The Wild by Christopher Golden

liked to see his own reflection if his features were as gaunt and his gums as black as those of his companions.
    Spring must not be far, although the white silence still reigned and the snow and ice made it impossible for him to imagine the earth ever flowering, the sun ever shining brightly, the river ever flowing again. The past few weeks had brought visitors to the cabin, drawn by the smoke and willing to travel far afield from their own camps now that the cold did not bite as deeply and their own supplieshad run low. Trappers and prospectors and even Indians paid visits, hoping for a bit of anything they had run out of themselves. The best Jack and his friends could offer was a cup of weak tea and good conversation, but surprisingly that seemed to be enough. These veterans of the Yukon, of the gold fever and the wilderness life, came full of stories, and when Jack regaled them with his tales of life as an oyster pirate and vagabond, they repaid him in kind. He squirreled these stories away as a miser would pennies, hoarding them only to take them out and examine them later.
    Stories were in Jack London’s blood. Tales of adventure fed him when other sustenance became meager at best. And now he had one hell of a story of his own, and wanted only to survive to live the next one.
    Such were the thoughts that lingered in his mind when he trod the by-now-familiar path back toward the cabin that morning. The daylight hours lasted longer and longer, and he felt reinvigorated every time the sun appeared. As he reached a turn in the path and came in sight of the clearing where the cabin stood, he heard Merritt bellowing.
    â€œJack!” the big man shouted. “Jack, where are you?”
    The excitement in his voice was unmistakable and contagious. Something had happened, some piece of good news, and Jack could think of only one thing that wouldgive Merritt Sloper such happiness. Jack picked up his pace, tromping along the path as swiftly as he could manage.
    â€œMerritt?” he called, bursting from the trees into the clearing. He glanced around, confounded for a moment by the absence of anyone in the clearing. “Merritt, what is it?”
    Then the door opened and Jim Goodman stepped out wrapped in one of the furs they had sewn over the long winter.
    â€œWhat’s all the shouting?” Jim asked as Jack hurried toward him.
    â€œNot a clue. I heard Merritt, but—”
    â€œI’m here!” Merritt called, and they both turned to see him ambling around the side of the cabin. The winter had been hard on all of them, but Merritt remained a big, burly man in spite of the weight he’d lost. He gave them a good-natured grin.
    â€œLet’s have the last of the good coffee,” Merritt told them. “The bit we’ve been saving to celebrate.”
    Jack gripped Merritt’s shoulders. “The river?”
    For weeks they had taken turns visiting the river every day, waiting and hoping.
    Merritt nodded. “The ice is breaking. You should hear it. It sounds like the whole planet is cracking in half. There’s movement as well, shifting here and there.”
    Jack whooped loudly and embraced him, then spuntoward the cabin. “Pack your things, gentlemen! We’re going to Dawson!”
    But Jim still stood in the open door of the cabin. He hadn’t moved. Jack thought, at first, that something awful had happened to him—some madness or illness. Then he heard the man’s soft, shuddery breaths, and the prayer he spoke with a hitch in his voice.
    â€œIt’s all right, Jim,” Jack said, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to be all right now. We made it through.”
    Only then did Jim lift his eyes to look at his friends. Only then did he smile, and begin to laugh, and moments later they were all laughing and whooping with elation.
    Merritt clapped Jack on the back. “Go on, then, kid. Make that pot of coffee. We’ve earned