The Wild by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online Page B

steer.
    â€œThat way!” Merritt said, pointing ahead and to the left. Jack saw the clear channel and the sharp, raised chunks of ice guided them toward it. When they struck a cake of ice, it nudged them in the direction of the flowing water. All around them was the crunch and low rumble of colliding ice masses, and here and there Jack could still hear the comforting gurgle of water. But the sound of the river had changed completely now, and he feared their time was near.
    â€œWe’ll get there,” Jim said, rowing when there was room between ice chunks to dip the oars. When there was not room, they relied on the water’s flow to drift them along.
    â€œOf course we’ll get there,” Jack said. “There’s just no saying when.”
    The great ice chunks hid the banks of the river from view, sculpting themselves into otherworldly shapes as they clung together, freezing, water splashing up only to become whorls and ridges of ice. Occasionally Jack glimpsed trees between the rearing chunks, but more often it was simply ice and water, and around midday a steady snowfall began, which limited their vision even more.
    Since that time on the rock, there had been no sign of the wolf. But Jack could no longer believe that he was alone in this vast wilderness. What that feeling meant he had noidea, but he had yet to share it with the other two men. Jim, a teacher, would likely think him foolish. And he feared that Merritt would think him mad.
    And perhaps he was. Ever since Dyea, the feeling had been growing that something out here was waiting for him. Expecting him.
    That afternoon, with the sun barely breaking the horizon, the river slowed more than ever. Merritt stood at the bow, fending them away from chunks of ice and toward water passages that grew narrower and less common. Still they moved forward, but at a much slower rate than before. The boat nudged ice. Clumps of snow fell into the craft, and Jim scooped them up and tossed them back over the side. Ice cakes pressed into the boat to port and starboard, and several times Jack heard the straining of timber as immense forces clamped upon the hull.
    Jim no longer needed to bail, because most of the water in the Yukon Belle had frozen.
    â€œStuck fast,” Merritt said at last. He did not turn around to look back at Jack, and neither did Jim look up. Jack could blame neither of them. On the contrary, he had respected their enthusiasm and believed that he would have been feeling the same if it were not for the wolf.
    A sense of foreboding hung over him like the sword of Damocles.
    â€œKeep shoving,” Jack said. “Maybe it’s just this part of the river. Perhaps it’s just a bottleneck.”
    This time Jim did look up, and Merritt glanced back.
    Half an hour later, with a deafening grinding sound that set Jack’s teeth vibrating, the river moved on with a surge. Ice broke apart, water gurgled up from beneath the floes, and their little boat found itself a fast channel again.
    â€œTo Dawson, boys!” Jack shouted, whooping and waving his hat in the air. He quickly replaced it when his ears grew numb, and though he knew that this was but a brief respite—they would not reach Dawson this side of winter—he suddenly felt a rush of confidence once again. So what if they did have to winter somewhere around here? This was part of the adventure he had vowed to give himself, the grasping of life instead of watching it drift by—
    To his left, across the layers of ice and snow, something dark marred the whiteness. Jack looked, but already it was gone.
    Hiding.
    Â 
    There was a tributary called the Stewart, close to Upper Island and barely seventy miles from Dawson. Where the Stewart converged with the Yukon, the ice floes piled together and caused a jam that quickly turned as solid asland. Their time was up. They managed to haul the Yukon Belle up onto the ice before she was crushed, and then came the long, laborious