Juggling Fire by Joanne Bell Page A

were so huge.
    There’s no sign of Dad.
    Outside, the river curves merrily around bends, forest lining its banks. On the rises above, caribou move single file up a draw. I mix the flour and baking powder with fresh water and fry the cake in butter on the stove. Brooks stretches by the heat. No salt. I’ve used the small amount I carried to bathe his cut.
    In a moment my mood shifts.
    There is no salt left. Brooks’s wound is sealing shut. I can only hope there’s no infection, no poison inside. I juggle while the bannock fries, trying to forget the emptiness here: a regular and then a reverse cascade, then a new trick running the balls behind one knee.
    The bannock smells delicious. I break off a crunchy bit and pop it in my mouth, dunked in the spluttering butter.
    It tastes moldy.
    I spit on the ground outside. Maybe the tea last night was moldy too, and I was too tired to tell. Maybe I’ll be throwing up for days. I clutch my stomach, but it just feels hollowed out, as usual.
    I can’t hear any approaching animal with the river so close. I poke around outside for a while, searching for a cache. Maybe there’s some food that hasn’t absorbed any moisture.
    A raven drops suddenly from a cottonwood and circles the cabin. Dad and I used to talk to ravens, but I’ve never noticed them properly since he left: enormous, black, shiny ventriloquists. He loved ravens, and wherever he stayed, a few would eventually land, knowing he was good for some leftovers.
    I throw the remaining bannock under the tree for the raven. He lands on a branch and makes pinging noises like a knuckle rapping a crystal glass.
    Brooks dutifully barks.
    Ravens hang out in Becky’s dog yard every day. They land just out of reach of the chained huskies and strut around while the dogs yowl and strain. When the dogs finally back away from the end of their chains, the ravens hop in and scoop up any leftover tidbits of frozen dog food they can find. Wild ravens live about twenty-five years. Parrots of the North, Becky calls them. A pair of them lived for decades in the Tower of London, able to talk because their tongues had been split.
    “Big price for the ravens,” I remember Dad saying.
    The raven hops down from his perch and toddles toward us, feathers puffed.
    How many years would a raven remember?
    Could this bird be so friendly because he’s been around Dad lately?
    He snatches the bannock from the ground where I’ve tossed it and tears off a corner.
    I hope it doesn’t make him sick.
    “Where’s my father?” I whisper. Ravens are magnificent. This one is halfway up to my knees. If they weren’t so common, people would be awed by them. I’ve seen them scare off eagles that were lunching from a salmon on a gravel bar near town. The ravens yanked at the eagles’ tail feathers.
    Wind funnels through the valley all day, smelling of snow. I spread the contents of my pack in front of the south wall in the sunshine, blocked from the gusts. I count how many meals I have left. There’s no butter, cheese, chocolate or nuts, only dry food. Not enough to get us to the cabin. I sure haven’t eaten much, but I’ve chucked a lot to Brooks. He’ll have to limp faster and farther when really he should rest.
    I think about staying in the line cabin until Brooks has healed up.
    But I can’t.
    There’s not enough food. And Mom wouldn’t know where I was. There’d be a search party out for me this time. I can’t do that to her.
    Somehow the silence seems stronger where there was once someone living. All my life I’ve wanted to come back to our cabin. The wind blows and blows, and I can’t feel any warmth from the sun even in the shelter of the old cabin.
    I’ve never thought beyond searching for Dad. I’ve never considered what my life will be like when I know what happened to him. What will I make of my life? It’s always been one howl of panic echoing through the years: He said he’d return. Every morning since he left, I’ve woken, probing