Feather From a Stranger Read online

  When she reached the Tok cutoff, she turned onto Highway 1. Just past the native village of Slana she made a wrong turn and found herself on the very remote Nabesna Highway. Distracted as she had been, she had lost her way and was now trying to navigate an unimproved road that was getting narrower and more rut-filled as she drove. Backtracking to the Alaska Highway, she turned in the direction of Glennallen, which she had read was an unincorporated community of approximately five hundred people, located at the juncture of the Richardson and Glenn Highways. The mistake had cost her a good two hours out of the day. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Alaska was more of a wilderness than she had anticipated. Too tired to care, she accepted that this narrow two-lane road to Glennallen was as close to being a super highway as these parts had to offer. In need of a good night's sleep, she continued on to Glennallen.

  IMPRESSIVELY NON-DESCRIPT, GLENNALLEN WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A wide spot in the road. The gas station and gift shop on the northwest corner were the biggest operation within view. Semi trucks and their mostly double-tandem trailers filled the lot. Some idled in lines three rigs deep, waiting to re-fuel.

  She skirted the corner where the station was located, and turned right off the Richardson onto the Glenn Highway. Continuing for about a half mile past an assortment of run down single story businesses, she saw a two story tall motel to her left. Old and in need of paint, it looked good enough, she guessed. It would have to be, since there didn't seem to be any other place to stay. Besides, just about any place had to be better than the lodge at Beaver Creek.

  She decided to settle in for the day to rest and stock up on toiletries and food at the local supermarket she found near the motel. The store was as amazingly well stocked as it was small, and she managed to find everything she needed before checking into her room.

  Walking up the outside stairs of the motel, she passed a thermometer that read minus forty degrees. In the clear cold air, it felt warmer than she would have expected it to at such a temperature extreme—certainly warmer than the same bone-chilling temp would have felt in the more humid air of Boston. The motel room was warm and comfortable. Although the furnishings were outdated and worn, it was definitely a step above the one at Beaver Creek.

  Suddenly, she burst out laughing. She was certainly on an emotional roller coaster today. Wiping tears of fatigue-borne silliness from her eyes, she imagined the look of horror that would undoubtedly be on the faces of her friends if they could see her now as she stooped to pick up the pieces of insulation that had fallen out from around the air-conditioner, and carefully stuffed them back into place to keep frost from creeping in. Fits of laughter engulfed her the more she thought about the primitiveness of the task. She was sure that her friends from the city would have trouble believing that studious, quiet, Vassar-educated Mara would ever place herself in a situation like this. She did it though—stuffing the insulation, and she rolled a rug up on the floor alongside the door to block the draft, too.

  Before she was finished, her tears of laughter reverted to the earlier tears of sorrow. In her tired state, it all came out. All of the pent-up grief over her husband's disappearance, and now legally certified death, spilled out in that Glennallen motel room. Hours later, exhausted, she fell asleep.

  When she awoke at 4 a.m. and peeked out her window, she saw the Northern Lights dancing in waves of pink and green in the starry sky. Was she dreaming that she could see Brad's face and feel his arms around her once again in the dark aloneness of this far away place? Comforted by his aura, she slept soundly.

  THE MORNING ARRIVED TOO QUICKLY AND BROUGHT PROBLEMS WHEN Mara's car engine wouldn't start. Someone at the front desk of the motel knew someone whose brother-in-law handled such matters. They dialed the number and handed her the phone.

  “Copper Valley Tire and Towing,” a man's voice echoed through the phone.

  Mara explained the problem and then listened as he replied in the same flat rhythmic dialect that the woman who had placed the call possessed, “Sounds like oil pan freeze-up.”

  By 2 p.m., a mechanic was crawling under her vehicle to attach the tow bar that would haul it to the garage across the street.

  “Don't worry. We'll get it thawed,” he said, wiping his hands down the front of his coveralls. “I'll call the motel when it's ready.”

  From outside the parking area to the motel, she turned to see a scrawny guy in dark blue coveralls buttoned up to the bottom of his goatee slide under her truck on a rolling board. She watched in horror as he lit a can of some liquid and placed it underneath the oil pan right there in the parking lot of the garage. Not wanting to see anymore, she turned away and prayed that she would actually have a vehicle to pick up when he was done.

  On her way upstairs, she stopped at the office to reserve the room for another night, hoping that one more day in this remote town would be all she needed. By six she received a call saying that her vehicle was ready. The desk clerk warned her as she left that a couple of moose were hanging around outside and insisted on driving her across the street for her safety. People were nice here—friendly and caring. She felt guilty about her fears of being left stranded here. Something told her that if she were, she would be okay.

  To her immense relief, there had been no serious damage to her SUV. She listened carefully as the mechanic told her about the new head bolt heater he had installed, and showed her where the posts were all over town that housed the electric outlets she and others could plug their rigs into at night.

  “Probably wouldn't hurt to start ‘er up two or three times a night in this cold either,” the mechanic told her. “Make sure you let ‘er run till she's warm each time you do. And you probably know by now not to leave any liquids in your rig, huh? Or anything else you don't want froze.”

  She assured him that she would, even if it meant getting up in the middle of the night. She would set her alarm if she had to.

  Mara was starving. She saw a cheeseburger stand near the edge of town and stopped for two of the biggest cheeseburgers they made and ate them sitting there in her car. When she got back to her room, she wrapped herself in a wool blanket and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the aurora. Mystical green swirls moved in a playful dance all across the dark sky.

  As she watched, pink and even red fingers of light emerged and joined the green swirls. She stood mesmerized. She thought of the words that one of the village natives had spoken softly to her earlier at the burger stand, where they had both been watching the aurora while waiting for their orders.

  “They are the souls of those dead by their own hand,” he had told her. “They are restless and angry—suffering and caught in the sky.”

  His words frightened her now, just as they had when he said them. How could anything so beautiful signify something so unpleasant? Watching the lights dance in the sky, Mara cast off the images of restless spirits. She would choose to believe that if the lights were the souls of the dead, they were there to lend comfort to the living. Maybe one of them was Brad's soul appearing now to comfort her. Let the native guy believe what he would. She would think otherwise.

  Once back in her room, she set her alarm for 2 a.m. and crawled into bed. She slept fitfully, unsettled by the man's words in spite of her resolve to ignore them. When the alarm went off at two, she bundled up and went outside to start her SUV, noticing the crackle of the lights overhead. Standing outside while her SUV spewed dense gray smoke into the frigid air, she watched them, this time comforted by their beauty. Across the street, a couple walked out of a dimly lit bar and staggered, laughing, down the road—their loud voices breaking the stillness. Their voices had faded into the distance by the time her car had warmed up enough. She stood in the night for a few moments longer to absorb the comfort of the aurora. She told herself that it was Brad's spirit telling her he was safe and watching over her. The thought gave her peace. The rest of her sleep was deep and restful and morning came too soon.

  She was relieved to find that her truck started up
easily. She coiled the cord that had tethered it to the electric post inside behind the grill. She left it running while she had breakfast before getting back inside and heading west.

  She drove across miles of flat land, dotted with hoarfrost-covered black spruce that rose like rayed spikes from the frozen tundra. The remoteness alone gave her new respect for the services she had received in Glennallen.

  The surreal landscape left her imagining the pioneer life of years ago. She drove silently for hours beneath the clear blue sky, across frozen land ringed by an endless panorama of snow-encased mountains and glaciers. At some point, while reaching into her bag for something, she felt the feather given to her by Joe. She had placed it there back in Burwash Landing for fear of losing it in the strong winds there. In all her fascination with the aurora, she had almost forgotten she had. Reminded that it was still there, she again thought of Joe's words.

  Your present is the future of your past.

  You will need this to protect your future from your past.

  All who come here seek the future of their past.

  Mara said the words out loud, repeating them over and over. “All who come here seek the future of their past. You will need this to protect your future from your past…”

  “None of this makes sense,” she said out loud. “What in the world is the future of the past? The old man's crazy, now he's making me crazy. I have to stop thinking about this.”

  Something told her that Joe was not crazy, though; something she couldn't explain. She pulled her hand from the bag, leaving the feather inside, forcing any more thoughts of Joe and the feather out of her mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Palmer to Knik

  THE DESOLATION OF THE FLAT LANDS SOON GAVE WAY TO STEEP MOUNTAIN turns as Mara continued her journey from Glennallen to Palmer. Clutching the steering wheel to navigate the hairpin turns, she had no choice but to stay the course. She eyed the flimsy-looking guardrails with trepidation. They offered dubious protection from the shear drop-offs.

  The shoulderless Glenn Highway was as harrowing as any she had traveled. One look in the rearview mirror was enough to make her not look again. Behind, a double-tandem semi was bearing down. For twenty-five nerve-wracking miles she drove the descending, winding road, carefully negotiating the snakelike turns before finding a place to pull over. The truck roared by causing her vehicle to rock in its wake.

  Her fingers felt stiff from clutching the steering wheel, as if holding onto it would somehow save her from being mashed into the pavement by the imposing eighteen-wheeler and its equally large second trailer. She stretched them out, opening and closing her hands for several minutes until they felt normal again. For a moment, watching several Dall Sheep negotiate the steep, jagged peaks above the pullout, she felt free of any of the strain of the past four years. It was as if her race against time with the truck had purged her of any remnant of stress that could possibly still be in her.

  Perilous cliffs rose straight up on her right and straight down across the narrow road on her left. Here, in the security of the safe little pullout, their wonder filled her with awe as she closed her eyes to take in this moment of peace. An hour later she awoke at the end of a powerful dream about a large wolf walking protectively in front of her. For an instant in her grogginess, she thought the wolf was really there. She could see the deep black and rust colors of its coat and she could feel its power. She sat straight up, fully awake now, just in case it had not been a dream. It had been, though.

  Brad had been in the dream, too, standing across the road with the wolf between him and her SUV. She had the sense that she had met this wolf before, and the thought made her uneasy, as though the dream had been a portent of the future. She struggled to make sense of it, not wanting to believe that such a thing was possible. She pushed the images out of her consciousness, found a peanut butter sandwich, and concentrated on watching the sheep as she ate before resuming her drive. The solitude of this place overwhelmed her. The grand beauty of the snow-covered jagged mountains, the miles and miles of glaciers—like the Matanuska Glacier that ran for some fifty miles alongside the road—made the remainder of the trip into Palmer one of the most unforgettable parts of the journey so far.

  All of this made the emergence of city lights and subdivisions as she drove down the hill into Palmer feel like a full out assault on her senses. She had read that farmers from the Midwest had homesteaded Palmer in the 1950s. She was glad that it had retained the flavor of a place suspended in time in spite of a sign that read, Welcome to Palmer, Alaska. Population 5000. How fortunate that the clear day gave her a glimpse of a large glacier off to the east.

  “That's the Knik Glacier,” the service station attendant told her when she stopped to get gas and inquired about the massive, turquoise blue river of ice that was the most breathtaking of all the glaciers she had seen.

  “Ka NICK,” she repeated his pronunciation.

  “That's right. You got it,” he answered, handing her change from the large bill she had given him.

  A block from the gas station, she turned into the parking lot of a motel that had a Chinese restaurant sandwiched between it and a large grocery store. Nestled beneath the tall, jagged peaks of the Chugach Mountains, Palmer was a picture perfect place to stop and spend a couple of days. She parked in the back row, alongside no fewer than six pick-up trucks, each with a large wooden camper-like set of boxes attached. Along the sides of each box were rows of small doors, each with a hole cut in the center. Sticking their heads out of the holes were the individual members of an entire dog team. Assortments of dogsleds were secured to the tops of the various trucks’ boxes.

  The dogs watched her curiously. As hard as it was, she resisted the urge to pet them. The last thing she wanted to do was to start a barking frenzy.

  “Got a light?” A raspy, male voice said behind her.

  Startled, Mara spun around to see a thin, scrawny man who looked to be in his early thirties. Caught off guard, she stammered, “No—Sorry— I don't smoke.”

  He stuffed his cigarette into his top shirt pocket and shrugged. “No problem”.

  “Get me a medium amaretto latte with a twist o’ cinnamon, would ya A.C?” A woman called from the open passenger door window of a stripped down pick-up that had a dented right, front fender.

  The scrawny guy scowled, grumbling that he didn't know why she didn't get off her ass and get her own damned latte.

  “Didja hear me, A.C?” The shrillness of her voice made Mara cringe.

  “Ya, Sis, I heard ya already,” he called back, spitting on the ground after he spoke.

  “I told ya about that danged spitting thing once if I told you again, A.C.” she hollered at him, while lighting her own cigarette and blowing the smoke out the side of her tightly pinched mouth.

  Mara watched A.C. snake across the parking lot, scrunching her nose as he spat again, this time wiping his mouth with his sleeve. She briefly looked at his sister in the truck several vehicles beyond hers and saw her shrug, roll her eyes, and take a deep drag on her cigarette before throwing it on the ground and crushing it with her foot.

  When she looked her way again, Mara saw that the woman was now busy putting mascara on in front of the rear view mirror. She noticed that the truck had a bumper sticker in the rear window that read, Alaska Girls Kick Ass and another one on the rear bumper that read, Proud to be Valley Trash.

  A.C. was almost to the entry to the store when Mara saw him stop another customer and get a light for his cigarette. She watched him take a couple of drags and then pinch it out with his fingers before stuffing it back into his shirt pocket and then disappearing inside the store.

  Mara began her own walk across the parking lot to the store. The sight of dog after dog sitting, vigilant, behind the steering wheels of the respective vehicles, while waiting for their owners to return, made her smile.

  “Have some dignity,” she said to a Rottweiler who was barking ferociously. The dog looked at her and stopped his t
irade.

  “He'll be back soon,” she said to a quivering and forlorn looking mutt. “He didn't forget you.”

  The realization that one wouldn't see something like this in New York, Boston or almost anywhere else, made her smile. She paused to wait for the automatic doors to swing open to the store and walked through, dodging just in time to keep from being brushed aside by A.C., who was exiting with a stuffed plastic grocery bag in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other. He never even looked at her or gave any sign that he had just talked to her five minutes before.

  “Must be rushing the amaretto back to his sister,” she snarked under her breath. She watched him walk across the parking lot and wondered why he was wearing shorts when it was February and the thermometer read 28 degrees. The tattoos down the outsides of his calves stood in stark contrast to the beet red of his legs, and his bowlegged swagger gave him a spider-like quality. He paused only long enough to dig the cigarette butt out of his pocket, remove a disposable lighter from its packaging, which he threw on the ground, and light the crunched up tobacco stub before disappearing into the parking lot.

  Mara shopped with the fervor of a woman who had been away from a real store for over a week. She wanted to check out every item on every aisle.

  Everywhere she stopped, she heard people talking about ‘the race’. When she finally got to the register, she noticed that the cashier had no fewer than fifteen small gold rings running in a row up along the outside rim of her earlobes. She knew it was fifteen because she had time to count them while the old man in line in front of her counted his money and paid for his groceries in cash—right down to the penny. Each of the rings was exactly the same size and in each ear lobe was a small green-jeweled stud.

  “What's this race everyone's talking about?” she said when it was her turn in line.