Close to the Heel (17 page)

But it wasn't.

I had no idea what was behind the rocks, but whatever it was, it's wasn't just dirt. I shone my light over the surface of all the rocks until I found a gap that was a little bigger than the others. I knelt down, put the head of the flashlight up close and pressed my face against the rock to try to see what was on the other side.

That was when I heard something behind me. A sort of swishing sound. It's also when I remembered the first time I had opened the wooden door to get into the shed.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a man's boot. Einar.

I started to turn around. My mind clicked through possible explanations I could offer for what I was doing: I couldn't sleep, I have a keen interest in Icelandic history, I always wanted to examine the inside of a turf shed…No way. The truth looked like it was going to be my best option. Then the beam of my flashlight bounced off something on the other side of the wall. What
was
that? I was torn between wanting to take a second look and wanting to straighten up and start talking, fast.

The decision was made for me.

The last thing I remembered was something big and hard coming right at me—and making contact, I guess, because after that, it was lights-out.

FIFTEEN

I vaguely remember being picked up. I remember loud noise, like an engine. A helicopter engine? It's the only way I figure I could have woken up in the middle of nowhere.

Yeah, I definitely want to get even.

Also, I don't want to die, not like this, not out in the middle of nowhere.

I stumble through the snow until I'm exhausted. I have to rest, but I'm afraid that if I do, that will be the end of me.

My knees buckle.

I peer around. My eyes hurt, but I can't tell if that's because of the snow and the cold or if something happened to them when I was hit. I can't see any place to take shelter. Everywhere I look, all I see is snow. Endless stretches of it. It's like the North Pole out here, or, at least, what I imagine the North Pole looks like. The only things missing are polar bears and Inuit. Polar bears I can live without, but I'd be pretty glad to see an Inuit hunter right about now, someone who would know how to handle himself in a blizzard. He'd probably whip out a knife and start cutting snow blocks to make an igloo—assuming his grandfather had showed him how. Me? I don't have a clue.

Not a clue.

But maybe there is something I can do.

I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands and start digging in the snow. I keep going until I've made a nice deep hole. I crawl into it. The wind whistles over my head, but at least it isn't whistling all over me. I can't say I'm exactly warm because I'm not. Not even close. But at least I'm out of the wind. I huddle in that position, my arms wrapped around my knees, my head and chest down over my arms, making myself into the smallest people-sicle I can. Somehow, even though I know it's about the most dangerous thing I can do, I fall asleep.

I don't know how long I sleep. All I know is that the wind has died down when I wake up. It's still snowing, and my feet are numb. That scares me more than I've ever been scared in my life. What if they're frozen solid? What if I end up with frostbite? What if they have to cut my feet off? I try to wriggle my toes, but I can't tell if they're moving.

I feel sick deep inside and the feeling grows and mutates, like an alien pathogen, a feeling of terror, despair, hopelessness, a feeling like I want to cry, and then I do. I feel the tears sting my cheeks, probably giving them frostbite too. Where am I? How did I end up here? Why didn't I just keep my nose out of things? I've practically made a career out of that the past couple of years: telling people I don't care, acting like I really and truly don't care, not wanting to care because what's the point if it can all vanish, just like that. Like my mom. Like this.

I'm going to die.

I'm numb all over. I feel like my body doesn't exist anymore, it's just me and my brain sending waves of panic through me, telling me it's all over, I'm finished, I might as well just go back to sleep and let it happen. That's supposed to be the thing about freezing to death. It's supposed to be painless. You just lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe I could dream about Mom. Maybe I could manage, for once, to picture her the way she used to be, the way she really was, not the way she ended up. That would be nice.

Do you really see your life flash before your eyes just before you die? If that turns out to be true, she'd be there. She'd be the biggest part of it. My mom and her smile. My mom and the flowery scent of her as she sat beside me at the kitchen table and patiently explained a math problem for the hundredth time. She was always patient. Always soft-spoken. She never yelled. She never said anything mean. She never made me feel stupid when I didn't understand something or like a failure when I messed up. She just wanted to understand—what happened and what can we do to make it better? And when she said
we
, she really meant it. How can I help you, Rennie? Not like teachers or principals or vice-principals who said
we
when they meant
you
and never let an opportunity to express their disappointment go by. So there we were in the car, me being a total pain, bugging her to take a side trip she didn't want to take so that I could buy some comics I didn't really need to impress a kid at school I didn't really like. I'd just wanted to show him up for once. I'd driven her crazy when all she wanted to do was get home to the Major, which I never understood; he was such a hard-ass.

And she'd caved.

I'd pumped the air, like I'd scored a game-winning touchdown.

The next thing I knew, we were driving down a twisting road blasted out of the Canadian Shield and seeing Danger: Falling Rock signs every 10 kilometers or so.

And then I'd seen something I'd never be able to forget.

Lie down, Rennie. Close your eyes. Imagine. Picture her. Remember how good it was. How good
she
was. Especially compared to the Major.

Mr. Two Choices.

That's all it ever comes down to with him: two choices. Black and white. Do or don't do. Succeed or fail. He's like a military Yoda: “There is no try.” Don't go crying back to him that you did your best. If you'd done your best, you would have passed that test, made that team, got that job. Do or don't do. Make your choice.

Lie down or stand up.

Stay where you are or keep moving.

Quit or keep on slogging.

And that's when that old revenge streak of mine kicks in again. I can either let whoever did this to me win, or I can make it out alive and kick their ass.

If I fail a math test, it's no big deal. Who cares about math?

But if I let some bully take me out on the way home—that's a different story. Nobody takes out Rennie Charbonneau, not without a fight.

Nobody's going to kill me either. Not without a fight.

Keep walking, kid. Keep on slogging.

I have no idea how long I keep going. My watch is gone. My phone is gone.

I have no idea what direction I'm going in.

I just keep moving one foot in front of the other until I'm ready to collapse. Then I hunker down in another snow pit and do my best to stay awake and angry. When I'm angry enough, I get up and walk some more.

Eventually it stops snowing.

I keep walking.

It starts to rain, and I shake all over.

I keep walking.

While I walk, I think about the old man and what he'd wanted to show me. I think about the turf shed and what I had seen—well, almost seen—back behind that stone wall. I think about Freyja and Baldur and Barnafoss. I think about the woman's face sketched in my grandfather's journal.

I keep moving, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot—even when I feel weak-kneed and feverish. I cup my hands and drink some rainwater. I remember that a person can go longer than they think without food but that water is a necessity. I'm sure in the right place for water—surrounded by snow and ice, glaciers, rain, geysers, waterfalls. Water is the one thing the Icelanders are never going to run out of. And whatever else happens to me, I'm not going to die of thirst.

I trudge.

I rest.

I drink.

I trudge some more.

The shaking gets worse. My teeth chatter. My clothes are soaked clear through to my skin.

Then the clouds thin and it starts to get warmer. But I'm shaking uncontrollably. The word
hypothermia
pops into my head. If a person's body cools too much, it can cause death.

I wish the Major was here with me. He'd know what to do.

When was the last time I wished that?

How about never?

I picture his face when they finally give him the news.
We're sorry to inform you, Major Charbonneau,
but your son is missing in Iceland and is presumed dead. We're sending out search parties, of course, but it's been
a few days now and we're not hopeful…

He'll be disappointed. That goes without saying. Maybe he'll even be upset. But there will also be a part of him that will say,
Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. If it was anyone else's son, yes. But my son? No, I'm not
surprised at all.

My knees buckle. I fall to the ground and lie there, facedown, crying, blubbering like a baby, too tired to get up, too afraid. It's getting dark again. This time I don't care.

SIXTEEN

I raise my hand over my face to shield it from the glare. Is this what they mean when they say you see a light at the last moment? Is this the light I'm supposed to walk toward? Is it the light that will guide me to my mother?

I struggle to a sitting position and lower my hand, squinting into the brilliant sun. Everywhere is whiteness, the way I imagined heaven to be when I was a little kid. Except it isn't the white of clouds. It's the white of snow.

Mostly.

I stand up. The whiteness stops in the distance and becomes black. I see something move. It looks like…

I squint.

It is. It's a horse. All by itself.

Correction, all by itself with a couple of other horses.

I try to take a step and crumple to my hands and knees. I stay in that position, panting, until my hands begin to freeze. I force myself to get up again. I try again to take a step. My feet are so heavy that the best I can do is shuffle. I keep my eyes on those horses in the distance, tiny as raisins, and shuffle toward them. I don't remember thinking about anything. I don't remember feeling anything. I just stare at those sturdy little Icelandic horses and stumble toward them like my life depends on it.

Which it does.

At first, I'm giddy with excitement. Where there are horses, there are bound to be people. But no matter how many steps I take, the horses don't get any bigger. They stay tiny, so tiny that when I hold my thumb up to one, it completely disappears behind it.

It crosses my mind that I'm seeing things. The horses aren't really there. They're just figments of my imagination. Maybe I'm not even walking. Maybe I'm still lying in the snow somewhere, close to death, dreaming that I'm walking, the same way I'm dreaming that I see horses. I'm dreaming hope for myself, release from everything I've been through. But the release isn't going to be what I thought. I'm never going to get to those horses. They aren't going to lead me home. And home isn't what I imagined either. Home isn't going to be the Major. It's going to be Mom.

Then, so fast I hardly believe it, the horses get a little bigger.

My heart starts to hammer in my chest.

I can see the edge of the snow clearly now. The horses are just beyond it. They
are
getting bigger.

And bigger.

They keep their distance from me as I stagger toward them. The snow and ice slant downward. I trip and careen down an icy slope. Sounds like fun. Isn't. The ice is bumpy and jars every bone in my body.

Then the ice stops.

Just like that.

Stops at the edge of nothingness. But I'm still shooting forward.

I claw at the ground. I kick my feet straight out in front of me, trying to dig them in.

I feel myself lift off the ground, heading toward the nothingness—a huge abyss.

I think I scream.

My hands scrabble around for something to hold on to.

I feel myself falling, falling.

My fingers make contact with something. Grab at it.

My shoulders feel like they're being ripped from their sockets.

My feet kick out into nothingness.

I hold tight to…I crane my neck upward…I hold tight to a spike of ice. I try to ease my other hand up to grab it, praying the whole time that it won't snap off. I refuse to let myself look down and concentrate instead on getting a good grip and then swinging my feet to the side of the abyss to hunt for a foothold. Think about the task at hand, Rennie. Forget about everything else. Nothing else matters. Hold tight. Find someplace to put one foot.