Shadow (Part l of 3)

            Ellen awoke to unnatural quiet.  True, it was always quiet in her neck of the woods, but this morning was different.  She felt uneasy.  She got up and found Shadow’s bed empty, which was not unusual.  He had let himself out.  The fire had gone out and the stone hearth was as cold as a grave, also not unusual.  She looked out the window at the last few leaves clinging to the birch.   They, too, began to lose their grip and flutter down, unable to withstand the bitter wind, Alaska’s winter promise.

            Apprehension would not leave, so Ellen bundled up and went out to find her best friend, her only friend—well, except Jack, that is.

            Tall stands of white birch along with robust and sturdy cedar encircled her, cutting out the light.  Sunlight would filter its way down to the wooded floor for a short time around high noon.  The sun would tease with temporary warmth, and then it would recede into the sub-zero shadows.  Soon its rays would not lift high enough to reach the tops of the trees.  In the Talkeetna area of Alaska, north and east of Anchorage, where Ellen had homesteaded, the winter sun would make a low arc, from southeast to southwest, barely lifting above the horizon.  Further north there would be no sunlight at all for several months.

            Low bushes bore overripe blueberries as big as baseballs and brambles jealously girded the loins of the forest.  Resilient foxgloves and fireweed refused to call it quits.  They painted the landscape reddish pink and periwinkle blue.  But like the fruit, the October earth was past its prime.  The lushness of the area had thinned and simultaneously the yellow, rust, and multitudinous reds that covered the ground had turned to shades of shriveled brown and gray.  Soon it would be all white all over.

            Ellen brushed away a tear before it materialized.  It wasn’t the coming of winter that made her sad; it was the death of autumn.  Though the heartier, younger mosquitoes continued to buzz, she knew the season would quickly pass.  Today she smelled rain, probably snow, mixed with the smoke from distant campfires, crushed fruit, gunpowder, and fresh blood.  Hunters were out and the animals tried to make themselves scarce.  Not all succeeded.

            Snap-aapp-aaappp.  She heard the sound of gunfire, shrill and sharp, and at the same time, dull and deep.  A thunderous, ringing pitch echoed in the clean empty air.

            “Coming, buddy,” Ellen said.  “I’ll find you; I can’t lose you; you’re the only one to love, to love me.  You can’t be too far away; you never stray outside our property line.”

            The wind quietly exhaled, separating more leaves from limbs, and murmured its threats.  The silence fairly shouted.  Suddenly, she spotted him.  He was down, his head hanging slightly over the edge of the bank overlooking the river.  Ellen’s heart jumped into her throat and stuck there.  The dog was bleeding.  Someone had shot Shadow.

            Shadow, hang on there.  I’m coming to help you. You have to be alright.  You’re inside our property line.

            She did not speak out loud for she had heard the sound of laughter coming from below.  She immediately dropped to the ground and proceeded to inch towards the injured animal on her belly.  The cold earth scraped her hands and face.  She reached him and gently lifted his head.  She placed it on solid ground next to her hunkering body.

            Shadow tried to lick her hand.  He looked into her eyes, and then the light in his eyes flickered and faded.  She watched that light, which did not appear to go out, but rather, it seemed to go away, into some other place.  Ellen laid her face on his and convulsed in soundless sobs.  As she did this, she heard the men below talking.

            She inched her way far enough that she could observe the scene below and better hear what they said.  Ellen was fairly certain that one of them had shot her dog.  And someone would surely pay.

            She saw the plaid backs of two men.  They were fishing now.  They each cast a line to the silvers, courageous fish, in the early stages of their upstream odyssey, where they, too, in their apparent prime, would end their productive season.  The men wore waders up to their thighs and beaver trophies on their heads, tail and all.

            A shiny 38 caliber revolver rode the portly hip of a red-haired, heavily-bearded man.  A cigarette dangled from his lips.  He removed it temporarily to spit.  The other man packed a hunting rifle, which he had slung over his left shoulder.  He was a cartoon in rubber boots with long, thin limbs, large feet, huge hands, and a bulbous nose.  The beaver tail that hung down his back nearly hid a long, blue-black ponytail, but not quite.  He had a receding beardless chin, but his mustache and eyebrows were bushy, also blue-black.  Neither were forgettable characters.

            From her bird’s eye view, Ellen burned their features into her memory.  The two men remained unaware of her presence.  Suddenly the chinless one nearly lost his balance along with his fishing pole as an unseen force pulled it from between his knees.  Carelessly, he tossed a Budweiser can into the stream, recovered, and began to toy with the thrashing fish.  Ellen saw the Silver streak. She silently prayed for its escape.  The salmon freed itself and arced above the water, mocking its exploiters.

            “Aw screw it;” the black-haired devil growled, “lost the damn Silver; lost the bear.  “But, hey, got me a Doberman Pincer.”

            He looked up toward Ellen.  She flattened into the ground, barely breathing.

            “Let’s get the hell outta here.  I heard the girlie what owns that mutt is a she-devil; and she packs a piece.”

            At long last, the two hateful men left; and Ellen could sit up.  She looked at Shadow.  Then she released her dry sobs.  She got up ever so gently and moved away behind a thicket, where she finally heaved up her guts, the only sure way to dislodge the beast that had taken up residence in her throat.  Finally, after what must have been hours, for the sun had made its way to the tops of the trees, and the rays had begun to light the dull earth, Ellen dragged herself up and began to make preparations to bury her companion.

            Salty rain had begun to dampen his stiffening body.  The cold ground sucked at his warmth.  She fetched the shovel and started to dig.

            “You just went to look down at the river, like we always did,” she said.  “You didn’t leave our property.  My God, Shadow; how could this be happening?”

            The ground resisted.  It had barely thawed from last winter, one or two feet above the permafrost.  The grave was shallow at best, and his body would remain intact till spring thaw.  She would have to hire this redone before the bears got active and hungry in the springtime.  She tried to dig it deeper, but the frozen earth would not give.  At last, she wrapped him in his favorite blanket, laid him in the minimal tomb, and covered him with an earthen blanket.  She reinforced it with broken branches and logs, as heavy as she could drag.  Then she sat on the little hill she had created and wept.

            “Someone will pay,” she cried.  “Someone will pay.