"When birch branches clack in the wind, and rattle like dead men's bones, it means the little people are roaming." That's what old Blind Alice had told Nate Zackar the last time he was 'round her way, selling pelts. She'd trembled and pulled her afghan tight against the Alaskan chill. "Looking for victims," she'd whispered. "Wind makes 'em hungered."

Nate stood at the woodpile behind his cabin afraid to stay and afraid to leave. He squinted out from under his beaver fur hat. All around, thin birch trees bowed in the wind and inside his head, old Blind Alice's scratchy voice repeatedly cackled out a warning, "Foolish children will not heed, so little men will find their feed."

Out of the corner of one eye, Nate caught a flash of color moving across the snowy ground. He whipped around to look.

Nothing.

Still the fine hairs on the nape of his neck stood up.

He shook his head. What a silly goose he was being. The movement he'd seen must have been twigs being blown about. He didn't believe in all that mumbo jumbo talk about little people.

What he did believe in was his uncle's temper. If he didn't get the wood in soon, he'd be a victim alright--Uncle Jerry's victim. He did another quick survey of the area and set back to work. Moving clumsily, all bundled up in his thick fur parka and mittens, he took a piece of firewood and slipped it into his bag.

When the bag was almost full, the gale died suddenly and the creaking trees straightened in an eerie stillness. Nate stopped working to look. Across the river a fresh burst of wind skidded down Big Mountain, an eddy of snow marking its progress. It leapt into the river, whipping the water into three-foot whitecaps, then slammed into Nate’s birch grove. Bare, frozen branches clattered around him like a thousand skeletons raised from their slumber.

Nate jumped, threw his sack over his shoulder, and let the wind push him toward the cabin. As soon as he twisted the knob, the windbreak door flew open. He blew in, dropped his bag of wood, and threw his weight against the door. The latch clicked and held. Nate leaned there, panting.

When his heart finally slowed and the blood stopped pounding in his head, he rolled his eyes. He was as bad as his little sisters—letting an old wives' tale spook him.

He arranged his hat, mittens, and mukluks on the shelves along the back wall of the windbreak and hung his parka on its hook. After he stacked the excess firewood he picked up three pieces for the woodstove.

As he entered the cabin, he looked up to the loft. Cara and Sarah were in their bed up there even though it was the middle of the afternoon. They were snuggled together trying to stay warm against the wind, which scrabbled into their home through the seams in the ill-fitted plywood walls.

The twins grinned down at their brother, their almond-shaped eyes disappearing into crescent moons and their big front teeth prominently displayed in their little faces.

Nate couldn't help but laugh. They had always been so pretty. And then they'd turned seven and gotten all scrawny and toothy.

Sarah shivered and burrowed lower into their meager nest--two green wool army-issue blankets.

Nate kicked the door shut. "Sorry," he mouthed silently toward the twins.

In the downstairs room, Uncle Jerry turned over in his bed. Small, cold eyes glared out of a fleshy face. Three days earlier, when the windstorm had started, he'd moved his bed into the middle of the room, and there he lay, right in front of the woodstove, sheathed in warm quilts. Thick, comforting quilts Nate remembered from before life with his uncle. His mother had sewn them. They'd smelled of salty air and sunshine once. Now they smelled of stale liquor and spittle and sweat.

"Well, don't stand there gawkin', boy," his uncle said.

Nate bent beside the bed to fill the woodstove and Uncle Jerry slapped him up the back of the head.

One of the twins gasped. Nate, with his back to his uncle, glanced toward the loft and crossed his eyes to make the girls giggle.

"Took you long enough," Uncle Jerry said.

He wanted to tell his uncle to shut up. He wanted to tell him to collect his own stupid wood. He really wanted to tell him to do them all a favor and drop dead. Instead he said, "Sorry Unc," which was about all he ever said to the man. Then he crammed the last piece of wood into the stove, and hurried up to the loft to get out of his uncle's line of sight.

Cara greeted him with a hug.

He touched her cheek with one icy hand. "How's that for cold?" he asked. "I bet there's a wind chill factor of ninety-eight below."

Cara squirmed away, laughing silently.

Nate pulled his hand back, as if he'd been stung. He hated that the girls couldn't laugh out loud. It was no way for them to live—always afraid of being bawled out or beat up.

"Tell us some stories." Cara grabbed his shirtsleeve and pulled him toward the bed.

Sarah nodded. "Yes, please, Nate."

He shrugged. It wasn't like he had any better way to pass the time while they waited out the windstorm.

"Tell us about Mom and Dad," Sarah whispered.

So, cloaked in a wool blanket and perched on the edge of the girls' bed, Nate whispered his tales. Woven into the stories were snapshots of their parents. He reminded the twins about their mother's voice—like deep, mellow wind chimes. He remembered her fat, glossy braid and the smell of flowers that filled the living room when she dried her hair before the woodstove. He told the girls about their father too. Quick hands. Strong hands. Always ready with an encouraging squeeze on a boy's shoulder.

"One more," Cara demanded when Nate finished telling about the time their dad killed the bear that stole laundry off the clothesline.

"It's time for bed," Nate answered.

"Just one more little one," Cara said.

Sarah nodded shyly.

"I'm done dry, girls. I've been going for three days and I've only lived twelve years. How many stories do you think I've got saved up?"

A gust of wind shook the cabin.

"Storm should be over by tomorrow," Nate said. "The wind comes in gusts instead of in a steady blow." He twitched Cara's chin. "And thank God for that because I have no more stories to tell you two."

"You haven't told us about the little people, yet, Nate. Tell one about them," Cara said.

"Those stories give you nightmares."

"Please," Cara begged.

Sarah nodded, wide eyes shining.

"The one about that kid down in Nunlivik who was sleepwalking," Cara said.

"Now what does the poem say?" Nate arched one brow. "Something about the little people grabbing children who don't obey their parents? I said it's time for bed."

"But you aren't our parents," Cara said, her smile showing how pleased she was with herself for thinking of that.

Nate gave an evil grin.

The girls gasped, scootched down in their bed, and pulled their itchy blankets over their noses so just their big eyes were showing.

Nate formed his hands into claws. Hovering over the twins, he began to recite in an eerie whisper:

Beware the Little Ones, children, beware.

They're always hungry, eager to snare.

So don't go alone to the woods to play,

And don't stay out after dark.

Always do what your parents say,

And run when you hear the dogs bark.

They'll catch you and snatch you and boil you whole,

And spread you like jam on a sourdough roll.

They'll take you and bake you right into a pie;

They'll put you in oil and laugh while you fry.

Cara and Sarah shivered.

Beware, the Little Ones, children, beware,

They hide in the woods and never play fair.

Nate paused, searching for words, then continued:

So mind your brother and go to bed,

Or to the Little Ones you'll be fed.

Cara popped out from under the blankets and hit him. "Nate! You made that last part up," she whispered.

"Go to sleep," he said, bending down to kiss her forehead.

He tucked the little girls in and sat on their bed waiting for them to sleep. Once they were asleep, he climbed into his own bed on the opposite wall of the loft.

With the back of one fist he wiped his wet eyes. Telling the girls about their parents always made him miss them more. The pain was not as sharp as it had been when he'd first moved in with Uncle Jerry. Life was busy and Nate's days were full. There were traps to tend, and skins to be stretched and scraped. There were trips to Naknek to sell pelts to the fur traders. Moose and caribou and ducks and geese had to be shot and cleaned and packed into the freezer. Nights were hard on Nate, though. Long, empty nights with nothing to occupy his thoughts.

Some nights—not most nights, but on some nights, after he was safely in bed where no village eyes could see and set village tongues to prattling, and when the world was especially cold, and the wind screeched, and his uncle spit—on some of those nights, Nate would sob silently into his pillow.

***

The wind carried in fat snow clouds and then died away in the wee hours. While Nate slept, silent flakes fell, laying a thick blanket of powder on the sleeping village.

The sun, which doesn't rise in Nitlitchit until ten o'clock in December, shone through the loft window and found Nate—worn out from three days of rising every few hours to tend the fire—still snoring at that late hour.

In his exhaustion the dream came again. It always came when he was too tired to fight it off.

The old man's face wrinkled into a grimace. "Nate, Nate, come help us."

He looked familiar, but Nate was sure he didn't know him. He'd have remembered that terrible face. Shaggy white brows hung over brooding gray eyes and tufts of the same wiry hair stuck out of large ears.

"Nate, bring the sword."

"I don't know where you are, Old Man."

"In the palace. Use the telescope."

Nate tried to run away. He didn't know the man. Couldn't help the man. He'd told him over and over for months. But no matter which direction Nate turned, the old man stood in front of him, eyes pleading and gnarled hands lifted in supplication.

His voice was brittle like everything else about him. "Nate, come help us."

"I can't help you."

"Bring the sword, Nate."

"Lazy boy!" Uncle Jerry shouted.

The dream crumbled.

"Git up!" Uncle Jerry yelled. "Earn your keep! What's a matter wit' you, boy?"

Nate jumped from the bed and down the ladder in almost one motion. "I'm sorry, Unc."

Uncle Jerry's knuckles connected with Nate's cheekbone, knocking his head against the loft ladder.

Nate winced but held back the tears that stung his eyes. Crying only set the man off. Keeping his gaze on the plank floor, Nate waited for his uncle to get his anger out of his system. The smell of sour alcohol oozed from the man's pores, filling the small cabin. He must have gone out as soon as the wind stopped. He'd spent the night drinking and playing poker at Trefon's, no doubt.

Uncle Jerry leaned over so his fat red face was right in front of Nate. "You cryin' girly?"

He almost gagged when his uncle's rancid breath reached him. He couldn't answer. He couldn't even breathe.

"Don't you be late to them chores again, girly, or I'll give you sump'm to cry about."

"Yes sir," Nate whispered toward his feet.

***

Nate cooked the dogs' salmon mush, being careful not to rattle the cast iron pots against the wood stove. Uncle Jerry snoozed in a chair pushed up to the small folding card table in one corner of the cabin.

After feeding the dog team, Nate slipped back into the cabin, looking up to the loft as usual. Cara pointed downstairs, asking silently if she and Sarah could come down. Nate shook his head. Not yet. The girls could come down after their uncle passed out. Then you could set a bomb off beside the man without rousing him.

The cabin door clicked closed. Uncle Jerry jerked his head up and trained bleary eyes on Nate. "Where's my food?"

Nate set a steaming bowl of salunaq before his uncle.

The man took a big bite. "Too salty. You gotta rinse them fish, I keep tellin' you." He took another bite. And another. "You ruin everything. What'd I ever do to deserve you three Worthless Willies? That's what I'm always asking myself." He slurped down two more huge bites. "Can't even cook a decent breakfast."

After he finished, Uncle Jerry shoved the bowl away. Using the table for balance, he pushed himself out of his chair and stood swaying while he dug around in his shirt pocket. He got hold of a key and flicked it towards Nate. "I oughta make you walk." He mumbled as he staggered to the rocking chair and fell into it.

By the time Nate was done washing the pans, Uncle Jerry was snoring. His cheek, slimy with drool spilling from the corner of his mouth, rested on a bottle of whiskey cradled in his left arm. In his right hand a cigarette burned down to his fingers. He shook it onto the floor without waking.

The red tip of the cigarette glowed against the rough pine planks of the floor. Nate glanced up to see if the little girls were watching from the loft. They were in their bed playing Mary Mac. He casually walked over and kicked the smoldering cigarette under his uncle's chair.

He slid the snowmachine key off the table, snitched a couple of quilts from Uncle Jerry's bed, and clucked his tongue softly to get the girls' attention. They crept down the ladder and out of the cabin, Cara stopping long enough to grab a bag of dry meat from the shelf in the windbreak on her way.

In minutes the girls were bundled into the big, aluminum sled hitched behind the snowmachine. They sat in a thick pile of loose straw, wearing winter gear made by sympathetic village ladies—beaver fur parkas, hats, and mittens. And on their feet, sealskin mukluks. Nate tucked the quilts around them.

"Where we going, Nate?" Cara asked.

"Trap line."

"You picking up Connie and John first?"

Nate didn't answer. He was imagining the cabin he so hated, engulfed in flames.

"Nate, are we going to Connie's?" Cara asked.

"I'll be right back." He went into the cabin.

He couldn't do it.

Here was his chance to be free and he was going to blow it. He stood over his uncle clenching and unclenching his fists and wishing he had the guts to walk away.

Sticking one foot under the chair, he ground out the cigarette.

He slammed the door on his way out, jumped on the snowmachine, and sped off toward Connie and John's, two miles to the north.

It was a perfect afternoon—a sunshine-after-the-storm day—and even Nate couldn’t stay angry on such a day. His spirits picked up as drove down the lane, swishing back and forth, cutting deep tracks in the snow.

Branches, heavy with snow, bent to touch the narrow road at frequent intervals. Nate aimed for them, nicking them with the tips of the skis and sending them shooting up like catapults as they shed their weight and showered the world with glittering clouds of icy crystals. The girls squealed.

"Faster!" Cara shouted.

Nate swerved to miss a fallen tree and Cara fell back into the straw screeching happily.

They were all laughing by the time Nate pulled into Connie and John's yard and shut the engine down.

Connie stood on the front porch wearing a parka and mukluks. When she saw Nate, a smile filled her round face and overflowed from her dark eyes.

She jumped off the porch. "I knew you'd be bringing the snow-go today," she said. "Dad told Mom the men were boozing all night up at Trefon's. I figured your uncle would be sleeping it off this afternoon."

Nate grunted.

"I told John you'd be here. He's in packing a lunch." She reached out with one hand and slid her fingers softly over his bruised cheek. "Man! What was it for this time?"

"I overslept."

"That man . . . I wish I could . . . I wish I could . . . stomp him!" She stamped one soft-soled mukluk into the snow.

Nate laughed. "It's almost worth the bruise to see you throwing a fit like a little girl."

John sauntered out the front door, carrying a backpack. He and Connie looked like twins with their matching beaver caps. John was a year younger and a couple of inches shorter than his sister, but both were dark with almond-shaped eyes and built like typical Aleuts—squat and strong.

Nate had the same olive complexion but he was taller, taking after his Indian father instead of his Aleut mother. And then he had the gray eyes. Who knew where they came from? Some European ancestor who'd come to fish the rich Alaskan waters, Connie always said.

She liked to imagine that a distant relative on his father's side would one day come and take him away from his wicked uncle. "Maybe your father was the illegitimate son of the illegitimate son of European royalty," she'd suggested once.

"Uh-huh, and my mom was a Russian princess," Nate had answered.

Connie snorted. "I'm not making up fairy tales here. Anyone can see your mom is just plain old Aleut like the rest of us. But your dad . . . he's got the gray eyes. He comes from somewhere, Nate."

"Yep. He comes from Naknek. No mystery there."

She'd kicked him for that. "Very funny. You have no sense of romance."

"And you read too much," he'd said.

John slung the backpack into the sled. "Now don't you go eating all the food before we get there," he said as he yanked Cara and Sarah's braids.

The little girls giggled and John hopped on the back of the snowmachine. "I'm ready. But tell me how you knew Nate would get away with the snow-go today, Connie?"

"I told you. I can foretell the future." She winked and climbed into the sled behind the twins.

Connie's words echoed in Nate's head as he drove. He wished someone could tell him his future. As soon as he could get someone to take him on for a fishing season, he was taking the girls and leaving his uncle. But when would that be? Who would hire him?

John's yell startled Nate. "Slow down!"

Nate let off the gas and leaned to hold the snowmachine down as they rounded the last curve before the river. The sled behind him swung wide, as if they were playing a game of crack the whip, and tipped up on one ski. The girls threw their weight to the right side and the sled dropped back onto both skis.

The sled hung on through the turn, but in their path, a scant twenty feet away, lay a fallen cottonwood.

Sarah screamed.

Nate laid the snowmachine over to the right. He and John leaned, urging the machine to turn. They slid parallel to the downed trunk. The sled whipped around. Smacked the tree. Bounced off.

The tree's root mass loomed in front of Nate. He opened the throttle all the way, trying to spin his back end around in the deep snow.

No good.

No time.

###