The Marsh King's Daughter(60)

I pressed my nose against the glass and watched the snowmobile’s headlight bob and weave toward us. It was too dark to make out details, but I knew what a snowmobile looked like. Or rather, I knew what a snowmobile looked like fifty years ago. I was still struggling to comprehend the enormity of my mother’s deception.

My mother shook her head slowly, like she was waking up from a long sleep. She yanked the curtains shut and grabbed my hand. “Quick. We have to hide.”

Hide where? I wanted to say. I knew this was what my father wanted. I also knew what he’d do to us if we didn’t follow his instructions. But it was too late to run out into the marsh and roll around in the muck to disguise ourselves, even if the marsh wasn’t frozen. Whoever was driving the snowmobile had already seen our cabin. They were coming straight toward us. There was a fire in our woodstove, smoke coming from our chimney, firewood in our woodshed, footprints in the snow. Inside, our coats were hanging by the door, our dishes were laid out on the table, the rabbit stew was bubbling away on our woodstove. And what about Rambo?

Rambo.

I grabbed my coat and ran out to the woodshed. Rambo was whining and pulling at his chain so hard, I was afraid he was going to choke. I unbuckled his collar and turned him loose, then crouched between a row of firewood and the shed wall to watch through the slats. The engine’s pitch changed as the snowmobile began climbing our ridge. Moments later it whipped past my line of sight in a cloud of snow and exhaust. I ran to the other side of the woodshed and climbed on top of the woodpile and crouched with my knife at the ready, the way my father taught me. The snowmobile stopped directly below me. The noise was so loud, my ears rang long after the driver turned the engine off.

“Hey, boy.” The driver whistled and patted his leg as Rambo barked and circled. I couldn’t see his face because he had on a helmet like the kind deep-sea divers wore—or rather, the kind of helmet a deep-sea diver used to wear—but I could tell it was a man by his voice. “Come ’ere, boy. Come on. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

Rambo stopped barking and ran up wagging his tail and rested his chin on the man’s knee. The man pulled off one glove and scratched Rambo behind his ear. I wondered how he knew this was where my dog liked to be scratched.

“Good boy. What a good dog you are. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” I’d never heard anyone talk so much to a dog.

The man nudged Rambo aside and climbed off the snowmobile. He wore thick black pants and a black jacket with a stripe down the sleeves in a shade of green I’d never seen. The snowmobile had the same colored stripe on the side with the words ARCTIC CAT written in white letters. He pulled off his helmet and left the helmet on the seat. The man had yellow hair like my mother and a big bushy beard like a Viking. He was taller than my father, and younger. His clothes made a rustling sound like dry leaves when he walked. I couldn’t imagine they’d be any good for hunting, but they looked warm.

The man climbed our porch steps and rapped his knuckles on the door. “Hello! Anybody home?” He waited, then hit the door again. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. “Hello!”

The cabin door opened and my mother came out. I couldn’t see her expression because the light was behind her. I could see that her hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the man said, “but can I use your phone? I got separated from my group and lost the trail.”

“Our phone,” my mother said softly.

“If you don’t mind. My cell’s battery died.”

“You have a cell phone.” My mother giggled. I had no idea why.

“Um, yeah. Right. So if I could use yours to let my buddies know I’m all right, that’d be great. I’m John, by the way. John Laukkanen.” The man smiled and put out his hand.

My mother made a choking sound, then grabbed his hand like a drowning person grabbing a lifeline. She held on to his hand long after their hands stopped going up and down.

“I know who you are.” She glanced around the yard, then quickly pulled the man inside.

—

I STARED AT THE CABIN long after the door shut. More lies. More tricks. More deception. My mother knew this man. He came to see her while my father was gone. I didn’t know what the man and my mother were doing inside our cabin, but I knew it was wrong. I sheathed my knife and climbed down from the woodpile. The snowmobile crouched in our yard like a big black bear. I wanted to slap it on its rump and run it off. Call my father to come with his rifle and shoot it. I tiptoed across our back porch and peeked through a gap in the curtains. My mother and the man were standing in the middle of the kitchen. My mother was talking and waving her hands. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. She looked scared and excited. She kept glancing at the door, like she was afraid my father would walk through at any second. I wished he would.

The man just looked scared. My mother kept talking and gesturing until, at last, he nodded. Slowly, like he didn’t want to do what my mother was asking him to do, but he had to, like I did when my father told me I had to help my mother make jelly. My mother laughed and stretched up on her toes and threw her arms around the man’s neck and kissed his cheek. The man’s cheeks turned red. My mother laid her head on his shoulder. Her shoulders shook. I couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. After a moment the man put his arms around my mother and patted her on the back and held her close.