Survive

Chapter One

Snow lazily drifted down from the sky, the ice-covered trees sang in the light, playful breeze. The morning sun painted the sky a soft pink, the pink of a child's cheek, soft as the down feathers of a dove. Deer stood, their ears alert, grazing on shriveled leaves of stark, bare bushes, and nibbled on the lichen covered rocks. Water gushed from a half-frozen stream, winding through the forest, laughing and bubbling as it whirled around the stiff, tufted legs of elk. A herd of elk, gathered in the cold, ice coated shallows of the stream, with their necks above the surface, they lapped at the biting water, occasionally catching loose seaweed. Their bright orange rumps stood out against the white of snow, and the dark bare trees, a beacon for a hungry wolf or two.

The angry, shrilling barks and yelps of dogs awakened the forest, the deer scattered, elk moved downstream, and birds flew from their lofty perches, screaming as they soared. Away in the forest, a trail cut through the underbrush, swerved between trees, over the stream, and winded beyond. Thundering footfalls notified the forest of the dogs, followed by a sled piled high with crates and boxes. Two men balanced on the swaying, jerking sled, one standing, and another sitting in the front. The man standing was very tall, easily towering over the average human. Snow matted in his beard, hat, coat and eyebrows. His body was strewn with thick pelts of many animals, concealing, hiding the body heat from winter's chilling eyes. He held onto a handle-like bar, and stood on a small platform, just above the runners. His fingers ached from the cold, and exhaustion, his fur-lined, rubber boots felt too small for his numb feet, cold nipped his toes, paralyzingly them.

This is William Stafford, a trader who travels along the bitter north, delivering all kinds of goods. He and his son, James Stafford are traveling to a small town in Alaska, Williamsburg, delivering well needed medicine. Children and adults of all ages have fallen ill, driven into the regular's office. Williamsburg's people were wallowing in the sickness, antidotes were depleted, many lay dead in shallow graves, their families suffering the burden they left behind. Very few have been healed, yet they starve for healthy company.

The Stafford family had received a letter stating this, plans were made, crates were bound onto the sled, dogs were harnesses, coats, hats, mittens, boots were worn, food was packed, the tent folded, and ready; William and James raced away into a world of unknown blunders and wonders. James had had agreed to come, his life was now on hold, the dangers could easily take that away.

Originally originating from Ontario, Canada, far, far in the East, they reluctantly left their family. Their home, tucked into a small village, was brick, small, and warm. William's wife, Leah, was most likely sitting in her chair, scooted close to the oven, sewing. His small children, Michael, and Jill were probably teasing the dog, or each other at this time. Tears threatened to well up in William's eyes, as he imagined his family waiting impatiently, stealing glances at the door, waiting for James and himself to come home. There had been times when he and his eldest son had barley returned from some journeys. They had once narrowly escaped a passage into freezing waters, nearly avoided becoming lost in a horizonless plain (not knowing which way was North, or South due to the snow that covered everything). Times when their dogs had got injured, due to the leader breaking his leg, and when it had gotten deathly cold.

James sat, wrapped in a thick, bear skin blanket, while shivers wracked his body. Snow was flung into his numb face, catching in his long eyelashes, as he constantly wiped them away. The dogs merely kept kicking snow behind them, it slashed against his cheeks, turning them raw.

Sitting isn't any better, he thought to himself, sitting only a few feet away from the huskies' rears wasn't much of a privilege. He turned his head towards his father, looking up; James examined his face, searching for signs of exhaustion. He was tired of having to sit, doing nothing, getting snow on his face. William's stances was straight and alert, it didn't show signs of exhaustion he looked...normal, fine, strong. But his eyes gave him away, pain sparked deep in his irises, and they were glazed over with fatigue, his lips were tinged with blue, his fingers, too tight on the bar, and his feet restless. His father's voice cracked as he yelled his commands, his arm shot out half-heartedly with the whip, the crack of the instrument didn't echo as it usually did. It was time to switch positions.