Early in their marriage William had given her some ancient pattern books, their edges yellowed and frayed. By painstakingly following the directions, Mattie was able to slowly teach herself how to make and mend their clothes. She remembered spending many nights hunched over scraps of cloth, the tips of her fingers raw and bleeding, while William watched her in the flickering candlelight.
He always watched her, even when she thought he wasn’t.
They started back toward the cabin, following their own boot prints in the snow. Mattie could tell from the hunch of William’s shoulders that he was irritated. He hadn’t been able to solve the mystery of the print and now he was realizing just how long they’d wasted on this fool’s errand.
Because of me, Mattie thought resignedly. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him about the fox after all. But if I hadn’t then I would have been in more trouble for taking too long checking the snares.
There wasn’t any correct answer for Mattie. There never was. All she could do was gnaw on her thoughts like a nervous little chipmunk.
A strange cry shattered the still air.
It wasn’t quite a bear’s roar, or a mountain lion’s call, or an eagle’s screech, but a nerve-shattering combination of all three, mixed with another sound—something almost, but not quite, human.
Only then did Mattie realize they’d heard no sounds since the call of the crows William had shooed away from the dead fox—that is, nothing except their own voices. No bird cries, or skittering of little things searching for one last nut for the winter. No crack of falling branches, no whisper of wind.
All the forest had been a hushed and waiting place, and she and William had fumbled into it like two clumsy bulls. She felt eyes on her then, the eyes of the trees and birds and squirrels and rabbits, eyes that watched in pity at the two foolish humans in their midst.
The cry sounded again. It echoed in the air, bouncing off the trees, making it impossible to tell exactly where it was coming from.
“William, we should hurry,” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “We shouldn’t be out here.”
He’d stopped dead again when the first cry came, his body still but alert, searching for signs of his quarry. Now he brushed Mattie’s hand away, too preoccupied to hurt her for presuming to tell him what he should do. That was almost always a punishable offense.
“Quiet,” he said in a low voice. “Get away from me so I can get a clear shot.”
He was going to try to kill it, whatever it was, and Mattie was certain now it wasn’t a bear. No bear sounded like that. No bear acted the way the animal that made those prints acted. But if it wasn’t a bear, then what was it?
Whatever the creature was, William would fail. It was too big for her husband to kill with a rifle. Even she, with her limited knowledge, could tell from a print in the snow.
Terror washed over her, cold and sure. What would happen to her if William were killed? She’d be all alone on the mountain. She didn’t even know how to reach the nearest town, for she’d never been away from their cabin since they came here.
William took a few steps away from her, raising the rifle to his shoulder. “It’s somewhere ahead of us. Stay behind me.”
She nodded. Her lips and tongue were numb—not with cold, but with fear. Her body shuddered underneath her coat.
Don’t let anything happen to him, Lord. Don’t let me be left alone.
Then she realized that if the giant bear-creature killed William, it would kill her, too.
Relief shot through her body like a jolt of lightning. No more trying and failing. No more questions without answers. No more dreams. No more pain.
Mattie walked in William’s footsteps, calmer now. Whatever happened would be God’s will, just as it had been God’s will for her to be chosen by William in the first place.
Branches cracked somewhere in front of them—many branches breaking in quick succession like a gun going off, pop pop pop.
Mattie glanced over her shoulder, a part of her expecting to discover the creature had dropped out of the sky and loomed behind them. But there was nothing behind, and nothing ahead, either, at least that they could see.
William crept forward for several more minutes, the rifle braced at his shoulder. For the third time that day he came to a sudden halt, and this time Mattie did run into him.
He was too distracted to scold her. “What in God’s name?”
Mattie peeked around his arm and gasped.
Before them was a scarlet pool of blood, sinking into the powdery snow. Something very large had been killed, and recently. There were no remains, however, and no sign of the thing that killed it. The only prints nearby were their own.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” William muttered.
Mattie tilted her head back, saw the bent branches overhead, and thought that perhaps it made more sense than William thought. But she wouldn’t say that aloud. It was never a good idea for her to contradict him.
But I do wonder what it might be. Even if I’m not supposed to wonder about anything at all.
William was preoccupied for the remainder of the day. He appeared to hardly notice what Mattie did—and this was certainly a blessing, since the only time he ever cared about her work was when she did it wrong.
He brooded all through supper, saying not a word, shoveling the rabbit stew into his mouth without seeming to taste it. After supper he stared into the fire while she carefully mended a ripped sleeve and a torn trouser hem and darned two pairs of socks.
She began to hope that he might forget about her daily duty, that he might be so lost
