Steven C. Levi
P.O. Box 241467
Anchorage, AK 99524
Phone: 907-337-2021
THE PHANTOM DOGSLED
© Steven C. Levi
Under five feet of snow the Yukon still flowed
in the cold snap of l928
and the blue of the snow at sixty below
lay fluffed as a ptarmigan's pate.
There were sundogs by day that peeked through the spray
of ice crystals swept in from the west
while at night the sky danced with a glory enhanced
from Burnt Paw to Alalkaket.
Some miners and Gwitchen huddled inside their kitchen
'round the pot-bellied stove and oak rocker:
there was Jerome and his wife, Billyboy with his lice,
Julie and Benjie and Walker.
They stared at the flames and muttered vile names
keepin' their thoughts off of grievin'
for Sarah Jean Carroll who'd caught a buck-laden barrel
and fought for her life barely wheezin'.
Now all 'round the fire they vented their ire
yet the family and guests knew the score
that one had to go, plow o'er the snow
from Ramparts to Fairbanks. Once more
he had to return with a doctor or learn
how a layman could administer aid
to a gut that's been sown with a needle of bone
and stitched tight with long hair tied in braids.
At first they had waited as though it was fated
that Sarah would pull through all right
but the gurgle of blood on her pillow did flood
and trickled in streams quite a fright.
The planes were all grounded, their front wheels had floundered
where the cold snap had frozen them tight,
now all that was left as the planes were bereft
was a long, lonely cold dogsled ride.
They all knew the wager, the price of a savior,
and the snap of winter's cold whip
Yet they all swore to go like the flight of a crow
on this the most holy of trips.
And so they drew straws from Jerome's mighty paw
to gamble the privilege to go,
to race Old Man Winter with dogsled and dinter
the crust of the virginal snow.
Jerome drew the longest and Benjie's was strongest,
Walker's was long but was lean
and Billyboy tried to cover his pride
when he was the shortest. It seemed
that the threat of the trip in winter's stern grip
and the perils of trail and of storm
gave him no fear and he said with a sneer,
'By God, but it looks like I've won!'
Now older men know that the price of the snow
is black lips and ice-frosted beard,
an' stoppin' means lyin' and lyin' means dyin'
and always Nakhani is steered
through frost-heavy woods, o'er frozen stream floods
to the pant of a dog-tired team;
it stalks the unwary -- the fools are his quarry
as are the crippled, the weak and the green.
But the wheeze from the marrow sank like an arrow
in Billy's heart covered with fur
where it throbbed in his chest as it did in her breast
and his need to be off made him stir
from his seat by the fire in the smoke of the briar.
Stilling the rage in his soul
he sprang to his feet, this bold athlete,
and into the bedroom he strolled.
Bending over the bed where the blood trickled red
whistling strains of Sweet Mollie Magee,
he kissed her hot cheeks and nose like a beak
and then he knelt down on his knees
for the help of the One who gave his own Son
as a martyr to those who would care
to challenge the wind or the mob's awesome grin
and those with the courage to dare.
Then he tethered his dogs and fastened his togs
with jerky he piled his sled high
and he whistled that tune in the light of the moon
as the stars twinkled high in the sky.
Like a hurricane spire the Northern Lights fire
filled the sky with green and with rose
and Billyboy gambled with the draw of the bramble --
with that straw that he broke when he chose.
With a yell he was off in the snow and the frost
and yet, as he vanished from sight,
it seemed that the flakes an aura did make
which encircled him in this wild flight.
Then the hush of the wind in winter's grim grin
rooted about in the trees
and the last that they heard, like the wail of a bird,
were the strains of Sweet Molly Magee.
In three days the storm -- with the speed of a worm --
crawled west toward Nome's Norton Sound
and a flight from the city on an errand of pity
skidded weird on the ice-covered ground
with a doctor aboard for the child who'd been gored
by the blast of the gun-cotton beast
but the effort was late for the child had a date
and at long last her wheezing did cease
Jerome and his wife cried into the night
alone 'round the pot-bellied fire
for the child that was gone and the hope that was spawned
and now the flames seemed but a pyre.
Together they waited to tell of the fated,
a task which gave them no joy,
to bear bitter tiding to the one who'd been driving
the dogs, the young Billyboy.
For two weeks they waited, and waited and waited
and Billyboy still hadn't arrived
and the days they grew longer and the light ever stronger
and the green buds on the ground did strive
to grow through the slush and winter's last muck
to reach for the springtime sun
and when the ice broke, neither one spoke
for they knew Billyboy'd never come.
Now the days of the dogs and wolverine togs
are tales of the Northland's twilight
and the roar of the snowgos shatter the snow
and professors now ponder the lights.
But sometimes, they say, when the howl and the spray
of winter has died in the trees
a phantom sled glides and a ghost aboard rides
wheezing strains of Sweet Molly Magee.
SWEET MOLLY MAGEE
[Words by Steven C. Levi ]
[Tune of “Sweet Betsy from Pike”]
© Steven C. Levi
Ever hear tell of sweet Molly Magee
Who came north to Alaska from Londonderry
With a pack full of whiskey, shovel and pan
To dig for the gold through the muck and the sand.
To reampo liolo reampo lee amp
To reampo liolo reampo lee amp
Lost her first grub steak in a turn of the cards.
Spent her first winter alone in the dark.
Took a big cleanup in the Spring of ought three
Spent it all on a scoundrel who fled the country.
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To reampo liolo reampo lee amp
Settled in Ruby with a malamute dog
Living high up on moose steak and imported hogs
Bought up a share of the Irish Saloon
With whiskey and nuggets she howls at the moon.
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To reampo liolo reampo lee amp