Yukiko Motoya - The Lonesome Bodybuilder - Stories

The dogs seemed to have no idea I was behind the tree, and were scattered in all directions. I tried to get closer to see what they were up to, but the ice at the water’s edge was thin, and far too treacherous. I stayed where I was and squinted at the dogs beginning to jump up and down. At first, they only jumped up about as high as they were tall. Gradually their time in the air seemed to increase, until they were jumping so high that they could have cleared the head of a person standing. It seemed that they were each trying to make a hole in the ice. Their front paws made digging movements, trying to break through the surface. Before long, each dog succeeded in making its hole, and jumped swiftly into the water. When the last one had dived in, they were nowhere to be seen. It was as if they’d melted away.

One of them poked its head out of its hole in the ice and sounded a short, sharp cry. It’s drowning and calling for help, I thought in alarm, but in the next moment another dog stuck its head out of the freezing water in a different spot and made the same birdlike cry. More and more dogs popped their heads out from the ice, repeating the cry. It dawned on me what was going on. Swimming as a pack, the dogs were forming a large circle under the ice. And, using their cries, they were slowly closing the circle toward its center. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I walked around the lake, and when I found an area where the ice seemed thick enough to hold me, I leapt onto it. Using my gloves like windshield wipers, I scraped away the frost and peered through the ice.

The only thing I could see was gray muddiness at the bottom of the lake.

I made my way back to the cabin alone, picturing the dogs gracefully chasing fish through clear water.

That weekend, I woke to the morning I’d always wished for. Every last thing in the world seemed to have frozen over. The All-Bran I kept in the cupboard was in clumps so hard it was like eating hail, and seeing the icicles protruding from the roof I felt like I’d been transported overnight to a grotto filled with stalactites.

Once I’d put on as many layers as I could, shivering all the while, I took an empty bucket and shovel and headed to the garage. The dogs scampered around me, keeping close to my feet as if to hurry me along. By the time I reached the garage, taking three or four times longer than usual, sweat was pouring out of me as though I were in a sauna.

I made sure the generator’s battery indicator was green. I checked how many liters of diesel fuel were left, then decided to dig out some more snow tools. I discovered some emergency tubes of chocolate, years past their use-by date. Finally, I took some old, dusty blankets and went around to the back of the garage. I looked down into the well, and a solemn chill plastered my face. The extreme cold had formed a miniature ice rink in there.

“What shall we do?” I asked the dogs behind me. “Can’t get you any water.”

The one with the collar marked PASTRAMI tried to climb up onto the well, scrabbling with his paws. “Get off!” I told him, and decided to do what I could about the frozen pulley at least.

I brought out a chisel and a mallet from the garage, and as I pounded like a blacksmith with all my might, the frozen rope finally started to give. I took hold of the rope with both hands and gave it a hard tug, and the layer of ice that had formed over the mechanism came away with a clatter as the pulley quickly began to turn.

That was when it happened. Pastrami leapt up onto the well, somehow got into the bucket, and disappeared down the hole, looking pleased with himself.

“Pastrami!” I shouted, but it was too late. He was yapping and rolling around in anguish at the bottom, having slammed onto the thick ice. Frantic, I worked the rope, raising and lowering the bucket that had fallen with him, trying to get him to jump back in it, but the bewildered dog could hardly stand up. “Go get help!” I called to the dogs crowded behind me. I heard the footfalls of several dogs running off. I leaned into the well and stretched my arm down, shouting, “Pastrami! Pastrami!” but the yapping cries reverberating up the well were overwhelming and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

When I came to, I was slumped by the edge of the well. Pastrami’s cries had ceased, as had the sound of his forepaws scraping at the ice.

“What should I do if an animal jumps into the well?” I asked. The power lines had gone down under the weight of snow, and it was late at night before I got through to him on the phone.

“Animal in the well?” he said, a little sleepily.

“Yeah.” I was wrapped in old blankets from the garage. I’d tried to keep my mind occupied all afternoon, chopping firewood and doing other things, but when night fell, I suddenly felt completely drained, and found myself unable even to stand up. The dogs had stayed close by me through the day, like watchdogs.

“Actually, I did find something like a weasel drowned in it once.”

“Was it winter?”

“Summer.”

“Then that’s a different situation.”

“I think I got someone from the town to get it out. I could give you the number. What is it? A raccoon?”

I told him that I couldn’t really tell because it was all the way at the bottom. He suggested it might be dangerous, and that I should just put the cover back on and leave the animal there. Wolves sometimes prowled the area looking for food, he said. He would come by with his family on his next day off to take care of it. My mind kept replaying Pastrami trying to jump up into the well bucket, and I was terribly tired, so I told him that I wanted to go to bed now. “If you ever feel in real danger…,” he began, then went on to tell me how to unlock the cupboard in the bedroom, which he’d never let me touch before. The emergency hunting rifle was hidden in there. I told him I had no need for such a thing, and hung up.

I was checking that the drafty living-room window was properly closed so I could go to sleep, when I thought I heard the faint cry of a dog. I raised my head. Was it the wind howling? With a storm lamp and a shovel, and with the other dogs in tow, I made my way through the snow toward the well.

The bucket was rattling against the pulley as the wind blew. I stopped a few paces from the well and raised the lamp. “Pastrami?” I said in a small voice, almost to myself. “Pastrami?”

I thought I heard the keening cry of a dog in distress.

“Pastrami, are you alive?” I called again.

This time I could definitely make out the dog crying. I flung myself toward the well. In the lamplight I could see Pastrami, getting up on the ice! I left the lamp and the dogs, retrieved a chainsaw from the garage, and returned to the cabin. I sawed off the ladder that led to the attic, getting showered in sawdust, and loaded it on the red sled that I used for transporting firewood. Once I was back at the well, with the aid of some of the dogs, I lowered the ladder into the well, careful not to break the ice, and called the dog’s name. I wanted him to take hold of the ladder somehow. But Pastrami only looked up at me with his tongue hanging out, and wouldn’t make a move.

The ice at the base of the well seemed thick, and gave no sign of cracking when I tapped the ladder on it. I screwed up my courage and tentatively climbed over the edge, then gingerly stepped onto the ladder. Slowly, cautiously, I descended. Pastrami wagged his tail weakly as I approached. Just as I’d put one foot on the ice and reached for him, there was the slight cracking sound of something giving way, and all the blood drained out of my body. With bated breath, I coaxed the stone-cold hunk of fur down into the front of my jacket. I put my hand on the ladder to climb back up, but stopped short. The other dogs had surrounded the rim of the well and were staring down at us, motionless.