Devil by the Tail

Chapter 1

All of Fort Castor, northern British Columbia—population 968—is assembled in the snowy field behind the community centre for the Lumber Games, in which junior and adult competitors show off their lumberjack skills. Chatty, the horned lynx mascot, prances around giving little kids candies and high-fives. Not to mention fodder for nightmares with his threadbare fake fur and stained velvet fangs.

So far, I took first in the axe throw and second in the bow sawing contest. I’m going for the gold, so I must win the underhand chop.

I grip the axe handle with both hands, fingers winter cold, palms clammy. The peeled log beneath my feet is a smooth, pale neck awaiting its fate. The crowd buzzes in the bleachers, and my blood sizzles in my veins. I will turn this piece of wood into kindling.

Like I should have done with the letter stuffed in my back pocket. The words scrawled in purple ink still swim behind my eyes.

Dear Alexia,

My name is Alex.

You must think I’m the worst person ever.

No, no. We’re good. Just leave me alone.

The megaphone crackles. “Contestants, get ready for the tiebreaker.”

“You go, girl,” Dad shouts.

Breathe. You’ve got this.

I raise the axe over my head. In my peripheral vision, Caden swings his own axe between his legs a couple of times then imitates my pose. He’s Fort Castor’s golden boy, right down to his golden-brown hair and green-gold eyes. Even though he’s one of my favourite people, too, I hope he’s ready to eat wood chips because I’m totally winning the underhand chop.

The grand prize sits on a snowbank, a Moto-Ski snowmobile, orange with a black seat and a 440cc engine. It’s about three times older than me, but I want that sled more than I’ve ever wanted anything. A junker of my own to get my hands dirty on and my happiness will be complete. I thump the tips of my boots against the log to dislodge snow from the soles. I can’t afford a single slip-up.

The folded paper shifts in my pocket.

Sometimes, bad things happen and force us to make the most painful decisions.

Yeah, I agree. Today was the worst day to find this letter. I should have thrown it in the wood stove unread.

The air horn rips the air. The first impact of blade on wood shoots up my arms and raps the back of my skull. My world shrinks to a snow globe. It’s just me, my axe, and the log I’m about to annihilate.

I chop left, chop right. My braid escapes the collar of my sweater, an ash-blonde rope that flays the air.

The chat-cornu got under my skin. None of it is your fault…

Damn right it’s not my fault. Left. Right. Left. Right. Splinters fly everywhere. I’m halfway through. My muscles are on fire, and each strike feels like my wrist is shattering. Caden and I are neck and neck. I can’t stop—won’t stop hacking even if my body falls apart. I said I’d beat him, and I will.

Dammit, Alex. Focus. Three more blows and victory is mine. The axe hits sideways and flies out of my hands and into the snow. Cheers erupt. Between my feet, a finger-thick strip of wood still connects the two halves of my log.

Damn. I can’t believe it. Caden won. He’s strong, but so am I. I trained so hard for this—fell asleep every night picturing the gold medal hanging on my neck. So much for the power of visualization.

I hope you can forgive me someday.

Hell, no. I’m not forgiving anyone.

Panting and drenched with sweat, I hop down from my log and kick some snow with the edge of my foot, which does nothing to cool the lava rolling beneath my skin. Caden holds his axe high and waves at the crowd, so pleased with himself. But then he cuts a glance at me and his brow furrows.

Hey, no need to worry. I am a sore loser, but I’m not going to throw a tantrum. He won fair and square.

He finally strides over, hair burnished with sweat. “Good job, Alex. You didn’t make it easy.”

“Congrats on beating me.” I offer him a fist bump and hiss in pain as our hands connect. My wrist feels like it’s made of broken glass.

“You okay?”

On a good day, his attentiveness would wrap me like a warm hug, but right now it rubs me the wrong way. Before I spew a reply I’ll regret later, Chatty—who never speaks a word, by the way—saunters over with his grinning lynx face and googly eyes, and sweeps Caden away to the winner’s circle.

Some people are scared of clowns or dolls. This ridiculous mascot fueled my childhood nightmares. It doesn’t matter who’s wearing the costume. Even if it were Caden, I’d have to resist the urge to shove him away from me. Mr. Tanuyak volunteered for the job this year, but someone must have had to replace him, for whatever reason. I doubt he’d be freezing off his toes in those scuffed combat boots.

“Nice work, Alex,” Dad says.

I swivel around. He’s stomping my way, boyish and ruddy-cheeked. We have the same blue-grey eyes, my favourite thing about myself. He was only nineteen when I was born, and people regularly mistake him for my big brother. To me, he just looks like Dad.

“I’m proud of you.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Beyond him, the sled I just lost sits on its dirty snowbank with the sunset-tinted Rocky Mountains in the background. The Devil’s Tail reigns among them, not the tallest peak but definitely the sharpest. The one Chatty’s evil twin supposedly haunts.

You’ve been cursed, Alexia. The chat-cornu was going to steal from you a person you loved. Your daddy deserved you more than I did, so I had to leave.

I shudder, imagining Chatty’s black mouth stretching to swallow me whole. It’s silly, but the visceral fear from my nightmares when I was little is still etched on my brain.

“You all right, sweetie?”

“Yeah.” I step back. “Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m okay?”

He ruffles my toque. “You’ll get over it.”

I’m sure he means losing the contest, not my mascot phobia. I bat off his hand. “I have to go find my parka. See you later.”

Whatever you do, stay away from that mountain.

Love, Mommy

Got it, Karine (sorry—not calling you Mommy). The Devil’s Tail isn’t haunted, and it’s not cursed either. Sure, random people have died up there over the years. Because, like every other mountain on Earth, it can freeze you, bury you, skid you off a cliff. The list goes on. There’s a hundred ways to die on the Tail, and only one way not to. Stay off it.

She’s right about one thing, though. I have Dad. I don’t need anyone else.

“Your axe.” Caden is back, holding it out. A gold medal hangs on his neck.

I have him, too—my oldest friend. I’m glad he cares enough to pretend he’s not put off by my mood swings.

I take the axe and inspect the cutting edge, the handle. No chip in the metal, no crack along the hickory wood. My loss is a hundred percent on me. Well, ninety-nine-point nine percent. I could have done without Karine’s distracting letter.

“Let’s go check out your prize,” I say.

In the declining afternoon, the Moto-Ski isn’t as shiny as it appeared in the sunlight. Fort Cass (as most of us call Fort Castor) doesn’t hand out brand-new sleds to kids, of course. This one has been pulled out of some barn or junkyard and restored to reasonable condition. Like concealer on a pimple, the fresh coat of orange paint does only so much to hide the years of abuse by the elements. Still, it would’ve been nice to have my own sled.

“I was hoping you’d beat me,” Caden says. “You know I don’t really need that thing.”

Right. He has a sweet-looking Polaris that’s just a few years old. But now I’m suspicious. “You’d better not have been trying to let me win.”

“I’d never do that to you.” He widens his eyes, like he’s offering me his soul to read. It’s not necessary. I believe him.

“Well, you won. By the way, I heard that Moto-Skis are all-around crappy.”

Caden bumps my calf with the edge of his foot and smiles. “Sore loser.”

Coming from his mouth, it sounds like the best of compliments.

“Contestants,” a woman’s voice screeches from a speaker. “Don’t forget to come in and grab a bowl of chilli and your winnings.”

My stomach growls. I get too jittery to eat during a competition and my breakfast is long forgotten. “Let’s go in. I’m starving.”

We’re the last ones outside. We stride across the field toward the community center. I lost the big prize, but I should still take home a few bucks for placing in all my events.

A flash of genius hits me. “Hey. If you’re interested in selling, I could take that Moto-Ski off your hands.”

“That all-around crappy sled?” He lifts a mocking eyebrow. “Make an offer.”

“Whatever’s in my money envelope?”

“Deal.”

Sweet. Caden is gold.

After the meal, I find Dad at the crowded table he’s sharing with old high school buddies.

“I’m heading home,” I shout over the din.

“On your shiny new ride?” he teases.

“It’s a fine sled. Bye.”

I step out into the frigid, navy-blue dusk. The quiet feels good after a day hectic with the cheers of the crowd, the thwacks of axes, and the whines of chainsaws.

The Moto-Ski is dull in the remnants of daylight. I slide a gloved hand over the peeled-off logo stickers, the rubber grips worn smooth from decades of use.

My snowmobile.

It’s perfect.

I pump the gas primer and yank the starter cord. The engine purrs but doesn’t catch. That’s nothing abnormal. This thing has been sitting out in the cold all day. I prime some more, crank a few times, prime, crank.

“Did you flood the engine?”

Caden is coming my way, a fleece-lined aviator hat on his head but no jacket over his grey wool sweater.

How many times did I pump that primer? Eight? Twelve? Way too many, obviously. Dammit. I’m incompetent through and through today. “Yeah.”

“Happens to the best of us. Can I help?”

“Sure. If you want.”

“You hold the throttle, and I’ll crank?”

He waits for me to say, no, I’ll crank, because cranking is the most intensive part and I’m not a slacker, but my right wrist is screaming, and my left arm is just about dead.

“Okay.”

I hold down the gas lever with my thumb. The excess gas burns off in a dozen pulls, and the engine coughs to life. We stand back, enveloped in a cloud of exhaust.

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

It’s true, and I’m not the only one to think that. Caden is just about everyone’s favourite guy, one of those rare people who are almost perfect in every respect.

“No worries,” he says.

His eyes evade mine, showing me he’s pleased I told him that. I’m not sure when his feelings for me began to change, but I know he likes me.

I poke my finger into his chest. “Don’t let it go to your head. Next year, I’m beating you at every single event.”

He leans into the pressure of my finger. “We’ll see about that.”

“Ooh. I’m so scared.”

We’re standing so close. I can think of a way I could wipe that little smile from his lips. The flush of winter on my cheeks turns to a burn. What if I like him more than I think, and I really am cursed to lose someone I love? It’s not like we hang out all the time, but Caden has always been there. I don’t want that to change.

I climb onto the snowmobile and gun the engine. “See you tomorrow.”

He steps back from the pungent cloud of exhaust. “See you.”

The sled crawls into motion. It doesn’t have power steering, so I clench my teeth against the pain shooting up my arm and head for the trails. I ride along the town’s backyards where junk cars, kid swings, and trampolines sleep under a thick blanket of snow. The Moto-Ski’s headlight sucks, but I could drive home with my eyes closed. This is just something people say, but I’m sure I could do it. The road is perfectly straight right up to the bottom of my dead-end road.

As I leave the town behind, thick forest funnels me in. A few stars peek out of the sky as I glide downhill into a patch of icy fog. My warm, cozy house awaits up the other side. A chill creeps down my spine, though the frigid night air couldn’t possibly get past my goose-down parka. I’ve never liked this section of the road at night. If I were playing in a movie, this is where the swamp monster would slither out of the ditch.

Or the chat-cornu would disembowel me.

The fog swallows the last glimmer of dusk and the engine sputters as I approach the bottom of the hill. My heart squeezes in my chest.

Come on, you piece of junk. Now’s not the time to quit. I max out the throttle and advance lurch by lurch. One of the fuel lines must be sucking air. I’ll check it out when I get home. Which won’t be anytime soon, as the engine dies at the lowest point on the road and, along with it, the headlight.

Crap.

My ears are still buzzing from the engine’s rumble while utter silence descends on me like a polar vortex, and exhaust fumes fill my nose. On the left side of the road, the forest is mostly aspen and subalpine fir. On the right, the old-growth forest that covers the Devil’s Tail has never seen a chainsaw or a feller buncher, and probably never will. For one, there’s a moratorium on old-growth logging. Also, this mountain has a bad aura.

Across the ditch, two massive tangles of willows cling to life like mouldy skeletons, marking the head of an abandoned trail that used to lead to a trapper’s cabin. According to legend, this is where the chat-cornu lurks, waiting for the opportunity to curse people with losing someone they love. People like me, supposedly, even though I never set a foot on that mountain except in my nightmares.

Anyway. I’m not spending one more minute down here.