Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

He heads toward the trees, running at first to keep warm, but the icy air cuts into his throat and his nostrils plug. He slows to a fast walk, checking behind him every few minutes to make sure he can still see the house. The tops of the trees sway. Gusts of snow spray over the drifts. The wind is from the north. Myron quickens his pace.

He can see the stark branches now, their gnarled limbs clatter in the breeze. He’s entering the muskeg. He slows and comes to a stop twenty feet from the edge of the woods. He can see the frozen lake that could be mistaken for a field. Clouds of snow surge across its ridges, sweeping clear patches of glassy ice. The lake moans, protesting the weight bearing down on it.

The ice on the paw’s foreleg melts in Myron’s grip. Keep going , he tells himself. He steps onto the crusted layer of glittering ice crystals. Each foot breaks through, grabs at his ankles, scrapes against his shins. He tries to walk quieter, lighter. But he can hear the rustle of his coat. They can hear him. They can smell him. His heart chokes in his throat. He remembers every story he’s ever heard of boys disappearing in the woods. Tales of caution to keep him close to home when he was little. The frozen boy, the drowned boy, the lost boy, the boy who was turned into a tree, the boy eaten by wolves…

If the coyote is still alive, it will be in these woods; that’s where its tracks headed. It might be inside a hollow trunk or in a burrow in the ground, nursing its wound. Animals instinctively retreat to someplace small and enclosed when they are injured. It holds them tight. It hides them. His father has seen animals with deep scars, missing ears and tails, twisted broken limbs, gouged eyes, and somehow they survived. Somehow they healed.

If it isn’t alive, then its spirit is still trapped here. Myron is only a few feet away from the tangled stand of spruce and poplar. He could fling the paw into the dense underbrush and run, but it wouldn’t be enough. It has to know that it was him, nobody else, that should be punished.

It is darker here beside the trees. The snow has drifted lee-side of the trunks. An owl hoots indignantly that a trespasser is approaching. To his right, a branch snaps. The owl goes silent. The wind whistles softly through the branches. Myron holds the paw up to the wilderness. An offering.

He bows his head and lowers his eyes to show his submission. He takes a step forward and then another, expecting the woods to explode any moment in a frenzy of teeth and claws. He climbs up the drift, and when he can no longer free his legs, he crawls. He drops his head lower. He pushes through the snow on his knees . Forgive me. Forgive me.

He reaches the crest and behind it sees a small windswept hollow, a carved ellipse haloing the trunks of two intertwined poplars. Katya calls them the loving trees. Myron reaches into the wilds and lays the paw at the base of the trees.

He holds his trembling hand out to the night and braces himself for his sacrifice. A hand for a hand.

A gust of wind wails through the woods, shaking loose a torrent of snow that pelts his hair, the back of his neck and shoulders. His legs cramp. His arm grows tired and sags. His wrist numbs. His fingers ache from the cold.

The wind subsides. The trees murmur softly. Go , they say. Go.

Myron retreats on hands and knees.

TWO MILES SOUTH, STEFAN RUNS AS THOUGH A PACK OF wild dogs are tearing at his heels. He claws his way over drifts. Icy snow cuts his hands. Snow clogs his boot tops. His cheeks and fingers freeze.

He runs from the money jangling in his pocket, he runs from the empty flask slapping against his ribs, he runs from the hardness between his legs.

He runs knowing it is the only good thing he has ever done.

TCH-TCH-TCH,” TEODOR CALLS THE HORSE. IT DIDN’T greet him at the fence and now, inside the barn, he doesn’t hear its welcoming snort. The wind whips through the rafters. Teodor wipes a drip from his nose. A shiver runs up his back, even his old leather coat can’t keep out the north wind’s chill this morning. The only creatures braving the wind are the crows. He noticed them at the edge of the woods. He’s always hated their jubilant caws celebrating death. He checks the cow. Its teats are full and its stall hasn’t been mucked out yet. Teodor proceeds cautiously. The horse lifts its head over the stall and nods a salute.

“What are you doing, old man?” Teodor asks. “Is everything all right?” He rounds the corner of the stall. “Why are you tied up?”

The horse whinnies. Teodor glances at the water and feed bucket. Both are full.

“Did someone give you breakfast already?” He pats its rump. A puff of dust plumes upward. “You need a brushing.” He rubs his hand along its belly and up its neck. “Move over, give me some room.” He thumps under its ribs. The horse leans in tighter against him. “Move.” Teodor leans against the horse. It presses him against the boards.

Teodor sidles up to its head. “What’s this new game?” The horse blocks him with its nose. It turns its head, so one large eye is looking right at him. “Enough of this.” He slaps the horse’s withers. It flinches but doesn’t budge. He reaches over its back and presses against its side, in an attempt to trick it to lean the other way. The horse pushes harder against him.

“You’re going to move.” The horse tries to rub its head against Teodor’s chest. “No.” He wraps a piece of binder twine around the horse’s nose. The horse rears its head trying to free itself of the constraint. Teodor knows it hates being led this way. “Move.” He tugs the horse’s head sideways. It pulls back. “Goddamn it.” Teodor steps toward the other side of the stall for better leverage. Lesya stands up from her crouched hiding position.

“What the hell are you doing there?” Teodor sputters, angry with himself for not listening to his animal. “Why didn’t you say something? Get out from there!”

Lesya meekly obeys. She steps out of the stall but doesn’t run away. She stares at her feet, her face masked by her hair.

“Are you trying to get stepped on?” Teodor releases the makeshift halter, rubs the horse’s nose, smooths its hurt feelings. He looks at his niece. He hasn’t seen her in months. Each other’s presence affirmed only through the exchange of baskets of eggs and loaves of bread. She looks thinner. Her hair matted; her clothes in need of washing. He realizes that she has been waiting for him and immediately regrets yelling.

Teodor gives the horse the top of a smuggled carrot and pats its side. He walks out of the stall and stops a few feet from Lesya. He crouches low, brings himself to her size. He looks at the straw scattered at her feet, sticking to her stockings.

“Tell me,” Teodor asks as quiet as he can.

Lesya swallows. She speaks so softly Teodor barely hears. “Tato’s gone.”

He glances up at her hidden face, he can see a bruise on her cheek.

Teodor empties his voice of rage. “Did he do that?”

Lesya shakes her head no. She whispers, “Petro’s gone too.”

PETRO PULLS HIS COLLAR UP HIGHER AROUND HIS NECK. The constant north wind buffets him from behind, blasting him with ice-sharp snow scoured from the fields. He can stand the steady wind; it’s the high gusts that threaten to knock him down. He hears them coming, a low rumble like a train far off in the distance. He stops as another gust whips around him and disappears in a cyclone of snow. His eyes water. He tries to blink away the endless white on white.

He pushes forward, following the dim recesses of his father’s tracks. The footprints have become vague in the last hour, the crisp edges erased by the blowing snow. Drifts cut across his path, eradicating the trail for brief sections. Once he veered too far right and missed the track. Panicked, he retraced his steps, knowing his father couldn’t just disappear. He ran in circles, crisscrossing and backtracking, almost ready to give up hope when he stumbled upon the trail, stretching toward the south, in a straight, unerring line. He looked back at his own erratic track, a wild careening scribble, and knew his father would be displeased by his untidiness. He stepped into his father’s boot print and vowed not to miss another step.