Track of a legend - [4]

“Why at the hill?” I said suspiciously. But Timothy was already heading for the door and pulling on his boots.

“Best place for sledding.”

“But what about your aunt’s mower?” I said, whispering now.

“Early,” he reminded me as he stepped out into the snow. I followed him, holding the door open. “And bring your sled.”

“What time do you open presents?” I said. But if Timothy answered, I didn’t hear.

The snow was falling in fat flakes, and the wind had come up and the snow was starting to drift over the hedges. Funny how it wasn’t really dark with all that white around, and funny, too, how I wasn’t so glad that it was coming down. What good was it without a sled? I could use the cardboard if I could find it again, which I doubted, for I could tell that if it kept snowing at the rate I was seeing from my doorway, there would be half a meter or more by morning, which also meant the grass cutter would get clogged before it got five meters from Timothy’s crazy aunt’s house. Timothy would let me try his sled if I pulled it up the hill, ‘cause if he didn’t I wouldn’t let him hold my L-5 crystal-handled knife… if I got one.

“Close the door!” my father shouted, and I closed it and went to bed early, knowing I couldn’t sleep but wanting to because morning would come sooner if I did, and when it did I would not have a sled — maybe not even an L-5 crystal-handled knife — only an old Adventure Station that Timothy didn’t want to play until after lunch, and who cared about snow anyhow, even if it did come down so fast and hard that it was catching on my bedroom window like a blanket before my sleepy eyes.

I woke to silence and the sure knowledge that it was Christmas morning. I didn’t know whether to look out the window or check under the tree first, until I heard my sister in the hall and made a dash to beat her to the living room, where my parents had piled all the packages, with their red bows and wrappings, under the tree.

The big one wrapped in red plastic had to be the Adventure Station, though my parents were famous for putting little items like L-5 crystal-handled knives in packages the size of CRTs, complete with rocks to weigh it down so you couldn’t tell. I couldn’t wait to find out for sure what was in it, but I had to because my parents came in muttering about coffee and asking if it was even dawn and not caring that it wasn’t when they had their coffee and I put their first presents to open in their laps. I wanted to open the red plastic-covered package, but I couldn’t tear the plastic, and my big sister was hogging the slitter; so I opened a smaller one with my name on it. A shiny blue crystal that was almost mirror bright but not quite, so I could see the steel blade was in the package, and suddenly I felt good about the snow, too, and about looking for Bigfoot even if we did have to carry it back on Timothy’s sled. I got the slitter away from my sister and sliced open the Adventure Station, only it wasn’t. I looked at my parents in complete amazement and saw that they both had that special knowing twinkle in their eyes that parents get when they’ve done something you don’t expect them to do. In the packing popcorn was a new sled, the collapsible kind with a handle for carrying it back up the hill and a retractable towing cord and three runner configurations so that it could be used on hard-packed snow or powder. I extended it to its full length right there in the living room, awed by its metallic gleam and classy black racing stripes.

And then with my knife strapped around the outside of my jacket and my sled in hand, I was off to meet Timothy, determined to have Bigfoot in tow before lunchtime. The going was slow because the drifts were tall and I loved to break their peaks and feel the stuff collapse beneath my feet and to stand under the tallest pines and shake the snow off the branches, as if I were in a blizzard and not in the first sparkling rays of sunshine. I went the long way to the hill, sure I would find traces of Bigfoot so early in the morning, and I did. Huge prints that were bigger than I could make, even though they were filled in with new snow, and the stride sure wasn’t kid-size.

Besides, what grown-up would walk through the woods on Christmas Eve during a snowstorm? I’d follow them, I decided, until I had to turn off for the hill, then Timothy and I would come back and follow the tracks to Bigfoot’s lair. But I didn’t have to turn off. The fat tracks headed right off through the woods along the same shortcut Timothy and I had used yesterday.

Timothy wasn’t there yet, and because I couldn’t wait to try my sled on the hill and not because I was afraid to follow the tracks alone, I stopped at the place we’d climbed over yesterday. The snow had drifted along the inside of the fence, almost hiding the pickets from view. I figured that with just a little more accumulation it would have covered the top, then my silver sled could carry me all the way from the top of the hill, over the fence, and deep into the woods, where the trees would provide a test of steering skill or a fast stop. I climbed the fence, sled in hand, then carried armfuls of snow to the highest drift, scooping and shoving until the tops of the pickets were covered. When I was satisfied the sled would glide over, I looked around for Timothy, who might still be opening his presents for all I knew, then I started to the top of the hill. I was only a little bit wary about the grass cutter, for I figured it would get clogged if it came out in the snow, but you never know what else a crazy lady who sent out grass cutters to hack up kids might have. But the little house at the top was almost completely snow covered, and there was no sign of smoke. Either Timothy’s father got her that new heat exchanger or she froze.