Free Juggling Fire by Joanne Bell

or less) sock and pour the lukewarm water over Brooks’s cut. He yowls and snaps at my hand. Instantly sorry, he nuzzles into my leg.
    “Don’t worry, pup,” I say, stroking his head.
    While he sleeps, I toss my sleeping bag over some branches to air, and I open the tent windows to let breezes play through the screen.
    Restlessness burns through my muscles. My thighs twitch.
    I can see the cabin clearly in my mind. I see myself with Brooks, walking down the last miles of foot trail and then cutting across the clearing. I feel myself pulling back on the hammer so its head eases out the spikes that hold the window shutters in place.
    What I don’t see is what the cabin looks like inside now I’m grown up. I’ve never been there alone without everyone else’s gear cluttering the space.
    Brooks can sleep by the woodstove until he’s better. I can leave him safely inside while I look for clues to Dad’s disappearance. At night I’ll go to bed within four log walls that hold years of memories, the fire banked and smoldering in the stove. Red coals, flames yellow and blue.
    What if the bear comes back? What if he won’t leave us alone?
    That’s ridiculous to even imagine. The bear must have way better things to do with his time than follow us.
    After a supper of cheese and crackers, I can no longer force myself to sit still. I break camp. I’ve made my decision. If I don’t get there this time, I’ll probably never try again.
    I stuff the gear from Brooks’s torn pack into mine. I’ll sew it at the cabin. Now I’m in shape, I don’t notice the extra weight. I shrug the pack over my shoulders.
    I douse the flames completely. The charred bones of branches collapse on the downy ashes. Brooks lies with his eyes closed, curled in a ball, his wound on the outside flank.
    “Let’s go, boy.”
    Brooks stares at me, astounded, and pushes his muzzle into my ankle.
    I kneel down, my pack almost toppling me. I haul him up by his collar. “Sorry, Brooks. Staying put’s not an option. We need salt and food.”
    Brooks takes a step using three legs, then sits, eyes locked with mine.
    I snap the leash to his collar and tug. “Come on, pup.”
    And that’s how we walk out of the forest and into the high country again. We rest every few minutes. I stand, leaning forward to take the weight off my shoulders. Brooks crashes on his rear and slurps at his cut.
    Sometimes I shout to warn the bear we are coming. Sometimes I keep very still. I will be so happy if Brooks recovers. Funny, though, because yesterday he was healthy, and I wasn’t happy then.
    I don’t know how best to avoid this bear. He needs lots of notice before we show up again to bug him. In the end, I yodel maybe once every five minutes. In between yodels I try to imagine my way back into the story of the princess’s quest, but I can’t concentrate.
    When the last light is blazing from the mountain faces about me, I pitch my tent on a small knoll where I can see the valley spread below. The brush grows in patches lower than my waist. Far away, the river gleams silver. Under my tent is a bed of soft deep moss. I hold Brooks curled into my side all night and fall into a restless sleep. There’s something about moss I should remember.
    Asleep, my dreams are confusing and not about the quest at all. I dream that my father is in a hut at the edge of a forest, ax in hand. He stares down the path at the thud of approaching hooves. A nightingale sings in a cottonwood by the bank.
    I dig in my heels and gallop toward him. “Dad!”
    My father’s face is yearning, his arms outstretched.
    Then he covers his face with his hands.
    When he removes them, fur is growing on his cheeks.
    He snarls, showing yellow teeth, and holds his hands in front of his face, staring at them. Claws curl crooked at their ends, shining like knives.
    I jerk back on the reins.
    The tent and knoll are bathed in moonlight. Wind surges from the passes like a faraway tide. It was just a nightmare.