Dreams with Feet

Copyright © 2013 Marlene Bierworth.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-9721-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9722-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9720-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013910054

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/14/2013

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the author

Acknowledgments

Although Doug’s experiences are purely fictional, I’d like to thank my son, Jason, who inspired me to write this book. We were included in his dream of dogsled racing, which included his own kennel of ten Siberian huskies and many adorable puppies to follow. New friends and ice-cold adventures marked this time in our lives as unforgettable and uniquely rewarding. I wouldn’t trade those days for anything. Thanks.

To Jason, who has many personal memories of his own to share with his new family. Be inspired, Jackie, Kali, and Devon.

Also to my daughter, Pamela, who challenged me with this project, listened to many book sections in rough form, and always motivated me to keep going. To her husband, Jeremy, and their three daughters, Katelyn, Megan, and Hailey, I hope you enjoy it.

And to my husband, who is my biggest fan and has always encouraged and supported the fulfillment of my dreams. I thank you for the sacrifices you willingly made and for many wonderful adventures in the snow—together, and with our son.

Chapter 1

The voice behind him hissed with threats, but Doug ignored it, hoping it would slither away like the snake it was. His eyes stayed glued to the final pages of his book of Alaskan adventures. For Doug, it was as if he had traveled through a time warp and landed smack in the middle of his life’s dream. He could feel the heat from the Eskimo’s campfire as it fought against the fierce north wind, which was whipping at the flames, sending them sparking and twisting through the dark night. Smoke stung his eyes, and his mouth watered like the juices dripping from the strips of meat and sizzling on the hot rocks. The dogsled team lay close by, their ears perked to the wild howls of the wolves in the distance.

Everything that made Doug feel alive was there with the Eskimo boy, Namu, but as usual, the dream lapsed, stung by reality.

Yes, Namu, that’s just the way I’d have done it. Doug whispered the words as he closed the paperback, but the voice behind him hovered for the strike.

Yes, Namu, that’s just the way I’d have done it, Bob mimicked, his tongue flicking in and out.

Watch that fire; it’ll burn you. Trevor joined in the taunting, his black eyes smoldering to a smoky gray.

Hook them dogs to that sled. Work them mutts! Bob shouted.

Where’s my whip, boy? Trevor forced Doug’s desk open, peered inside, and then let it bang shut, nearly taking off Doug’s fingers.

You don’t whip sled dogs, said Doug.

Excuse us, musher boy! Just how do you get them to move—love taps? Bob asked as he circled and poked at Doug.

You don’t need to force them. Huskies love to run. It’s in their blood, said Doug.

Thanks for the info. You know us town boys don’t have a clue about the subject. Bob grabbed Doug’s library book, aimed it like a basketball, and threw it through the hoop of a nearby trash can. The action brought cheers from Trevor. Bob bowed to his one-man fan club. And I think we want to stay that way.

Oh, no, Doug’s dream in ruins, Trevor called out, clutching at his chest and falling to his knees. He hugged the trash can, as if in mourning. Then his eyes blazed, the thousand sparks igniting his dark sockets to life. What we need here is a cremation. From his pocket he withdrew a box of matches.

It was time for the morning bell to ring. Kids sauntered into the classroom, their eyes drawn to the familiar scene. Doug read the pity in their glances, but no one interfered. The Gauntlet Gang swore an oath daily to run their classmates through a gauntlet of torture. Doug, for one, knew that they lived by it, because he took more than his share of their thumping.

‘Pick on Doug,’ had started in force, after he’d written his essay assignment on what he wanted to be when he grew up. Thinking the Northwest Mounted Police an interesting career choice, he’d read the paper aloud. His classmates hadn’t understood his passion for the untamed North, his dream of riding the trails with a team of dogs and testing his wits on wild, unexpected adventures. Some had chosen to make fun of his obsession, especially the gang. That day, he had unknowingly stepped on the serpent’s head, and it had been writhing ever since.

Matches are not allowed in the ninth grade, Trevor, and books do not belong in the garbage, Mr. Kendell’s voice boomed from behind.

The teacher bulldozed his way around the boys. As his massive six-foot-six-inch bulk passed by, Doug felt the size of an ant, cringing inwardly with the knowledge that ants had a way of getting stepped on simply because they existed. The teacher had been nicknamed Giant Kendell, and even bullies listened when the giant spoke.

Everyone scrambled for their seats. Trevor dug the book out of the garbage and slammed it onto Doug’s desk. Watch your back, dreamer, he said between clenched teeth before he started toward his seat.

Mr. Banks, Kendell said. Trevor stopped in his tracks and turned to face the teacher.

Doug groaned. It was ant-squishing time. Mister generally meant the beginning of a debate. Independent thinking was Kendell’s pet project, and he used it at every opportunity. Sometimes it was a good thing—it managed to keep Kendell off track and postpone the boring textbook stuff—but today, Doug didn’t like the knot pulling tight in his stomach.

Yeah? Trevor asked.

Before you’re seated, I would like you to share your definition of ‘dreamer.’

Trevor chewed his gum slowly and deliberately, his shrewd eyes scanning his captive audience. I guess it’s a bit of the real mixed with the unreal, until the dreamer can’t tell the difference anymore. His fingers pointed toward his head, and he rolled his eyes. Spaced out, you know, sir. Trevor glared at Doug and then slouched into his chair.

And you, Mr. Frazer? Give us your definition, please. Giant Kendell bent his head to look at Bob. His dark-rimmed glasses had lodged halfway down his crooked nose.

Dreams are a waste of time. They’re impossible things that are always out of reach. Bob’s bitter words sliced the air, catching Doug off guard. Bob’s free spirit didn’t sound quite so free after all. Perhaps there was more to Bob than met the eye.

Kendell’s gaze shifted to the back of the room. Mr. Saunders, you’ve been accused of being a dreamer. Please, give us the inside definition.

Doug squirmed, wishing he could crawl under his desk. No words came when he opened his mouth, his saliva drying up like the Sahara Desert. Finally, he concentrated on the black square of the tiled floor in the middle aisle and delivered his answer.

A dream is needed to set a goal. The dreamer gives life to his vision, and his goals put feet on it. It’s how things get done, sir. Doug’s thumb fanned the corners of the pages of his book. I guess I’m a dreamer without feet. His elbow rested on the desk as he shielded his eyes with his hand.

A slow clap sounded from the front of the room. Bravo, Mr. Saunders. You will indeed find your feet, one goal at a time.

Geography class began. Great. A unit test. Doug decided that finding his feet one goal at a time, especially when it involved school, lacked a very important element: fun.

The 3:30 bell not only announced the end of the school day but the beginning of the basketball finals. Doug played for the Harrysborg Dragons, and today they were fired up and determined to put the first notch on their winner’s belt. The neighboring school’s team, the Salem Hurricanes, demonstrated equal determination. The scores were tied, with one minute left in the game.

Doug felt the pressure as he dribbled the ball down the court, trying to avoid the sweaty bodies that continually fanned themselves in his face. Doug considered giving up just for the stink of it. He shot the ball to a teammate and then moved into position close to the basket. In a flash, the ball was back in his hands and through the hoop.

The whistle blew, and the board lit up the final score. Doug had squeezed them over the top, giving Harrysborg High the victory. He joined his teammates, slamming bodies and clapping hands midair in rhythm to the cheerleaders’ victory chant. Then the girls bounced onto the court to congratulate the team.

Doug, you were great! Linda squealed as she threw her arms around his neck. A different, yet familiar kind of sweat, crept up the back of Doug’s neck. Beet-redness seemed to curse his encounters with the opposite sex.

All of a sudden, Linda jerked backwards. Trevor pulled her against him, gripping her wrist and leering like the prize idiot. Doug felt the blood draining from his own face until it must have matched his white fists clenched by his side.

You don’t want to waste your hugs on this loser. That basket was a lucky shot. Trevor spit on the polished gym floor.

Before Doug could rescue the maiden, as befitting the conduct of the knight he felt he was within, Linda tore out of Trevor’s grip.

Let go of me, creep! Linda marched away, rubbing her wrist.

Trevor’s glare penetrated Doug. Choosing to ignore it, Doug turned to leave.

Not so fast, said Trevor.

Doug kept walking. He didn’t need Trevor bothering him now, with the late bus leaving in fifteen minutes. Doug felt the power-punch square in the center of his back. His legs buckled.

I told you to watch your back, dreamer, said Trevor.

A moment later, Sarah was there helping Doug to his feet. Are you all right?

Just took my breath for a second.

Doug brushed himself off. Inside he wished that it was Linda fussing over him. Linda fed his hormones without expecting anything in return, but Doug was sure that Sarah dripped with expectations. Her sea-blue eyes swam wildly as if drowning in a wave of adoration. He was definitely at the top of Sarah’s list of