Lone Wolves (8 page)

9

Tezdlen Na'

Swift River

A
lthough Denny worked hard to raise money for the race all through January and February, she also had to keep training the team, now without a strong leader. Three days a week, sometimes four, she ran the dogs. Between school and feeding the dogs, doing odd jobs, running the dogs, and doing her homework, Denny had no free time. But she remembered what her grandfather had told her.

Only things that are earned from hard work and sweat mean anything.

On a cloudy Sunday, with the temperature slightly above zero, Denny took the team out for a long day on the trail. She knew that racers sometimes cover as many as a seventy miles in a single day during the Great Race. She had to push her dogs further to prepare them for the hardship ahead, increasing their endurance. But she also knew that she had to keep up on her school work. She wanted to go to college one day. So she took
The Old Man and the Sea
with her, as well as her notebook. Ms. Stevens had assigned students an essay about the awesome power of nature, in preparation for discussing the novel.

Denny had asked if she could write a poem instead.

Twenty-eight miles down the trail, Denny stopped while there was still enough sunlight to read her book. She built a campfire beside a fallen log to warm water for the dogs' food, as well as to boil coffee and to keep herself warm. The ravenous dogs were utterly focused on their dishes when Denny saw a wolf peering at her from beneath the sweeping boughs of a large spruce tree not more than a dozen yards away.

The breeze was light, but the wolf was downwind and the dogs hadn't picked up his scent.

Anxiously, she looked for a weapon in the pile of wood beside the fire. She saw a club-sized stick about four feet long. She stood up slowly, shuffled close, and bent over to grab it without taking her eyes off the wolf. When she stood up with the stick in her hand, the curious wolf cocked its head and pricked its black and gray ears. With her free hand she tossed a few pieces of wood onto the flames and sat back down on the log with the stout stick lying across her lap.

The wolf also sat down, his black coat a stark contrast to the white of winter. He opened his long mouth in a yawn.

After a while, feeling that the wolf wasn't a threat, Denny spoke to it in a disarming, sing-song voice.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

The wolf cocked its head again, even more than before.

“I've seen you before, haven't I?” she said. “Outside my cabin and on the trail the day my grandfather died. That was you, wasn't it?”

The wolf sniffed the air.

“You smell the smoked salmon, don't you?”

Denny reached into the food pack and pulled out a whole fillet of dried salmon. Without standing, she flung the salmon toward the wolf. It landed about five feet in front of the tree.

At first, the wolf didn't move. He sniffed the air again, raising his shaggy, black head high.

“Go on,” encouraged Denny. “It's food. Eat.”

The wolf stood up, stretched, and slunk out from beneath the concealing tree limbs. He smelled the fish, then carefully took it in his mouth and backed up into a depression around the tree's trunk. From where she sat on the log, Denny could see that the wolf's eyes were blue. From her grandfather, she had learned that all wolf pups are born with deep, murky blue eyes, but the eyes change to a golden color while they are still adolescents. Only rarely does an adult wolf retain its blue eyes.

“You have blue eyes just like me,” she said. “Is that why you're alone, 'cause you don't fit in with a pack? I know how you feel.”

With immense satisfaction, Denny watched as he ate the salmon.

A soft, quiet snow began to fall.

“Wasn't that good?” she said, when the wolf looked up after eating the last morsel, his keen eyes staring at her and then at the pack on the snow beside her, as if to say,
Another one, please.

“Alright, one more, but that's all,” she said, and she dug one more piece of fish from the pack and tossed it to the wolf, who, this time without any hesitation, gobbled it up.

Suddenly, one of the dogs saw the wolf and started barking, and then all seven were barking.

The wolf ran away.

After the dogs settled, Denny threw more wood onto the fire and took out her notebook from her pack. From her memory, she sketched the wolf peering out from beneath the tree. She struggled with his piercing blue eyes, but was more successful with his grayish-white ear. When she was done, Denny wrote a single word beneath the image and underlined it.

Tazlina
.

It was the name of a nearby river, meaning
swift
.

While the dogs rested, and the low sun slid over the edge of the world, a few stars began to shine and Denny wrote the poem she had to turn in to the teacher the next day, the one about nature. She had been thinking about it all day. She held the notebook close to the fire to see. She figured that the other students would write about how dreadfully cruel nature can be, how powerful and terrifying. But Denny wrote her poem from a different angle, showing that nature can be beautiful and comforting.

“This Side of Midnight”

It is snowing again,

and the stars are silver as

candlesticks. It is like being

in a temple on some Far Eastern

mountain. In the rocking wind

and unshackled darkness

where wild rivers run,

this sunset is the color of salmon

breaching. Stirring the campfire

with a stick, I lack nothing.

A little later thereafter the temperature fell below zero, and snow began to fall harder, swirling on the wind. Denny was again standing at the back of the sled, squinting through the tightly drawn hood of her parka, the seven dogs pulling her homeward through darkness along the frozen river, a hook of pale moon at their back. Denny's headlamp illuminated the trail ahead.

Denny always thought that is was strange the way a headlight illuminates only a tiny, comforting circle in the vast darkness, as if the world ends beyond the circle, the world of a circle in which she was the perpetual center no matter how far she traveled, feeling as though nothing else existed in the whole world, ever.

It was a lonely, lonely feeling.

When she turned to look, the black wolf was following behind about half the length of a football field, his gait long and easy. He stayed there all the way, for twenty-eight miles, until he vanished into the forest when the small, yellowish lights of the village appeared around a bend.

That night, after eating leftovers from supper and taking a hot bath, Denny sat in the chair beside the wood stove reading
The Old Man and the Sea.
It was barely one hundred pages long, and she should have finished reading sooner, but she lingered on every page, imaging her grandfather as Santiago. She imagined Santiago with a granddaughter, teaching her the ways of the sea and of seafarers the way her grandfather had taught her the ways of the land. Was the sea Santiago's adversary or his friend? Giver or Taker? And did the old fisherman consider himself to be at home when he was on the sea the way her grandfather felt at home when he was in the wilderness?

In her mind, Denny decided that he did.

She also wondered if Santiago would have been content had he died out there on the horizonless sea. Wrenching a living from the sea seemed to give meaning to his life. In his heart, the old man knew who he was when he was out there alone in a small boat atop the great, rolling deep. The low sweeping clouds and the unfisting waves spoke to Santiago, the way the river and the wind spoke to Denny's grandfather.

It was the ancient language of the world.

After dog-earing a page to mark her place, Denny took out her notebook, worked on her sketch of the wolf for a few minutes, trying to get it just right, and then turned to a blank page to write a new diary entry before going to bed.

Dear Nellie,

I saw the wolf again today. He just seemed to magically appear at our campsite. I don't know how he ended up there. Perhaps he followed me. He certainly followed me all the way home! I don't know how to say this, but I get the feeling he's lonely. I think he was part of the pack that killed Ms. Holbert while she was out running. But I don't think he had anything to do with it. I think he was kicked out. Maybe that's why he follows me. I guess everyone wants a friend, even a wolf. I can understand that. I didn't tell Mother about him. She wouldn't understand. She'd just tell me that he's dangerous and warn me to stay away. I think Grandpa would have been totally amazed at how I just sat there talking to the wolf. I named him Tazlina; Taz for short. I hope I see him again.

Yours always,

Denny

Letter

Wolf

10

Gistaani na'aaye'

February

T
hat Friday night there was a party at Mary's house. Of course, her parents were away, visiting relatives in another village. All the high school kids were there, even a couple from junior high. By eleven o'clock, only Denny, Mary, Norman, Johnny, and Silas remained. Like always, Mary was drinking, which was really making Denny angry. Silas was sitting on the couch watching a movie.

When Norman and Johnny stepped outside, Denny snatched the beer bottle from Mary's hand.

“Seriously! You have to stop drinking!” she snapped.

“What do you care?” asked Mary, reaching for the bottle.

“Because it's a human being. It deserves better than to have you screw up its life.”

“I don't care about none of that. I don't want this baby.”

Denny tried to swallow her anger. She knelt on the plywood floor and gently took Mary's head in her hands.

“Listen to me,” she said, forcing Mary to look her in the eyes. “You can't change the way things are. I know how you got pregnant. I know who did it to you. Everyone knows. I know how frightened and alone you must feel. But this baby didn't do anything to anybody. It's not responsible. It just is. Drinking may make you forget how bad things are for a while, but it's destroying this baby. Every drink you take is erasing its future.”

“Her,” said Mary softly.

“What?” asked Denny.

“The baby,” said Mary, running a hand over her belly. “She's a girl.”

Mary started crying.

“I don't know what to do,” she sobbed. “This baby is ruining my life.”

Denny held Mary, who resisted at first.

“Your life isn't ruined,” Denny whispered. “It's just beginning. I know you got a raw deal. Life isn't always easy, especially here in the village. Things don't always work out the way we want them to. But you can help this little girl to have a better life. You can give her all the love that you never got and teach her to make better choices in her life. She depends on you. She needs you. Don't ruin
her
life. This is a chance for both of you. If you . . .”

Just then, Norman Fury burst through the door in a panic.

“I think Johnny's dead!” he yelled. “You gotta do something!”

Denny and Silas ran outside.

Johnny was lying in the snow beside a knocked over garbage can and with a rag clutched in his fist. A red one-gallon gas can with the cap off was nearby. Johnny was still and his lips were blue. Denny unzipped his jacket and listened for a heartbeat and breathing.

“He's not breathing! Go get help!” she shouted at Norman, who was just standing there. “Go! Hurry!”

Norman ran off down the street, dogs barking at him, the tops of trees swaying in the wind coming off the river.

Denny began CPR. She had taken a short course at school one summer, and she remembered the basics. She squeezed John
ny's nostrils shut while breathing into his mouth in long, drawn breaths.

“Get down here and help me,” she said to Silas.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Put one hand on his chest, right here,” she said quickly pointing at the place, “and then put your other hand on top of it and push kind of sharp and hard every four or five seconds.”

For several minutes Denny and Silas worked together in the tight illuminated sphere of the porch light, until the village EMT arrived to take over.

“He's breathing,” he said, after listening for a sign of life.

Johnny's lips slowly returned to their normal pink, and he opened his eyes.

“What . . . what happened?” he asked in a daze.

“You were huffing gasoline, you stupid moron,” said Silas. “You were pretty much dead.”

Everyone knew that huffing was a big problem in every village. While alcohol and weed was hard to come by, gasoline was readily available, used in outboards, snowmobiles, four-wheelers, generators, and chainsaws. Kids, sometimes as young as ten or eleven, would pour gas onto a rag and hold it to their face, breathing in deeply to get high. But gas fumes are deadly, and many young people had died in the villages, some the first time they huffed. You could sometimes tell who was huffing by their chronic cough from the damage to their lungs.

“I'm freezing,” said Johnny.

Silas and Norman helped Johnny to his feet and guided him back into the house and sat him on a chair near the wood stove. Denny put a blanket over him. The village EMT stayed for a while to keep an eye on Johnny, checking his vitals every ten minutes and giving him some pills for his massive headache.

“Your vitals seem okay, but you need to cut that crap out,” he said sternly. “I'm not joking, Johnny. The next time could kill you.”

“Big deal,” replied Johnny, throwing his head back to swallow the pills.

Late Sunday morning, Denny hooked up the dogs and headed into the wild. She could feel the difference without Kilana; the loss of the one dog robbed the sled of a little power and speed. She felt it most when the team pulled the sled up into the hills. It was like having an eight-cylinder truck that ran on only seven. She wondered how well she would do in the race without a strong eighth dog as a leader.

Barely a couple miles out of the village, Denny turned around and saw the black wolf following the sled as he had done before.

She smiled.

For many miles, the extraordinary band of dogs, wolf, and girl made their way up into a narrow valley, flushing a large flock of ptarmigan on the way. Finally, at the edge of the tree line, Denny called for the team to stop. It took her longer to unhook the team without her grandfather's help. As usual, she built a fire to warm the water for their dry food. The wolf sat beside a nearby tree, watching her as she labored to feed the dogs. The dogs paid the wolf no notice, which seemed amazing to her.

When she was done, Denny spoke to the wolf.

“Hello again. We haven't been properly introduced,” she said in a disarming tone. “My name is Deneena. But most people call me Denny for short.”

The wolf swiveled his shaggy head.

“Your name is Tazlina. It means swift. I'm gonna call you Taz for short.”

The wolf licked his lips.

“I know, I know. You're hungry, aren't you? Hold your horses. I'm going to try something, and you have to promise to be nice.”

The wolf blinked and licked his lips again.

Denny had brought some old moose meat. It was freezer-burned but not spoiled. Before leaving home, she had thawed a roast of it, trimmed the ruined edges, and cut the roast into chunks. She took off her gloves, opened the plastic baggie, and pulled out one piece, holding it up so the wolf could see it.

Tazlina stood up, his blue eyes riveted on the meat.

“You want this?” Denny asked, and she tossed the chunk pretty close to the wolf, which gobbled it up. She threw another piece, but not as far, making the wolf take a couple steps forward to retrieve it.

“That's a good boy,” she said each time he looked up after eating a piece.

Denny tossed each succeeding piece so that it fell closer and closer to where she sat. And each time the wolf fetched the meat, she praised him. With every piece closing the gap between them, the wolf became more unsure and nervous, pacing to and fro. But his belly urged him to come ever closer to her, until finally he was so close that Denny held out a piece as far as she could reach, and the wary wolf crept forward and gently took it from her hand and ate it.

“You're a very nice wolf,' she said, taking the last little piece of moose meat from the bag. “I'm afraid this is the last one.”

Taz cocked his head and licked his lips.

“You have to
earn
this one,” she said, as she sat the piece of meat on her knee.

Tazlina stood for a minute, glancing at the meat and then at her. A squirrel chattered in a nearby tree, and the wolf turned his head sharply. Seeing that it was only a squirrel, he turned his gaze back to the meat lying on Denny's knee. He took the last step with glacial deliberation. With one eye on her face, he took the piece. With one hand, Denny gently brushed the top of the wolf's head, her fingers gliding over his black fur and along his grayish ear.

Tazlina took a quick step back, staring into her eyes, unflinch
ing.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” she said. “Thank you for not biting me or anything.”

The wolf walked back to the tree, where he turned in a circle twice, lay down, yawned, and watched as Denny got up to throw some wood on the fire and to pour herself a cup of piping-hot coffee.

The wolf followed on the way home.

To Denny, the hardest part of mushing came on arriving home after a long ride on the trail. Cold and tired as she would be, she would always want to go straight into the house to relax, warm up, and get something to eat. But she couldn't just leave the dogs hitched to the sled outside. Instead, she had to unhook each dog and tie him or her to the appropriate doghouse chain. She had to put away all the rigging, being careful not to tangle it. She had to put away the sled and her survival gear. Most importantly, she had to feed the hungry dogs who had burned all their energy running on the trail.

It was almost an hour after Delia first heard the dogs outside before Denny walked through the door, her eyelashes thick with frost.

“We already ate, but I'll bring you something to eat. Sit down,” said Delia.

Denny took off her boots and parka and sat down at the table, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

Her mother brought her a cup of hot tea, a bowl of fish-head soup, and a plate with two pieces of pilot bread—a hard, round unleavened cracker popular in villages for its durability. While Denny was eating, Delia placed the newspaper beside the bowl, tapping her finger at a small story on the front page. Denny leaned over to read. The story was about her and included a photograph of her holding her trophy from the race she'd run.

Teen Rookie Enters Race

Sixteen-year-old Deneena Yazzie is the youngest contender in this year's starting line-up of the greatest race on Earth. Earlier this winter, Deneena placed third in a regional race among a field of some of the best mushers in the state, qualifying her for eligibility. Her grandfather, Sampson Yazzie, trained her since she was 13. Tragically, Mr. Yazzie died on his way home from the race. He was 76. Deneena plans to use her grandfather's handmade sled. She works after school every day to train her team and to raise enough money to transport them to the race start. This is certainly one to watch!

After supper, Denny cut out the story and taped it into her notebook, all the while wondering who had talked to the newspaper reporter about her. When she was done, she closed the notebook on her lap and looked at her mother and grandmother, both sitting on the couch quietly sewing.

The race is in less than a month,
she thought.
Will I be ready by then? Will my team be strong enough?

Denny casually opened the notebook without looking. When she looked down, it was open to the page she had sketched of the wolf, his keen eyes staring into hers.