【by Juan Garcia】

The wind howled through the shuddering rafters of the building, nearly blocking out the
barks and howls of the sled dogs in the kennels. They were warm enough from the chill in their
heavy coats of frost-gossamered fur. They romped and bounced among the falling snow with the
occasional snap and growl to signal an impending wrestling match. Many were bulky beasts built
for the hard pulls of hundred-mile crossings in sun darkened lands, as they were bred generation
upon generations ago. They fought with ferocious joy over scattered pieces of seal blubber, their
jaws reddened with their torn meals. The ground was peppermint with scarlet splashes clashing
with the padded arctic snow.

Besra watched his lead dog, Ada, scratch herself among the shimmer of falling
snowflakes in the kennel pen he had rented. The lead dogs were often smaller than those further
back in the line, but bright and sharp like speartips. She lounged in the corner of the pen while
the larger wheeldogs, those positioned at the back of the line closer to the sled, clashed and
rumbled among the scattered meat. Buldo, a hefty malamute with reddened lips, gave one of the
teamdogs, Storm, a vicious snap after it had come too close to its food. Besra saw fur fly as the
teamdog whimpered aside. Immediately he gave a two-finger whistle that pierced the open air
with a loud keening. The dogs perked up their ears and ceased their fighting. Buldo begrudgingly
took a piece of blubber and carried it away from the center.

Besra would have no injured dogs on his ride tonight.

In the cold north, even the sun seemed to shrink away from the biting winds and barren
wastes. It hid its face early in the day, reserving its warmth for more favorable lands. The sun
was a fickle ally, rarely to be trusted. But even in the far reaches of the world the moon stayed
with them. There was a loyal companion, and an honest one as well. There were no false
promises given by the moon, no pandering or facades of kindness. Every night it was there with
its dim white light, steady. While it did not warm any soul that looked upon its pockmarked face,
it lit the path before them, so that men were not taken in the night by the sleek polar bears that
prowled the cracked sheets, or so that they didn’t fall into a ravine and break their necks.

Footsteps crunching on the snow behind him signaled the caretaker’s arrival. Besra
turned to see another man in heavy furs and padded wools march up and pull down his scarf to
reveal a bristling, unkempt mustache. The dogman gave him a crooked yellow smile and offered
a gloved hand. His breath steamed out into the frozen air. “Carn. Nice to knowya.”

“Besra.”

“Besra Hughes?” asked Carn.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Besra felt the distant sting of that question for a very small moment.

“Anything I gotta know about these pups o’yours?” The man gave a perceptive eye to the
dogs. “You didn’t choose her as your lead, did you?” He pointed at Ada.

Besra sniffed up a running nose. “She does fine along with Roxy over there,” he
indicated a dark husky lying on its paws. “And she’s light on her feet, too. I’ve gotten along fine
with a smaller team, thanks to her and my wheel dogs.”

He saw Carn look at him curiously. “She a favorite?” the man asked.

“I wouldn’t call it that. A kept promise,” Besra said before turning away from the kennels
to start his march towards the old building, where a cup of something hot would be waiting. He
turned and called as he walked away to Carn. “Look out for Buldo, the big one, and Patches with
the brown spots. They can bully. The rest are more or less fine, but I keep a couple whistles
handy. Got it?” Besra saw Carn’s outline raise a hearty thumbs up before it moved to lean
against the kennel fence. To watch and earn his pay. His details faded out of sight amidst the
falling snow to be replaced by the rolling gusts of white, now navy-blue snowflakes as the night
set in.

Besra looked out across the open expanse of windswept land that bordered the tiny
property. The sun was a dim white disc on the horizon flickering through an oppressive cloud
cover. It fled from the wonders of the night, as the darkness invited mystery that the sun could
never reveal. The ice sheets seemed to stretch on forever to carve out a sea where the water
refused to age. Where time had captured its drops so that man could feign faith as he stepped
across the ice like it was the Sea of Galilee. But a man who walked the ice alone would
eventually have his sins catch up to him with every step that touched that treacherous surface,
until his footing would betray him to a watery execution. That was what the dogs were for.

Besra’s footsteps were muffled by the snowcover and covered entirely by the howling
winds that whipped at his jacket and padded hat. He did his best to bundle himself tighter as he
approached the crooked but promising door to the outpost. The old walls and battered roof of the
structure wouldn’t keep out the cold, but he could at least count on it keeping away the wind.
And with a good fire roaring, perhaps the inside could be considered habitable. He thought about
Carn keeping the dogs entertained within the tundra’s icy grip and muttered a soft prayer for the
brusque man’s wellbeing. Then, finally at the finale of his approach to the creaking pile of timber
that would be his safe haven, he banged a firm, gloved fist on the door to the inn.

At first he received no response, so he knocked again, this time harder. The door
remained shut without signs of budging. He knocked a third time and nearly cracked the planks
as he shouted for entry. “Al, you shitheel!” he bellowed over the whipping gusts. “Open up or I
swear to God—”

The clunk of a lock unlatching preceded the creak of the weary hinges swinging outward,
and Besra was momentarily blinded by a blast of golden light and warm air that washed all the
anger out of his system. He found himself smiling dazedly into the startled young face of Aldo
Brook, his brother-in-law. “Hey, Al. I wasn’t just yelling at you, was I?”

“I didn’t hear you until the last knock, honest,” Aldo said apologetically. “Come on in.
You met Carn out there?”

“Yeah. He new?” Besra asked. He felt himself shudder involuntarily as Aldo heaved the
door closed with a good effort against the wind that threatened to snuff out the warmth they had
cultivated within the building. Aldo was much taller and broader than him, likely carrying more
muscle in his biceps than all twelve of Besra’s sled dogs combined. He had gone bald early in his
life, and had subsequently made the wise decision to shave off whatever remained in favor of
only his short blonde beard which he took to braiding. In the cold north he made a very
convincing viking if one could get past the Kentucky accent. All that was missing was his horned
helmet.

Aldo nodded in answer to Besra’s question. “Yeah, he’s new. Him and Lars who’s in the
back choppin’ up some more wood. We picked them up just over Coppermine.” He walked over
to the fireplace which dominated the left end of the spacious, low-roofed room. The chimney
was a seemingly precarious construction that was built out of piled stones that reached up and
through the low rafters above. It was a wonder it had stood the test of time for the years the
Brooks had owned the place. But it had. It burned as steady as a volcano. The orange flames
licked the blackened rocks among cracked and scattered timbers like they were reaching for a
sun that had abandoned them. Besra saw that only two pieces of wood rested against the side and
felt a tinge of annoyance.

The rest of the room was richly decorated. Animal pelts and furs were hung on the walls
to take up large swaths of space. There were bearskins, wolf pelts, fox pelts, and any other
creature that Aldo had shot keeping the dogpens safe. Not that the veteran hounds would have
objected to a good fight. Besra remembered how his Siberian husky Akira once had launched
itself at a moose that had come too close on a run with bared teeth and vicious snarls, soon
followed by the rest of the dogs in like manner. The moose had stopped and considered the
wolfpack that was not a wolfpack before deciding retreat would save it a few bloody wounds.

From the rafters hung dried flowers, berry plants, herbs, and other pastoral ingredients.
Aldo was a damn good cook, and even if he didn’t keep the firewood stocked, Besra knew that
he’d have something lined up in the back for him. A lovely warm soup perhaps? Besra felt his
mouth water slightly at the thought. “I’m starving, brother.”

“I got some seal suaasat cookin’ for you in the back. Take a seat,” Aldo said with a smile.
It was like music to Besra’s ears and he found himself hunched over a table facing the fireplace
in anticipation. Taking off his gloves, he rubbed his chilled hands together until he got some
feeling back in them. For a southerner, Aldo had taken to the north quite well over the past few
years.

As he was sitting in front of the towering chimney that extended up into the ceiling’s
shadows, he glanced upwards and saw something that made him freeze up again. To the left of
the chimney, high up on the wall, rested a small, framed photograph of a man bundled within a
parka and smiling through a dark bushy beard like a tanned Saint Nicholas. In the murky tan of
the sepia, he could be seen leaning forward on a sled with a small bundle cradled in his arms. At
the bottom of the frame was the smudged image of a sled dog bounding into the picture at the
last moment, its tongue lolling in smiling jaws. Besra swallowed and darted his eyes to one of
the skins that hung against the wall.

It was the largest pelt that hung in the inn, a sweeping square sail of white fur that sat as
the centerpiece of the kennel’s war trophies. At the very bottom end of the pelt was the head of a
scowling polar bear that grimaced at anyone who dared take a seat below its jaws. Besra
wouldn’t have been surprised if the table below that face had its fair amount of unswept dust on
it. But Besra’s eyes did not linger on the bear hide for long. While Aldo had taken home a large
portion of the skins on the wall, he did not lay claim to all of them.

A gruff voice suddenly sounded from somewhere behind him. “Hey, doc. They were
wonderin’ about you.”

Besra spun to see a squat man filling the doorway to the stairs with his wide shadow. He
had a dark, furrowed brow and a large nose that gave him an ever-so-slight resemblance to an
elephant seal. In his thick arms, he carried a stack of four cut logs for the fire. Besra looked at
him for a moment. “Wha—doc? I’m sorry?”

The wide man blinked. “Oh, that’s on me. I heard someone say somethin’ about a doctor
comin’ and I—”

“There is no doctor coming,” Besra said, his voice now cold. “Put the firewood down and
re-stoke the fire.” He looked back down at the table and rubbed his hands together again. “It’s
dying down.”

The man, who must’ve been that Lars to whom Aldo had referred, walked over and set
the wood down with a clatter against the wooden floorboards. He hurried and set about placing a
new piece into the flames, moving the ashes and burnt wood aside with the iron poker. Sparks
flickered up and danced towards the ceiling and disappearing just before they struck the rafters.
“Meant nothin’ by it, sir,” Lars said, his back to Besra.

“It’s fine,” Besra breathed. He wondered how much longer it would take Aldo to bring
out that suaasat. “Don’t worry about it.”

As if on queue, Aldo’s footsteps were heard coming out of the kitchen. Besra turned with
a smile to see him holding out two bowls of steaming broth filled with the familiar chunks of seal
meat, potatoes, onions, and rice. Aldo gave him a grin through his blonde beard. “Smells good?”
It was almost a ridiculous question to ask, as the aroma already had Besra’s attention. The
moment’s dark spell was broken by a surreal childlike greediness for the soup. He reached out
and took his bowl with the ghost of a smile.

Lars looked guilty as he edged back towards the stairs, but he dared to ask, “Do you need
help with your sled, sir?”

 Besra looked up halfway through a spoonful and shook his head. “It’s in the shed. Carn
already took care of it.” As Lars exited the room, Besra turned towards Aldo, who still held the
other bowl. “Aren’t you gonna sit down?”

“I already ate,” Aldo said. The two exchanged a moment of silence; they half-stared at
each other and half-stared at the bowl. Then Besra turned back to his own meal without a word.
He felt Aldo stand behind him, eyes boring into the back of his skull. He had noticed Aldo did
that sometimes—tried to find out what was in people’s heads. Tried to find what was itching at
them. He thought that he could always find a way to see the tangled cords in people’s minds, that
he’d be the one to cut the Gordian knot and help them. He was wrong. Some things needed to be
buried in quiet.

He felt Aldo’s eyes leave him and heard him walk away towards the stairs to the spare
rooms. As soon as he left and Besra was alone in the hall, he pushed the suaasat away and
crumbled to the table. Some kind of cold had followed him inside, and in spite of the fire’s
caresses, he shuddered from the effort of holding in freezing tears.

Carn watched as the door to the inn swung open. The winds had died down and had left a
harsh silence in their wake. Aldo held it open with an oil lantern in one hand as two figures
slowly made their way out. The first was Aldo’s brother-in-law, Besra—the one he’d met by the
dog yard. The man was leaning down to support the third figure who had his arm wrapped
around his son. It was the old man that Carn had gotten to know over the past two weeks of his
employment at the inn, and he was wrapped in, from what Carn could tell, a parka that was some
sizes too big for him.

As he saw Besra lead the old man out into the cold, something changed in the old man’s
posture. A new, raw vitality seemed to surge within his aged frame, and for a moment he filled
the parka like a younger man and stood proud facing the endless ice beyond the outpost. But it
only lasted a moment before the man sagged back into a hunch. And yet the man went forward
into the crunch of the snow beneath his feet.

Carn had been preparing the dogs. Laid out in a line and harnessed up, the twelve dogs
were rearing to go. Bouncing up and down and straining at the harnesses, all of the dogs had
filled the air with a storm of barks and yowls in anticipation as they had seen those two familiar
faces walk out. Carn stood on the sled with one foot on the brake spike that he had embedded
into the ice at the edge of the sheet. He’d also anchored the sled for good measure so that none of
the dogs would get too excited and dart off with the line in tow. Ada had proved to be a fine dog
to lead the group, and well trained too. She now sat poised with an imperial gaze at the tip of the
spear alongside Roxy, who in contrast was barking madly at the approaching mushers.

Gregor Hughes, father of Besra Hughes, bent over and coughed blood into his coatsleeve
before embarking on his last ride. His next step wobbled, and Besra had to reach out and hold
him steady. He looked into his son’s eyes and gave him a reassuring smile, but Besra’s face was
bone pale and his eyes looked harrowed by something in front of them. Mr. Hughes took a hand
and held his son’s face. “Don’t look like that, boy. This is how it was always going to be for
me.”

“No,” his son said. His voice sounded choked. He started to say something more, but the
words seemed to die in his throat.

“Ah, you’ve brought Ada,” said Mr. Hughes, turning with a smile to see the lead dog
peering up at him, head cocked to one side. “She looks just like her mother, no?” Besra didn’t
respond.

Carn reached out and shook Mr. Hughes’s hand with his own crooked smile shining
through his mustache. “Have a good ride, sir.”

The old man nodded weakly but with a merry twinkle in his eye. “I’d like to think I will,
if my boy learned anything from me.” He gave Carn a mischievous wink. Carn laughed before
moving to let Besra take his place on the sled. Aldo walked over with a solemn look and helped
Mr. Hughes into the bed. His parka covered him well, but Carn had added several fur blankets to
the seat for good measure. After a moment the old musher had been comfortably nestled into
place below where Besra stood. The dogs were still excited and straining at the harness, but most
had quieted down to rumbly barks and anxious whines. Ada and Roxy stood stock still at the
front, ready to lead. The men all took a long moment to take in the night air and look up to the
stars overhead. Aldo dimmed the oil lamp so they could see the glittering mural above them.

“Orion’s out. Can you see him?” came murmured from Mr. Hughes.

“Yes,” said Besra.

It was almost as if Carn could hear the old man smiling to himself below in the bed.
Another moment passed before Besra reached down and unhooked the anchor with a scrape.
With a foot ready to release the brake, he settled himself in that familiar standing position. The
dogs perked up their ears almost all at once. They could sense it. Aldo without a word hung the
lamp on a hook by the sled’s stanchions.

“Ready!” Besra shouted. The barking ceased, and all dogs scrambled to face forward and
straighten their postures.

“Hike!”

With the instant rush of paws hitting snow in a near-sprint, twelve dogs bolted forward
against the weight of the two men. Carn could hear the harness whip taught as all dogs acted as
one force, an engine with a dozen minds in sync. The sled slid forward on the snow smooth as
butter, and Besra and his father were on their way.