The Wild by Christopher Golden Page A

it!”
    Jack did as he was asked, not even minding that Merritt had called him “kid.” And a cup of coffee had never tasted so good.
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    The three days that followed were some of the longest of Jack’s life. With the snow beginning to melt and the sun showing its face, a sense of renewal filled him—renewal of life and of purpose. The world seemed to be awakening around him, and as the winter retreated, so did the aura of mysticism that had blanketed the land. BothMerritt’s and Jim’s conflicting superstitions seemed to burn off like fog.
    Trees dripped with melting ice, which glittered like diamonds when the morning sun spread across the landscape. The days grew longer, and Jack spent a good portion of every one down at the river.
    He stood well back from the bank, wary of the tumult caused by the spring snow melt. As if the great machinery of the world had churned back to life, the Yukon Rriver now flowed fast beneath the ice. Cracks had formed, floes shifted, and on the third day of his vigilance, the entire river seemed to lift itself up and start downstream.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Jim Goodman whispered.
    Jack had not heard him approach but was so entranced that he could not tear his gaze away from the sight. The ice buckled and broke, and the pieces jostled and collided as they were carried along. The river groaned as though the earth itself might tear asunder.
    â€œIt sure is.”
    The two of them stood there for over an hour before Merritt joined them, and then all three of them watched the spectacle in shared awe. The river churned so powerfully that huge chunks of ice, blue-white and gleaming, were hurled from the water onto the snowy bank, only to slide back down into the flow as the snow melted beneath them.
    Jack saw a dark shape amid the ice. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun off the snow, he peered at the shape and realized it was the broken and splintered curve of a small boat. A team of hopeful prospectors behind them must have become stuck in the winter freeze just as they had been, but not been as swift in getting their boat out of the water before the rapid icing had crushed it.
    He narrowed his eyes to slits, trying to make out a second dark shape that bobbed up beside the first. Massive slabs of ice shifted and things flowed with the river, and for a moment he assumed the sodden, rigid thing to be an uprooted tree. Then he saw pale fingers, a marble-white arm, and understood that whoever had been steering that boat had never made it out of the ice. The winter had preserved them well, but now spring had come and the river would take them.
    Jack glanced at Merritt and Jim. They were smiling and trying to converse despite the roar of the ice grinding together. His friends had not noticed the body, and he had not the heart to point it out. Spring had come, after all. For them, if not for everyone.
    â€œCome on, friends!” he called. “Let’s pack up. Another few days and we put the Yukon Belle back in the water. Dawson, here we come!”
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    From miles upriver they saw the smoke of Dawson’s chimneys rising. Jim bailed water from the leaking boat even as Merritt tried to keep their supplies from getting wet; they had made furs to keep warm during the winter and wanted those to stay dry most of all. Sodden with water, the furs would stink, but worse, they would be dreadfully heavy. It would have been best for the men to wear them, but spring had arrived and their heavy coats and caps were enough.
    Jack kept a steady hand on the tiller, though the oars were shipped. With the rush of the current, the Yukon high and churning with the spring melt, they had no need to row. The river hurtled them onward as though on the crest of a wave, and Jack sat in the stern guiding the Yukon Belle with his head high, breathing in the crisp air, which smelled to him of victory. He had not yet tamed the wild, he was not a conqueror, but