The promise of the next village, of a place I understood in this small world, lingered in my thoughts. I had to continue on.
I left early the next morning, before anyone woke. It was so early that I could still see the thick band of stars across the sky. Ataneq waited for me in the snow, tail wagging, and with him were the rest of my dogs, sheltered from the last of the passing snow by the wall of the gusak missionaries’ home. I threw my arms around Ataneq’s neck and buried my face in his fur. “Aahali,” I whispered. “Good dog.” I checked the others, fixed their harnesses, and turned my sled away from the gusak village. I thought I saw the cloth at the window stir, and wondered if Olga was watching me. But I did not look back, and she did not come out to stop me.
I took a deep breath, glanced up at the sky, and bid farewell to my parents. Then I whistled, and Ataneq guided us forward. The gusak village disappeared behind us. Empty tundra and open sky became my surroundings again.
As evening arrived, I found myself looking down upon an Inupiat village, its lights glittering against the snow. I wanted to laugh, to cry. Already, a few of the village’s women had looked up from their work in my direction, and their arms waved in the air. A hunter headed toward us.
As I stood there, I turned my face up to the sky and saw ribbons of a red aurora trailing behind the scattered clouds.
Jean Craighead George’s Julie of the Wolves was one of my favorite childhood books; the copy I had was completely falling apart from overuse. Miyax’s harsh, bleak, yet awe-inspiring and very much alive Alaskan wilderness haunted me. So, in picking a time and setting for an American historical short story, I knew fairly quickly that I had to set mine in the Great Land.
Researching Alaska, I loved the blurred line between history and Inuit folklore. This is an old land where the sun permanently sets for months on end, where dogs pull sleds across hundreds of miles of snow and ice, and where colorful sheets of light dance in the sky — the facts already feel magical. I loved reading about the Inuit culture and the connections between man and beast, as well as the clash of this world with the modern age, and the end of an era. I hope readers enjoy Yakone’s journey.
I HAVE A SECRET.
It tastes like the sweet lemonade they served at last night’s ball and smells of pipe tobacco. It sounds like the waltz we danced to and feels like the press of his hand against mine through my white satin glove.
We can’t — won’t — touch skin to skin. Not unless — until — Papa accepts his offer.
I dream of Antoine’s bare skin against mine. Of him bending, his honey-colored eyes drifting closed (people close their eyes when they kiss, don’t they? My best friend, Eugenie, says they do), his nose and cheeks sunburned from riding through his family’s sugarcane fields, his brown beard with that hint of red in it scratchy against my cheek. I feel certain his beard would be scratchy, and his lips — thin though they are — soft. Gentle. I’d close my eyes too, and melt against him, and —
“Maddie!” Eugenie catches my elbow to keep me from running into old Madame Augustin. Madame purses her lips, her rheumy eyes narrowing in disapproval, face scrunching up till she looks like a pecan — but though I’m the one who was woolgathering and almost knocked her into the street, it’s Eugenie she frowns at.
If Papa accepts, will Madame Augustin look at me like that?
“Sorry, Madame!” I squeak.
“Mademoiselle Madeleine.” She gives me a quick nod and then sniffs at Eugenie. “Mademoiselle Dalcour.”
Eugenie waits until we’ve turned the corner before muttering, “Snooty old bat.”
I giggle and we stroll down the wooden banquette. Above us, the spring sky is a cloudless blue against the lacy wrought-iron galleries. In another month the heat will be unbearable, but just now the sunshine is warm and reassuring against my face. Eugenie links her arm through mine, and my confidence soars. I will talk to Maman this afternoon and tell her about Antoine. Monsieur Guerin, I correct myself. There’s no need to make things worse with a lack of propriety.
It can’t get much worse, my conscience needles me. Maman’s going to be so angry.