Shandi Mitchell - Under This Unbroken Sky

The next morning Ivan found the calf in the dumping ground. That’s where everything went that died. Five birch trees grew there, nestled in a tangle of tamarack and spruce. In their shade were the remnants of their lives: broken bottles and plates, a bucket without a bottom, a cracked ax blade, one shoe, a rusted pan, twisted wire, heads of chickens, bones of cats and a dog, and now the calf. He knew it would be there. It was still wrapped in burlap with only its snout poking out.

Ivan stayed with the calf all afternoon. He found whatever objects he thought the calf might like and set them in a circle around it. The top of a blue bottle, a pile of fresh-picked spring grass, a prairie crocus, and a strip of white birch-bark. He talked to it, sang it songs, and brushed away the flies. He didn’t uncover it. He just wanted it to know that it wasn’t alone.

The next day, when he returned to visit the calf, it was gone. He searched a quarter-mile, but all he found was the burlap ripped to shreds. He wanted to believe that the calf had got better and walked away, but even back then his four-year-old heart knew the truth was much darker. That night he stayed with the cow. He looked in her eyes and could see tears deep inside. He stroked her nose and sang her bedtime songs until Maria carried him to bed.

The coyote yips again and Ivan shivers. It’s much closer now. Teodor protectively puts his hand on his son’s head. “Come on, let’s get inside.” They quicken their pace. They are only thirty feet from the shack when another howl rips through the night. It sounds as though it is directly in front of them. The fine hairs on Ivan’s arms bristle. Teodor stops him, his arm across the boy’s chest. He mouths the words Don’t move . The cry climbs in exquisite pain before collapsing into a guttural groan.

Ivan’s teeth chatter. His bare feet no longer feel the cold ground, his toes curl into the dirt. His nightdress clings to his suddenly damp body. Teodor circles around him, facing the night. In the distance, there is an answering call. A twig snaps. Teodor looks to the paddock. The horse is quiet. The night is calm. An owl whowhos . Ivan holds his breath.

“Let’s go.” Teodor takes long strides as he herds Ivan ahead of him, poised to grab him and lift him above his head if the animal attacks. He wishes he had his .22. He knows it’s loaded just inside the door, on the right-hand jamb, one bullet in the chamber. A box of ammo is in his coat pocket, if it’s still there after all this time. They just have to get around the corner; it’s only a few feet to the door. If he needs the gun, he can push Ivan into the house, grab the rifle, shut the door, and still get a shot off. The only time coyotes attack humans is if they are crazy. Teodor saw a dog go crazy.

It belonged to Old Man Kuryk, who worked the land adjacent to their old homestead. A big, lumbering jet-black dog that would lick you to death begging you to play. One day, Kuryk came by, said the devil had come to his house. The dog was skin and bone and frothing at the mouth. It was throwing itself at the locked granary door with such force the door was shuddering. The animal raged in frenzied bursts, barking hysterically, its claws shearing the wood. Then it would stop. In one of the lulls, Teodor opened the door. The animal lay on its belly, its head pressed to the ground, one leg broken, panting and moaning. It watched Teodor, its tail weakly thumping. It made a low plaintive whine and lunged. It took three bullets to put it down.

Two more steps and they’d be around the corner. Ivan is running now, trying not to trip, as he is pushed along by his father. He hears a sound and looks back expecting to see a coyote charge from the outhouse, its teeth gnashing. He is still looking back when they round the corner and he runs directly into Anna.

His throat constricts to stifle a scream. His arms want to fight, his feet want to run, his heart wants to burst, but his mind recognizes the lady-in-white and paralyzes his body. In that fraction of a second, Teodor yanks him backward, ready to slay whatever demon is ahead.

Anna stands still on the porch. Her white cotton nightgown reaches to her ankles and glows blue in the moon’s light. She continues to stare straight ahead for another moment before turning her head toward the man and the boy gaping wide-eyed at her. She looks down at Ivan and then slowly up to Teodor. Her eyes blink as if waking up.

“Anna?” Teodor is shocked by his sister’s thinness, her empty eyes and shorn hair. She gives a small smile, and there is a brief glimmer of recognition.

“They’re close tonight. Did you hear them, Teodor?”

“I heard it.” He tries to look past the night. “Did you see it? Damn thing sounded like it was right here.”

“No, I didn’t see them.” And she looks away.

Teodor feels the night’s chill, or perhaps he shivers from the wistful tone in Anna’s voice, or her deathly stillness. “You’d better go inside,” he tells her, not knowing what else to say. “It’s not safe.”

Anna laughs a quiet, empty laugh. “I’m not afraid of the night.” She touches his cheek with ice-cold fingers. “I’m glad you’re finally home. Now I can sleep.” She kisses his cheek and goes inside.

Teodor wonders if he should follow her inside and find out what’s happened to her, but he doesn’t know the questions and decides to wait until daylight when he can see how things really look.

He remembers Ivan and realizes that he has him in a bear hug, pulled hard against his legs, sheltered in the safety of his body. He eases his hold. “Okay?”

Ivan nods unconvincingly.

“Let’s go back to sleep.”

Far, far off the wild dogs yip and bark. “You see, they’re going away. One of them got lost, but now it’s found its family. Everything’s all right.”

Ivan wants to laugh and tell his father that he wasn’t scared and if that coyote tried to eat him, he’d tear off its head and use its hide for a saddle blanket. But he can’t, because a droplet of pee is still dribbling down his leg.

TEODOR WAKES AT DAWN AND GETS DRESSED BEFORE even Maria has risen. The room is full of the soft sound of sleep as he shuts the door. The morning air is cool and damp, but the sky is clear. A blush of red announces the imminent arrival of the sun. Already the meadowlarks and sparrows are heralding the coming light. A hundred, maybe even a thousand songs vying to be heard. A hymn of thanks for having survived another day. In this vast land that goes on as far as the eye can see, Teodor is acutely aware that he is the only one witnessing this moment and he is grateful. He heads to the barn, careful to avoid the mud puddles that may sully his polished boots.

Inside he is greeted by the sweet smell of rotting hay and manure. The air is still and warm, filled with the cow’s heat. A fresh cow pie steams on the dirt floor. The cow moos. Teodor rubs her forelock and she rubs her head appreciatively against the boards. The barn has always been one of Teodor’s favorite retreats.

On the other farm, Teodor sometimes woke before dawn just to grab a few minutes alone to sit in the doorway of the barn to watch the sky slowly brighten. He’d strain to hear the first small birds begin to chirp, long before he could see any light. He’d listen to the mice shuffling through the long grass, racing home with their night hauls. Sometimes he could hear cats slithering close to the edge of buildings. He’d see a flash of their reflective eyes and the cats would freeze, mid-stride, surprised that their invisibility had been compromised. Once, he saw an owl grab a rabbit that had ventured out too early in the morning. Another few minutes and the owl might have been asleep and the rabbit would have been filling its belly. Hunger made it careless.