Into the White

The wolves are out again. I can hear them, their hollow wails in the pines, slicing through a storm of snow. It’s my turn to get the wood in. It was my turn last night and the night before and the night before that, too, but Father says I’m mistaken. He’s so careful not to slur his words, I know not to argue. Instead, I offer a skinny smile. He says I look like I’m fed on lemons and sugar, and he’ll fix my face if I don’t fix it first.

I pull on the old boots he keeps by the door. They’re always too big, no matter how tight I pull the laces and wind the ends around and around my ankles. They used to be his best boots, buffed brown leather, the colour of honey. They turned black with age and damp and rot. My father’s eyes were brown once too.

The shed is fifty steps away exactly in this kind of snow when you take into account the weight of the wood sled. I know because I’ve counted. It’s easy to miss the shed in bad weather, and there’s nothing past it but the forest. I’m cold, and I can feel watchful gazes trace my path as I walk. Or maybe I imagine them. I can see thin skeins of frosted breath rise through the trees in the dark, or maybe it’s only the mist. I go step by step. I don’t lose count even as the storm begins to settle.

At the woodshed, the old door lurches on its hinges like a drunk. I feel for the axe near the edge of the doorframe, even before I turn the light on. The sleet and the wind whistle through cracks in the window and a gap in the wall. The bare bulb sways on its frayed cord, and the wood is wet and fetid. I can’t recall when we last stacked it neatly. That was always Mama’s job.

I chop the logs fast. Father says I’m stronger than I look and fierce. It used to make me proud when he said that, I don’t remember why. I pile up the sled and go to put the axe back in its place. In the doorway, between me and the house, stands a thin grey wolf. Still as winter. Looking at me with a steady gaze, its head held low. Fear clutches at my gut like a punch.

Father always said to run if you can from a fight, but if you can’t, go in early and hard, use your fists and teeth and everything. Be wild like an animal, and you’ll win, sure as anything. I used to believe him. The grey wolf glitters sharp under the glow of a luminous moon. I put down my axe and step into the white. Reach out my hand. I don’t remember why.