like he was thinking out loud.

He looked at Tom.

“You do it,” he said. “You're better at it than me.”

It was true. Tom could always light matches better
than Johnny. They never broke. And he could always
make lighters go, first time.

He pulled off his gloves and dropped them. His
fingers were freezing. He put the lighter on a glove
and rubbed his hands together, really hard. He picked
up the lighter. It was a white plastic one, with an ad
for a pub or something on the side. He put his thumb
on the small metal wheel, the thing that would spark
the flint. He lay on his stomach and chest – he did it
all really quickly. He put the top of the lighter just
under a couple of twigs. He pulled his thumb down,
hard, against the wheel.

“Yes!”

The flame – it came first time. He watched it chew
and crawl along the twig. It jumped to another twig,
and another. He watched it grow. He got his face
away from the fire. They wouldn't have to blow, to
keep it lit. The snow was falling on it, but the fire
reached a branch's haircut and began to slowly eat
it – and another branch. The snow wasn't heavy and soon they could hear the little hiss as each flake fell
into the fire.

“Good job,” said Johnny.

“Thanks,” said Tom.

He put the lighter into one of his pockets. He
zipped it.

They ran to the trees and came back with their
arms full of needles and twigs and small sticks. They
moved the branches, so the flames would catch the
higher branch, and climb. They found more branches
and made a pile of them near the fire, but not too
near. They didn't want to start another fire.

Johnny was on his knees now, beside his mother,
away from the fire, so he wouldn't get in the way of
the heat, or burn his boots and feet. Tom got down
beside him. Their mother's eyes were closed again.

Johnny shook her.

“Wake up.”

He shook again.

“Wake up.”

He put his cold glove on her cheek. Her eyes still
didn't open. He got some snow and put it on her neck.
She didn't wake. She might have been too cold, as
cold as snow, already. He tried again, more snow on
her neck. He rubbed it on. He took off his glove and
put his hand on her neck. He rubbed. And Tom
rubbed her forehead. He got some snow and rubbed it
across her skin.

They felt her move.

“God,” she said.

Her eyes were open. She felt the heat. She looked.

“Look at that,” she said.

“Can you move over on your side?” said Johnny.

“I'll try,” she said.

They heard her gasp.

“Give me a hand, lads,” she said. “But don't roll me
into the fire.”

“Hang on,” said Johnny.

The ground in front of the fire was wet and getting softer. It would soon be like a swamp. The boys went
over the snow, and came back with armfuls of pine
needles. They put them, spread them, on the ground.
They checked to make sure she was still awake. They
went back for more, and more. They made a bed for
their mother, and themselves.

They put their hands under her shoulder and side,
and pushed her up and a little forward, and helped
her lie on her side, and on the needles. She gasped,
and groaned. They knew she was in pain, every time
she moved. But she was facing the fire, and she'd
hardly moved her legs.

“Lovely,” she said. “Cuddle up to me, boys.”

“Wait,” said Johnny.

They untangled her dogs. They released their own
dogs from their sleds. The dogs were quiet. They
rubbed against the boys' hands. It was hard to tell which of them was Hastro, except for his different-coloured
eyes. He kept well away from Rock.

The boys tied the dogs' straps to the fallen tree.

“We've no food for them,” said Tom.

“Our ones ate their dinner before we left the hut.”

“But Mam's,” said Tom.

“They'll just have to wait till tomorrow,” said Johnny.
“And it serves them right.”

Tom laughed.

“No dessert for them fellas,” he said. “Are you
hungry?” he then said, seriously.

“No,” said Johnny.

“Me neither,” said Tom.

But they both were.

They went back to their mother. She was still
awake. She held up the arm that wasn't under her
body.

“Come on,” she said. “Take turns.”

Tom got there first. He didn't push, and Johnny
didn't try to stop him. Tom lay down in front of his
mother, right against her, with his back to her tummy.
He did it gently, so he wouldn't do anything to her
broken leg. Her arm went around him, and Tom felt
the happiest feeling he'd had in all his life. His pillow
was soggy muck and slush; it was horrible on his face.
But that didn't matter. They'd saved their mother, and
now her arm was around him. She was his mother
again, and he was a different boy. That was how he
felt. He'd done something tonight that had changed
him. The achievement rested in his tummy, like great
food, and in his head, like a brilliant joke he'd be able
to tell again and again. And he loved it.

Johnny sat beside them, close to his mother's face.
The needles were still dry; he was pleased with that. He
wanted to lie down. He want to cuddle up to his
mother too. But he was the older brother, and he liked
that. He liked that he was the only one not lying down.

“What happened then?” he said.

His mother lifted her head, so she could rest it on
his leg. She moved her head again, a bit, and looked
up at him.

“What?” she said.

“What happened after Hastro broke away?”

“Well, I went with him,” she said. “Like, I didn't
want to be rude.”

The boys laughed, and she felt Tom's laughter in
her arm, right through her, and in Johnny's leg.

“I don't know what happened exactly,” she said. “The sled hit something, and I landed on that rock
there. And I heard it.”

She groaned.

“The ol' leg,” she said. “Not nice. I think the sound
was worse than the pain, though. But the pain was
bad. The shock, though; God.”

She was able to talk without stopping and gasping,
or trying to make her lips and tongue obey her.

They heard her sigh.

“And here we are, lads,” she said. “On our picnic.
And what about you fellas?”

“What?”

“What happened you?” she said. “How did you find
me?”

They told her the lot. They took turns; they didn't
bash into each other's words. They told her about going
into the hut, and how she wasn't there. They told her
about Kalle and Aki going first, and coming back
without her. They told her about sneaking out of the
hut, and about the hut as well, because she hadn't seen
it. They told her about taking Kalle's hat, and hitching
the dogs to the sleds, and making them go by dangling
the hat in front of Rock's nose, and about their journey
through the dark, about the lights of Aki's snowmobile
behind them, but how they kept going because they
wanted to find her more than anyone, and about their
fight through the branches and the dark, and how
they'd shouted, and how they'd heard her, and how
they'd kept going and shouting until they found her.

“God, lads,” she said. “You're amazing. Both of you.”

By now, Johnny was lying beside them. They were
like a sandwich, and Tom was the cheese or meat,
between his mother and Johnny. It was hours and
hours to daylight – they didn't know what time it was.
They didn't know how long they'd have to wait, or how
long the wood would last.

Johnny stood up, to put more of the wood on the
fire. He gently dropped two large branches on to it. It
was still a good fire.

“That was a stroke of genius, though,” said his
mother.

“What was?” said Johnny.

“Using Kalle's hat,” she said. “For the scent.”

“Yeah,” Tom agreed. “It wouldn't have worked
without the hat.”

He'd nearly been asleep, but he was awake again.

“That was Johnny,” he said. “He thought of it.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “And Rock followed the hat all
the way.”

“Yeah,” said Tom.

“No,” said Johnny.

“What?”

Johnny went over to the sled – they watched him –
and he picked up the stick.

“No hat,” he said.

Tom could see him clearly in the firelight. Johnny
was holding up the stick. Kalle's hat wasn't there, at
the end of it. And he knew; Johnny wasn't messing. It
wasn't on the ground, and Johnny hadn't hidden it.

“When did it fall off?” Tom asked.

“Don't know,” said Johnny.

“Hang on,” said their mother. “Does that mean he
came on his own? Without the scent?”

“Yeah,” said Johnny.

He went across and patted Rock. All the dogs were
lying down. They'd made beds in the snow.

“God,” said their mother. “That's a bit spooky.”

“It's brilliant,” said Tom.

“I know,” she said. “I know. But, like, it doesn't
make sense.”

“Only if you're not a dog,” said Tom.

She kissed the back of his head.

“I love you, mister,” she said. “And you too, Johnny.”

“And Rock,” said Tom.

“And Rock,” said their mother.

“Can we get a dog when we go home?” said Tom.

“No,” said their mother.

“Ah –”

“OK, OK, OK,” she said. “Yes.”

“A husky?”

“Can you get them at home?”

“Yeah,” said Tom.

“Right so,” said their mother. “For Christmas.”

“Cool.”

But they weren't home yet. They knew it. Johnny
put more wood on the fire. He lay back down on the
ground. He swapped places with Tom. Tom was
nearer the fire, and Johnny was nearer his mother. It
was his turn.

“You're special,” she said, very quietly, just for him.

They watched the fire. They fell asleep, one at a
time. They woke with a shock – the cold, the fire.
They slept again. They woke. They listened. The boys
got up and fed more of the wood to the fire. There
wasn't much left. They lay down. They dreamed. They
woke.

They slept.

Johnny woke.

Something had rubbed against him. In his sleep,
while he was still in his dream – something rubbed.
Fur, breath.

He woke.

He didn't move.