That’s how far it is, from point to point. It’s not far, less than an hour’s walk. In summer, people even swim the distance, despite the freezing water. It’s a special event.
But it might as well be light-years. At least, right now.
“…no icebreakers for you this year,” the radio crackled into the small church hall. “With the war in Russia…gas prices…the military just can’t afford to send personnel and a cutter this winter. Not for only fifty of you.”
“Fifty-four,” I corrected, bouncing my baby daughter on my hip. “Mrs. Casper had her twins, and I brought my husband to the island and had my baby. What if something happens to them this winter?”
“You have the Cessna, the dog teams, Internet, the radio, and, well, time,” the flat government voice said. “It’s only for a month or two- that in-between time where the ferry can’t run, but the ice is too thin to drive on. Just stock up beforehand, I’m sure you can stick it out. It takes a certain kind of person to live on the island year-round.”
I turned to my husband. “Thank God I can breastfeed. Can’t imagine trying to get two months’ worth of formula ahead of time these days.” He shuddered. I was already making the grocery list in my head. I’d have lots of time to work on my rugs this winter.
We all organized together. That’s the one upside of a tiny community. Technically, we were part of the United States- but it never really felt like that. The island was like- was- an image of a snow globe popped into my head. Part of the world, but the tiny design inside was untouchable. The families pooled their money, and we sent our strongest people with the biggest vehicle four hours down to Costco in the city.
They came back on the last ferry of the season, crates piled in the truck bed and tied to the cleats as the car ferry dodged sheets of ice, metal sides screaming when the ice made contact.
Three months of supplies. Plus, there were the chickens, and people’s gardens now in the jar. We knew how to be prepared. And the island settled for its long sleep.
Not that the people slept. Have you ever read about life on those polar research stations, on long voyages, or even in a big family during the recent plague and quarantines? Maybe you lived it yourself. You’ll do anything to stay busy.
My husband worked remotely and tended our three sled dogs. I know you’re not supposed to cross streams and let working dogs be pets, but my baby, learning to crawl and stand, loved them. They weren’t just tools.
I guess I really am one of those crunchy mom types, because I wore my daughter constantly. But she was a good baby. I ran a small shop on Main Street that mostly catered to the summer people, had since my parents died when they hit a moose. I was only 19 at the time. They had taught me well, though.
All summer, the routine was go, go, go, work nonstop, keep the shop open thirteen hours a day, work holidays, weekends, all hands on deck. So many tourists love to visit our island. It really is God’s country, at least during the long summer days. We made all our money then, selling what we were known for; beautiful, hand-woven in America, naturally dyed, intricate rugs. Usually some soap and pottery too.
All winter, which usually lasted six or seven months in this subarctic forest, we would create. I loved to sit at my loom near the fire as snow shrieked past the shop windows. I wove, molded, baked, sang to my daughter, and the fifty-four of us who stayed told stories, traded food and tools, and rested up for the three months of frenzy to come. We got to know our island. Really, it was better to have stocked up on everything we needed before winter. Crossing on the ferry with a baby, in subzero temperatures, wind howling, ferry moving sluggishly in the wake of a military icebreaker, gave me chills just to think about.
The passage closed. No boats in or out. But, it was a strangely mild winter, so the ice didn’t freeze thoroughly either. There would be no ice road, no way to just drive over to the mainland. Mr. Dahl tried to make the trip with his own dog team, but stopped a quarter of the way across when he heard ominous cracking. A good thing too. We all knew not to go help him, that would be too risky. Too much weight. So, nobody in or out was the way it had to be, even though we were only 2.1 miles away.
Which is why we were all so puzzled when something ate the neighbor’s chickens. We knew there were no bears on this island, no wolves, no foxes, and the pet dogs and cats were trained to leave chickens alone and kept either inside or tied well away from coops. Everyone in town knew how important the chickens were for food supplies for those who owned them- they were a lifeline, supplying the only fresh food on the island. We would no sooner kill the chickens than destroy the satellite dishes connecting us all to the modern world.
Everyone had their own theories. Rogue pet, starving bird of prey, maybe a fox had made it over the ice after all. It was our own version of that stupid show (yes, we have streaming TV here, yes, really), Only Murders in the Building. We spent hours researching and arguing amongst ourselves. But no one was truly worried. It was just a small animal, nothing our small arms couldn’t deal with if we had to.
I didn’t explore other possibilities until the incident with the dogs.
“Willow. Nova. Aurora! Come on, just shit already, I’m freezing!” I stamped my feet in the gloom of the solstice night. Why did the dogs always whine to go out at 2 am? And of course I had to take them, so they wouldn’t wake up the baby. It was difficult to see more than their outlines in the dark, but I heard strange things.
Large breaking branches in the forest. The dogs set up a howl, then as if in response, there was a strange, almost human, keening sound. I couldn’t place it, but it sounded a bit like my daughter when she was really hungry.
Nova, the biggest, set up a deep-lunged, bellowing bark- just one- and plunged into the trees. The other two followed. Yelps. Screams like I had never heard. I wanted to go inside and cover my ears, but I wanted the dogs back. I loved them. And the neighbor was a retired veterinarian, so if they got hurt, I could get them help. Eventually, the fight stopped, and a strange, low-to-the-ground shape emerged again.
It was Willow and Aurora, dragging Nova between them. All were covered in cuts and scratches, but Nova’s left front leg- was gone. Not like an amputation. Not clean. As if something had bitten it off. I rushed her next door.
She’ll be okay, though a tripod, for the rest of her life. The next morning, I tried to use the radio and Skype to call the mainland- all the military and government men said I was imagining things, I was a new mom, I needed to sleep, my dog had probably gotten its leg caught in something or tangled with another animal.
But that’s not what I heard. Not what I saw. As I rushed over to the dogs, I checked the trees, making sure nothing would come out and rush me. And I glimpsed something huge, emaciated, so tall its antlered head brushed the tops of the spruce trees.
We thought there were fifty-four of us. We were wrong. But number fifty-five isn’t a “who.”
I’m pretty sure it’s a what. Please help us. No one is coming.