open.
“Go, Jack! Go! Go after her!” Her voice was louder and shriller than she’d meant. He startled, then looked from Mabel to the woods and back again. At last he charged after the girl, first at a steady walk, then picking up his pace and trotting through the snow. His legs looked long and awkward as his big boots thumped beneath him. Nothing like the nimble sprint of the girl.
She waited at the window. Occasionally she went to the door, opened it, and looked out in all directions, but the yard and woods beyond were empty. Minutes went by, then an hour and another. She considered dressing in her winter boots and coat and going after them, but she knew that was not wise. Night came quickly on these short winter days.
As the cabin darkened, Mabel lit the oil lamps, put more wood on the fire, and tried to stop her rhythmic pacing. She thought of her mother, how often she had paced and wrung her hands when Mabel’s father didn’t come home from some late meeting at the university. She thought of the wives of soldiers, gold miners and trappers, drunks and adulterers, all waiting long into the night. Why was it always the woman’s fate to pace and fret and wait?
Mabel finally made herself sit by the woodstove with her sewing and tried to lose herself in the stitches. She didn’t know she had fallen asleep in the chair until Jack came in. His beard and mustache were caked with ice and his pant legs were stiff and snow-covered. He didn’t bother to take off his boots or stomp the snow from them but stumbled to the woodstove and held out his bare hands. He hadn’t been wearing gloves when she’d sent him after the girl. She took his hands in her own. Jack cringed at her touch.
“Are you frostbit?”
“I don’t know. Cold, that’s for sure.” His words slurred together, either from the ice in his mustache or from fatigue. Mabel rubbed his hands to move warm blood to the tips of the fingers.
“Did you catch up with her? What did you see?”
He slid his hands out of hers and pulled some of the ice from his mustache and beard. He took off his boots and then his coat and pants, which he hung from nails behind the woodstove to dry. The cabin smelled of warm, wet wool.
“Did you hear me? What did you find?”
He didn’t look up when he spoke, but instead turned from her and stumbled to their bedroom. “Nothing. I’m tired, Mabel. Too tired to talk.”
He climbed beneath the covers and was soon snoring softly, leaving Mabel alone again by the woodstove.
CHAPTER 11
J ack had always considered himself if not brave, then at least competent and sure. He was wary of true danger, of flighty horses that could break your back and farm tools that could sever limbs, but he had always scoffed at the superstitious and mystical. Alone in the depths of the wilderness, however, in the fading winter light, he had discovered in himself an animal-like fear. What shamed him all the more was that he could not name it. If Mabel had asked what terrified him when he followed the girl into the mountains, he could only have answered with the timid uncertainty of a child scared of the dark. Disturbing thoughts whirled through his brain, stories he must have heard as a boy about forest hags and men who turned into bears. It wasn’t the girl that frightened him as much as the strange world of snow and rock and hushed trees that she navigated with ease.
The girl had deftly jumped logs and scampered through the woods like a fairy. He had gotten close enough to notice the brown fur of her hat and the knee-high leather moccasins that bound her feet. By the woodpile, when he had spoken to her, he had even caught sight of her blond eyelashes and the intensely blue eyes, and when he asked if she liked the doll, he saw her smile. The shy, sweet smile of a little girl.
But then she had become a phantom, a silent blur. As Jack tried to follow her, an icy fog moved through the forest. Minute crystals of ice filled the air and gathered as
“Go, Jack! Go! Go after her!” Her voice was louder and shriller than she’d meant. He startled, then looked from Mabel to the woods and back again. At last he charged after the girl, first at a steady walk, then picking up his pace and trotting through the snow. His legs looked long and awkward as his big boots thumped beneath him. Nothing like the nimble sprint of the girl.
She waited at the window. Occasionally she went to the door, opened it, and looked out in all directions, but the yard and woods beyond were empty. Minutes went by, then an hour and another. She considered dressing in her winter boots and coat and going after them, but she knew that was not wise. Night came quickly on these short winter days.
As the cabin darkened, Mabel lit the oil lamps, put more wood on the fire, and tried to stop her rhythmic pacing. She thought of her mother, how often she had paced and wrung her hands when Mabel’s father didn’t come home from some late meeting at the university. She thought of the wives of soldiers, gold miners and trappers, drunks and adulterers, all waiting long into the night. Why was it always the woman’s fate to pace and fret and wait?
Mabel finally made herself sit by the woodstove with her sewing and tried to lose herself in the stitches. She didn’t know she had fallen asleep in the chair until Jack came in. His beard and mustache were caked with ice and his pant legs were stiff and snow-covered. He didn’t bother to take off his boots or stomp the snow from them but stumbled to the woodstove and held out his bare hands. He hadn’t been wearing gloves when she’d sent him after the girl. She took his hands in her own. Jack cringed at her touch.
“Are you frostbit?”
“I don’t know. Cold, that’s for sure.” His words slurred together, either from the ice in his mustache or from fatigue. Mabel rubbed his hands to move warm blood to the tips of the fingers.
“Did you catch up with her? What did you see?”
He slid his hands out of hers and pulled some of the ice from his mustache and beard. He took off his boots and then his coat and pants, which he hung from nails behind the woodstove to dry. The cabin smelled of warm, wet wool.
“Did you hear me? What did you find?”
He didn’t look up when he spoke, but instead turned from her and stumbled to their bedroom. “Nothing. I’m tired, Mabel. Too tired to talk.”
He climbed beneath the covers and was soon snoring softly, leaving Mabel alone again by the woodstove.
CHAPTER 11
J ack had always considered himself if not brave, then at least competent and sure. He was wary of true danger, of flighty horses that could break your back and farm tools that could sever limbs, but he had always scoffed at the superstitious and mystical. Alone in the depths of the wilderness, however, in the fading winter light, he had discovered in himself an animal-like fear. What shamed him all the more was that he could not name it. If Mabel had asked what terrified him when he followed the girl into the mountains, he could only have answered with the timid uncertainty of a child scared of the dark. Disturbing thoughts whirled through his brain, stories he must have heard as a boy about forest hags and men who turned into bears. It wasn’t the girl that frightened him as much as the strange world of snow and rock and hushed trees that she navigated with ease.
The girl had deftly jumped logs and scampered through the woods like a fairy. He had gotten close enough to notice the brown fur of her hat and the knee-high leather moccasins that bound her feet. By the woodpile, when he had spoken to her, he had even caught sight of her blond eyelashes and the intensely blue eyes, and when he asked if she liked the doll, he saw her smile. The shy, sweet smile of a little girl.
But then she had become a phantom, a silent blur. As Jack tried to follow her, an icy fog moved through the forest. Minute crystals of ice filled the air and gathered as
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