light retreat. The dungeon smelled of mold. Far off she heard water dripping.
I haul Brooks to the tent door and push him in.
He smells like meat and fresh blood. The smell will advertise us to animals passing in the night. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Lock the image of that bear out of your mind.
I sit down, kick off my boots, arrange my defenses inside one boot by my head and go to sleep, an arm flung over Brooks. I will myself not to dream. In the morning, I think, I’ll decide what to do. It wasn’t the bear’s fault. It’s not like he was vicious or cruel. He was only trying to eat some berries.
My sleep is empty, a long blank hallway with slammed doors on both sides. When I wake once, I force myself to concentrate on my story.
8
In the Dungeon
Then began a dark time for the princess. There was no action possible. Nothing changed or happened for such a long time that she was unaware of the passage of time. But still, in the distance, water dripped. Soon she realized someone was whistling in time to the drops.
“Who is it?” called the princess, standing to attention in the blackness. She was so relieved to hear her voice, any voice, that she shouted it again and again.
“No need to shout,” said a cheerful voice in return. “Talk softly and I’ll walk to your voice.”
It was the prince, her beloved prince. She was no longer alone.
“Oh, Brooks,” I choke out. He whines and licks his wound. I play with his droopy ears and then slide out. Blackflies are waiting on the screen. They swarm my face, crawling into the creases by my eyes and behind my ears. I smear their carcasses into my sweat. Brooks has to get better, because I sure don’t know what to do.
In the darkness, touch is the loudest sense.
The prince dropped to his knees before the princess and kissed her clammy hand until it prickled with warmth.
Brooks is licking my hand, serious washing licks.
“Cut it out!”
The sun is already high. It’s another hot fall day in the forest. I light a fire, and when the twigs and branches have caught, I coax Brooks to join me. He lies by the fire on his belly. I boil water and drink hot juice from powder. I boil water again and add oats and butter and dried fruit. Brooks’s wound gapes open. I see the skin layer and underneath it—steak. How does something with a personality become meat? His ears are soft as Arctic cotton grass. When I stroke them, he slides closer to me so his head rests on my lap. He thinks I can make him better, I guess.
I eat slowly with my cottonwood spoon, forcing myself to swallow. Halfway through the pot, the porridge begins to taste good: hot and sweet. I finish it fast before my stomach rebels and then shove the pot to Brooks to lick.
He doesn’t even turn his head. Seems the last of his energy went into cleaning my hand.
It’s farther back to the road than if we go on to the cabin. At the cabin Brooks can snooze in comfort by the woodstove. So should I stay put or continue? It’s only growing colder.
At the cabin I can heat water in the washbasin and thoroughly clean his wound. There should be old dog food and, most important, there should be salt in the cache for soaking the cut. I have a couple of spoonfuls that will have to do until we get there. Mom always uses salt for keeping cuts from getting infected.
And, of course, if I go back now I’ll never know what happened to Dad.
But will Brooks make it?
Gray jays light on the spruce branches hanging far above the flames. Downriver, a raven caws and slowly flaps toward us. White dots slide over the mountain. When I focus the monocle, I see ewes and lambs napping in the afternoon heat on a rocky shelf, fresh snow patches directly above them.
I wash the pot in the creek and dip its bottom lip under the green water to fill. I hang a pole over the fire, weighing the end with stones so it hangs at the right angle. When the water’s hot, I pour some in my cup with a pinch of salt, find a clean (more
I haul Brooks to the tent door and push him in.
He smells like meat and fresh blood. The smell will advertise us to animals passing in the night. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Lock the image of that bear out of your mind.
I sit down, kick off my boots, arrange my defenses inside one boot by my head and go to sleep, an arm flung over Brooks. I will myself not to dream. In the morning, I think, I’ll decide what to do. It wasn’t the bear’s fault. It’s not like he was vicious or cruel. He was only trying to eat some berries.
My sleep is empty, a long blank hallway with slammed doors on both sides. When I wake once, I force myself to concentrate on my story.
8
In the Dungeon
Then began a dark time for the princess. There was no action possible. Nothing changed or happened for such a long time that she was unaware of the passage of time. But still, in the distance, water dripped. Soon she realized someone was whistling in time to the drops.
“Who is it?” called the princess, standing to attention in the blackness. She was so relieved to hear her voice, any voice, that she shouted it again and again.
“No need to shout,” said a cheerful voice in return. “Talk softly and I’ll walk to your voice.”
It was the prince, her beloved prince. She was no longer alone.
“Oh, Brooks,” I choke out. He whines and licks his wound. I play with his droopy ears and then slide out. Blackflies are waiting on the screen. They swarm my face, crawling into the creases by my eyes and behind my ears. I smear their carcasses into my sweat. Brooks has to get better, because I sure don’t know what to do.
In the darkness, touch is the loudest sense.
The prince dropped to his knees before the princess and kissed her clammy hand until it prickled with warmth.
Brooks is licking my hand, serious washing licks.
“Cut it out!”
The sun is already high. It’s another hot fall day in the forest. I light a fire, and when the twigs and branches have caught, I coax Brooks to join me. He lies by the fire on his belly. I boil water and drink hot juice from powder. I boil water again and add oats and butter and dried fruit. Brooks’s wound gapes open. I see the skin layer and underneath it—steak. How does something with a personality become meat? His ears are soft as Arctic cotton grass. When I stroke them, he slides closer to me so his head rests on my lap. He thinks I can make him better, I guess.
I eat slowly with my cottonwood spoon, forcing myself to swallow. Halfway through the pot, the porridge begins to taste good: hot and sweet. I finish it fast before my stomach rebels and then shove the pot to Brooks to lick.
He doesn’t even turn his head. Seems the last of his energy went into cleaning my hand.
It’s farther back to the road than if we go on to the cabin. At the cabin Brooks can snooze in comfort by the woodstove. So should I stay put or continue? It’s only growing colder.
At the cabin I can heat water in the washbasin and thoroughly clean his wound. There should be old dog food and, most important, there should be salt in the cache for soaking the cut. I have a couple of spoonfuls that will have to do until we get there. Mom always uses salt for keeping cuts from getting infected.
And, of course, if I go back now I’ll never know what happened to Dad.
But will Brooks make it?
Gray jays light on the spruce branches hanging far above the flames. Downriver, a raven caws and slowly flaps toward us. White dots slide over the mountain. When I focus the monocle, I see ewes and lambs napping in the afternoon heat on a rocky shelf, fresh snow patches directly above them.
I wash the pot in the creek and dip its bottom lip under the green water to fill. I hang a pole over the fire, weighing the end with stones so it hangs at the right angle. When the water’s hot, I pour some in my cup with a pinch of salt, find a clean (more
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