drives the snow sideways, guts the land.
She would eat the skin of the tent but that is the same as dying. With the tent gone the wind and cold would have them. They have no clothing left, will have no oil left when the lamp goes out.
Nothing.
The mother is weaker than the children but she takes a finger now and wipes it in the small bit of rancid oil in the lamp and wipes the finger across the lips of each child, leaving a thin film of grease on each lip.
One child licks the grease off.
The other does not.
And outside, the wind slashes and looks for their lives.
The hungry wind.
12
The Run
H e came upon the snowmachine in the flat white light of the arctic dawn. It was sitting on its skis, just squatting in the middle of the great sweeps.
Nobody was near it. Russel stopped when the dogs were next to it and set his hook. On the back of the seat was a box and he opened it, hoping to find a coffee can or pot but there was nothing but an empty plastic gas jug.
He felt the engine with a bare hand. It was cold, still cold, dead cold.
It was a fairly new machine and while it was true that snowmachines broke down, the newer ones tended to last a bitlonger. He opened the gas tank and found it bone dry.
A smile cut his lips and made them bleed.
âThey are not of the land,â he said to the dogs. âThey need fuel that is not part of the land. They cannot run on fat and meat.â
A small set of footprints led off ahead of the machine but there were also snowmachine tracks. It was as if another snowmachine had gone ahead, but left the person to walk. It made no sense.
Or. Perhaps the snowmachine had come out this way and the rider was headed back when the machine ran out of gas.
That made more sense to Russel, considering the tracks.
But there was nothing, no village, where the footprints were leading. Nothing that Russel knew about at any rate, and if whoever left the tracks was heading for help on foot he had almost no chance of getting anywhere. There were no settlements within walking distance of the snowmachine.
And the tracks were small enough to belong to a child. Or a girl.
He pulled the hook and the team started off silently. They had run steadily now for two days and needed rest. They could sleep running, a doze-sleep, but they needed real rest after the hard work of a long run.
But with the full light Russel could seethe high wisps of clouds that meant a storm was coming.
He wanted to try to catch whoever was ahead before the storm hit. On foot he could not be carrying much of a shelter, nor could he be carrying much food. And if it was a child he would probably not survive a bad storm.
Russel let the dogs adopt a slower trot, but he kept them going steadily, watching the tracks ahead.
At first they didnât seem very fresh. The rising wind had blown them in so that some of them were filled completely. But as the hours passed they seemed to be getting cleaner, newer. Now and then the lead dog dropped his nose to smell them, looking for scent, and Russel could see his ears jerk forward whenever he got a bit.
And when the darkness came again the leader started to run with his nose down all the time, following the smell of the trail that must be fresh, Russel knew, to hold for the dogs.
But now there was wind and more wind. Not as bad as the dreamwind, but getting worse all the time so that the dogs had to lean slightly left into it to keep their balance. And snow.
There was a driving sharp snow with the wind. Not heavy snow, but small and mean and it worked with the force of the wind to get inside clothing, in the eyes, even blow up into the nostrils.
And finally, when he could no longer see the trail, no longer see the front end of the team, could barely make out the two wheel-dogs directly in front of the sled, finally he came to that time when he should stop and hole up in the storm.
And he did not.
He drove them on. They wanted to stop, twice the leader did stop, but Russel used
She would eat the skin of the tent but that is the same as dying. With the tent gone the wind and cold would have them. They have no clothing left, will have no oil left when the lamp goes out.
Nothing.
The mother is weaker than the children but she takes a finger now and wipes it in the small bit of rancid oil in the lamp and wipes the finger across the lips of each child, leaving a thin film of grease on each lip.
One child licks the grease off.
The other does not.
And outside, the wind slashes and looks for their lives.
The hungry wind.
12
The Run
H e came upon the snowmachine in the flat white light of the arctic dawn. It was sitting on its skis, just squatting in the middle of the great sweeps.
Nobody was near it. Russel stopped when the dogs were next to it and set his hook. On the back of the seat was a box and he opened it, hoping to find a coffee can or pot but there was nothing but an empty plastic gas jug.
He felt the engine with a bare hand. It was cold, still cold, dead cold.
It was a fairly new machine and while it was true that snowmachines broke down, the newer ones tended to last a bitlonger. He opened the gas tank and found it bone dry.
A smile cut his lips and made them bleed.
âThey are not of the land,â he said to the dogs. âThey need fuel that is not part of the land. They cannot run on fat and meat.â
A small set of footprints led off ahead of the machine but there were also snowmachine tracks. It was as if another snowmachine had gone ahead, but left the person to walk. It made no sense.
Or. Perhaps the snowmachine had come out this way and the rider was headed back when the machine ran out of gas.
That made more sense to Russel, considering the tracks.
But there was nothing, no village, where the footprints were leading. Nothing that Russel knew about at any rate, and if whoever left the tracks was heading for help on foot he had almost no chance of getting anywhere. There were no settlements within walking distance of the snowmachine.
And the tracks were small enough to belong to a child. Or a girl.
He pulled the hook and the team started off silently. They had run steadily now for two days and needed rest. They could sleep running, a doze-sleep, but they needed real rest after the hard work of a long run.
But with the full light Russel could seethe high wisps of clouds that meant a storm was coming.
He wanted to try to catch whoever was ahead before the storm hit. On foot he could not be carrying much of a shelter, nor could he be carrying much food. And if it was a child he would probably not survive a bad storm.
Russel let the dogs adopt a slower trot, but he kept them going steadily, watching the tracks ahead.
At first they didnât seem very fresh. The rising wind had blown them in so that some of them were filled completely. But as the hours passed they seemed to be getting cleaner, newer. Now and then the lead dog dropped his nose to smell them, looking for scent, and Russel could see his ears jerk forward whenever he got a bit.
And when the darkness came again the leader started to run with his nose down all the time, following the smell of the trail that must be fresh, Russel knew, to hold for the dogs.
But now there was wind and more wind. Not as bad as the dreamwind, but getting worse all the time so that the dogs had to lean slightly left into it to keep their balance. And snow.
There was a driving sharp snow with the wind. Not heavy snow, but small and mean and it worked with the force of the wind to get inside clothing, in the eyes, even blow up into the nostrils.
And finally, when he could no longer see the trail, no longer see the front end of the team, could barely make out the two wheel-dogs directly in front of the sled, finally he came to that time when he should stop and hole up in the storm.
And he did not.
He drove them on. They wanted to stop, twice the leader did stop, but Russel used
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