Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

Myron scans the snow for fresh tracks, but he and Ivan are the only animals foolish enough to traverse snow this deep. He’s only trapped a dozen rabbits this winter and the last two were skin and bone. Maria never complains about the meager catch, but he feels the shame of failing his family.

The first rabbit he skinned, he tore the pelt and nicked the stomach. The rancid contents and stool poured onto the floor and contaminated the meat. He had said he knew how to do it. His father skinned the next rabbit. He set up a truss in the corner and strung the rabbit up by its rear legs. He began by sharpening the knife, polishing the blade against the grinding stone in smooth circular movements. He showed Myron how to test its sharpness by running his thumb along the razor-sharp edge.

With a surgeon’s precision, he made the first incision, cutting cuffs around the paws, under the tail, over the backside. Then, grabbing the skin, he pulled it down over the belly, carving through the fat, until the entire skin was turned inside out, draped over the rabbit’s head. Its entire musculature exposed, bloody and raw. He opened the chest and stomach cavity next, dissecting the heart and liver for Maria’s stew pot. Then, with one final pull, he yanked away the pelt hooding the head. The animal no longer resembled a rabbit. It had become meat. Teodor handed the knife to Myron and stepped back. Only once did he take his son’s hand and adjust the angle of the blade. Myron didn’t make any more mistakes.

Whenever Myron skinned a rabbit, Ivan watched intently over his shoulders, mimicking every move. Maria lined Myron’s and Teodor’s boots with the pelts for insulation and stitched together a baby blanket for Anna. Ivan added a rabbit skull to his treasure box.

“Can I take it from the snare?” Ivan hollers, the words punctuated by his breathless gasps.

“There might not be any rabbits.” Myron, impatient, stops to let him catch up. Ivan pushes through the snow, lifting his boots high, clouds of white puffing from his mouth like a steam engine. His body is overheated in the extra clothes, each leg weighs ten extra pounds; he kneels in the snow pausing for air. He blinks his eyes, his eyelashes sticky with ice. Myron notices his brother’s smallness and remembers that he’s still just a kid.

“Why don’t you wait here?” Myron suggests.

Ivan struggles to his feet. “I’m comin’.” He trudges past his big brother, determined to get to the rabbit first. Angry that Myron would think that he would give up. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. He sinks to his waist; he heaves the other leg over, and sinks to his knee. He pushes his upper body up, his hands disappear to his wrists; icy snow crams under the cuffs. He hits a crusted drift; the snow holds his weight and he scrambles across. He doesn’t notice the tracks leading up from the lake, loping toward the stone wall, but Myron does.

Myron veers off the path to check their freshness. They are large prints, dog tracks. The gait is long and bounding. Coyote. It came through a few hours ago at the most. Myron scans the horizon. There’s no sign that the animal returned the same way. He drops the gun to the crook of his elbow. “Ivan, wait up.”

But Ivan doesn’t hear him through the scarf and hat muffling his ears. He is running now. He’s only thirty feet from the wall. He scans the whiteness for any sign of a rabbit. He shoves the scarf away from his eyes. The cold numbs his forehead and he pulls it back down too far, covering one eye. Myron chases after him. The snow grabs at his legs and ankles, slowing him down. “Ivan!”

Ivan hears the crying first. He thinks it is a baby. He turns his head, peering through the slit, trying to locate the source. Stone/ wall/gray/snow/white— Help, help, help , it cries.

“I can’t see you.” Ivan runs blindly toward the wall. Help. Help! He looks to the east and to the west. White on white. Suddenly he is afraid that he is all alone. He turns, searching for Myron, terrified he won’t be right behind him. Myron rushes past, gun in hand, nearly knocking him over.

The rabbit twists and lurches; the snare is caught around its hip, tightening with each frantic lunge. It throws itself at the end of the line, flops back spinning, wrapping the wire around its torso. It wails. Myron lunges for the rabbit’s head and presses it into the snow. The flailing animal kicks and writhes. Its back feet claw Myron’s arms, and it breaks free. It runs, until the wire tether slams it to the ground. Myron grabs it by the waist and wrestles it down. He tears off his mitten and fumbles for the club. He hits it once behind the ears.

The rabbit thrashes and leaps away, dragging the wire around Myron’s ankle. It circles around and slams against his leg. Again and again. Myron tries to free his foot from the tangle of wire, but the rabbit’s frenzy cinches the snare tighter. The cold metal strangles his leg, cuts off his circulation. With his other foot, he steps on the rabbit. Its head wrenches backward, its eyes roll back looking up at him. Guilty , they say, guilty . He takes aim and fires.

Ivan wishes he could have closed his eyes. White on white. Red on white. Red on red. The rabbit’s feet twitch, its body convulses, but Ivan knows it is dead. It has stopped crying.

Myron untangles the snare from his leg and kicks away the rabbit. He can still feel its feet thumping against his shin. He still sees its eyes accusing him. He keeps the rifle trained on the animal in case he needs to use another bullet. He hears the soft, whistling exhalation of its lungs. He hears the gurgle of blood. When he finally stops hearing the swish, swish of its paws against the snow, he turns his back to Ivan and staggers to the next snare twenty feet away. With each step he fights to control his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Grateful that the cold is numbing his insides.

He approaches the snare warily. Empty. But he sees signs of a struggle. The log pole that anchors the snare is yanked sideways. Flecks of blood speckle the snow. It sprays across the stone wall. The snow has been trampled by something larger than a rabbit. Coyote. Its chaotic prints obliterate the path. A coyote got this one. He is relieved there won’t be another rabbit. He digs the wire out of the snow and follows the line.

He yanks the snare free of the ice and snow. A paw dangles from the noose. The wire has cut deep into the flesh, sawed into the bone. Above it, the limb has been chewed through. Torn flesh, encrusted with ice, haloes the crushed bone. Myron gently loosens the wire and gingerly holds the coyote’s foot. The tendons are taut, the hair coarse. The pads are rough and hard, crisscrossed with scars, the nails are long and splintered. Tufts of fur curl between the toes, caked with snow and ice. The end of the savaged limb has already frozen, congealing the blood.

Myron follows the bloody trail to the end of the wall. Three paw tracks groping forward. Drops of red. A front paw missing. He looks across the vast expanse of field toward the bush surrounding the lake. He half expects to see the coyote crumpled in the snow. But it’s not. It’s hiding somewhere, licking its wound, dull to the pain. Slowly dying. He considers leaving the paw there or burying it, but instead he pockets it, disregarding the fleeting unease of possessing something so fierce.

He feels the cold nails pressing against his leg as he walks back to Ivan. His baby brother squats beside the rabbit, stroking its back with a mittened hand. The other hand he has over its face, where there were once eyes. He speaks quietly into its long ears. He looks up at Myron.

“He’s okay now,” Ivan reassures him. “He was scared because he was all alone.”

Myron doesn’t try to understand. “You can carry it back,” he offers.