New due South story: "Leaving Home"
Oct. 7th, 2008 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luzulaYay, I finally finished this one! *feels accomplished*
Title: Leaving Home
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luzula
Pairing: Benton Fraser/Eric Kitikmeot (although it's more of a Fraser-centric story, really)
Rating: R
Length: 12.800 words
Summary: The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik, and he followed it due south.
Author's notes: Huge thanks to my betas,secretlybronte and primroseburrows. They saved me from embarrassing mistakes and offered insightful comments that really helped me think about the story. nos4a2no9 also gave me helpful advice. There are long geeky research notes at the end of the story, if you're interested in that kind of thing.
The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik. It ran all the way down to Dawson City, and there was an inaugural ceremony, with talk of inevitable progress and impending prosperity. He and Eric stood at the edge of the crowd in the warm, dusty August afternoon and listened to the mayor make his speech. Eric had scoffed at the flowery words, and Benton was inclined to agree. It wasn't as if the oil money was staying there, after all--it was going south.
Benton was fascinated, though, as he watched the highway stretch off into the distance on its raised bed of gravel. He imagined it as a newly grown artery in a far-flung system of blood vessels, tying them into the circulatory system of Canada. New little roads would branch off from it to form capillaries to nearby villages, giving people access to the wider world.
But most of the traffic on the road was trucks, bringing supplies for the oil industry. Benton saw the oil workers in town sometimes, groups of raucous, hard-drinking men who walked on the street as if they owned it, which in a way they did. He knew that the oil industry was basically the reason for the town's existence, but still, he couldn't help resenting it.
Eric kicked at a rock as they walked down the main street after the ceremony. "This is our land; they don't have any right to do this."
He looked darkly at a truck rolling by, and Benton knew what he was thinking. "Well, I agree, but I still don't think sabotage is the right way to go."
"No? And what do you think is the right way?"
"Go to court."
Eric switched to Inuktitut, the better to swear. "Yeah? It'd take forever, and all we'd get would be a fucking piece of paper, even if we did win."
"I think you're underestimating the legal system--I mean, the land claims process will really make a difference."
"You trust the system too much, Ben. What's to stop them from ruining the land while we sit around and talk?"
***
Summer turned into fall, and the highway closed during the autumn, to allow ice bridges to form at the river crossings. It opened again in winter, white on white in the snow, with nothing to mark it as separate from the land except its shape, raised above the permafrost of the tundra by a solid bed of gravel, and the occasional traffic that crept along it.
Benton's home schooling continued. They'd always travelled around a lot, so it was easier for his grandparents to give him lessons than for him to change classes all the time, and after all, they had all the books they needed at their disposal. He'd attended school in Inuvik, Aklavik or Tuk sometimes, but it always felt awkward--he never had time to get to know his classmates, and he would know most of what the others his age were learning anyway.
When his father and Buck came by to visit that winter, Benton both dreaded it and longed for it. He wanted to tell his father something, but somehow he couldn't--there just wasn't any space there. Every time he came home, it was the same, as if they were following a script that had no room for improvisation.
"Hello, Benton," his father would say, clapping him on the back. "How are you doing?"
"Fine, dad," he would reply, as he was expected to, and then his dad would go back out to unharness the dogs.
Buck would smile and joke that he got taller every time they stopped by, which wasn't true any more--Benton was eighteen now, and full grown. Although at least he'd stopped ruffling Benton's hair.
They would all have dinner together: Buck, his grandparents, his father and him. There was just enough room for all of them around the small kitchen table, and Benton would sit on a stool at the end. Buck and his father would tell stories about the adventures they'd had on their latest patrols, long winding stories that both fascinated Benton and made him slightly resentful.
"And it turned out that the Soviet spy was posing as a fur trapper in Paulatuk," his father finished the latest story.
Buck laughed appreciatively, adding: "Didn't know what hit him, when you came after him with that frozen beaver."
Benton didn't know what it was, exactly--perhaps it was their easy camaraderie, which left him feeling as if he was on the wrong side of a windowpane, looking in. Benton rehearsed the words in his mind: Dad, I've decided to go to Depot. Or Dad, I want to join the RCMP. He didn't know how to say them.
In his imagination, Buck and his father would just go on talking, telling stories as if he hadn't said anything. As if he weren't there at all.
***
Benton let out the breath he'd been holding. He'd said it, finally. Not to his father--he had left two weeks ago--but to his grandparents. He had kept it to himself for so long that the words felt strange in his mouth when he said them aloud, as if they were a magic spell that made his thoughts part of the real world. Benton nervously twisted his fingers in his flannel shirt below the table, and kept his back straight.
"I just think you could do better for yourself." His grandmother frowned, folding her hands on the dinner table.
"What do you mean? How is becoming a member of the RCMP not good enough?"
"We just thought it was a phase that you'd grow out of," his grandfather said.
And yes, Benton could remember--how when he was a child, he'd drawn pictures of his father in his red uniform and told his grandparents he wanted to be a Mountie like his father. But it wasn't just because of his father; that wasn't his only reason, or any reason at all, really.
Benton pressed his lips together stubbornly. "It's not a phase. I'm eighteen years old now. I'm old enough to decide for myself."
"Well, of course it's your choice. I just thought--" his grandmother hesitated, then continued slowly. "You have something special, Benton. I've never taught someone so...talented and quick to learn. If you went to university, you could go far."
Benton stared at her, then looked down at his empty plate, where the knife and fork lay neatly together. He didn't know what to reply. He knew that he was good at his lessons compared to others, but for his grandmother to say that he…She had never told him anything like that before. Neither of them had.
"Do you mean that?" he blurted out. Something in him wanted more, soaked it up like water on dry ground.
She nodded. "Yes. Do you really think you'll be satisfied in the RCMP? I think you'll want more, to learn more than you ever will being a policeman."
"But that isn't all of me," he objected. "I mean, I…"
Benton didn't know how to tell them what he meant. No matter how naïve it sounded, he wanted to do some good in the world, to fight for what he believed in. And if he went to university in a big city, he was sure he'd feel hemmed in. He didn't think he could stand not being able to stand on the runners of a sled, with the wind in his face and his whole body focused on the dogs running before him.
"I want to do this," he said firmly.
His grandparents exchanged a wordless look, the way they did when they were deciding something, and then his grandfather said, "Very well. Caroline left you some money. It's stated in her will that she wanted it to help pay for your education. I don't know if it will be enough, but we'll see. Though I do think you should consider this more carefully first."
Benton swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He'd thought of the money issue, of course, and tried to calculate how long he'd have to work before he could go to Depot. But his mother had planned for this, even when he was still just a child.
"Thank you," he said in a choked voice, and got up to take his plate to the sink.
***
"You're going to be a Mountie?" Benton had often seen Eric angry, but it wasn't often directed at him.
"That's what I told you, didn't I?" Benton lifted his chin defiantly.
"You know what they did to us! How can you even consider it?"
Privately, Benton thought that an angry Eric was a magnificent sight, all that energy and beauty focused on one unfortunate target.
"The RCMP isn't all bad! It's flawed, yes, but that's why we have to change it. And I want to do that from the inside."
"The RCMP isn't flawed, it's rotten! What are you going to do when they order you to move a tribe to make way for more developments?" Eric's eyes were sharp and black gazing out from inside the hood of his heavy parka.
"It's still possible to work around it. When my father was ordered to relocate a village on Ellesmere Island, he fabricated a new village and let them stay where they wanted. If he had been someone like Corporal Ellis, what do you think would've happened?" Benton had heard the story from Buck, when they'd stopped by for a few days last fall.
"Oh, it's about your father, is it? I should've known." This wasn't fair, and Benton finally raised his voice. "It is not about my father! That's not fair! Do I drag your father into discussions?"
"Well, you're the one who brought him up."
Benton couldn't deny this, of course, and he tried to backtrack. "It was only an example. Do you want the RCMP to consist of old racists, or men who actually care about the people who live here?"
"You think it's that easy? It'll wear you down, Ben, until you're just another Mountie obeying orders." He shook his head.
But the heat of Eric's anger had left him now, and he leaned on a tree by the riverbank, tugging Ben close beside him. This was their special place, secluded by willows that would grow leaves like small green mouse ears when spring came. Ice still shackled the river, waiting patiently for the snow melt when it would swell and overflow its banks. Eric put his arm around Benton in tacit apology, squeezing his shoulders briefly.
"I know it won't be easy. But I want to do this." Benton could admit Eric's point now that he had calmed down.
He had studied ethics as a theoretical subject, had pored over Kant and Spinoza under his grandparents tutelage, but in real life, things were more...tangled. He would simply have to do the best he could.
Eric laughed. "Well, it's not like anyone could change your mind about anything if you didn't want to. I wish you luck, I really do."
"Thanks." He took Eric's hand, feeling the press of his fingers through their two pairs of gloves. But he couldn't let the topic go. "If not through the law, then how do you think we can have justice? I mean, if everyone used brute force to solve conflicts, we'd be at war all the time."
Eric shook his head. "Why can't you see that the law is just a tool for the rich and powerful? It's not like they're going to listen to us unless we make them."
***
Benton had kept the information papers from the RCMP for months in an envelope under his mattress, and he knew the application procedures by heart. A physical test, a written test, a medical examination, all to be done in Yellowknife, the regional capital. This would be followed by an investigation into his background and an interview by a member of the RCMP. If he passed, he'd be summoned to Depot.
His hands tightened on the armrests as the plane surged forward, pressing him back into the seat. Benton closed his eyes at the exhilarating power of it, and then looked through the window to see the ground dropping away. Never having flown on a plane before, he pressed his nose against the glass with interest and saw the artificial lights and orderly square shapes of Inuvik, shrinking rapidly into the surrounding dim white.
When he'd gotten off the plane onto the tarmac of the Yellowknife airport, he hesitated, wondering where to go. There was a bored-looking man in a uniform, perhaps some kind of guard, and Benton turned to him in relief.
"Excuse me? Do you know where I can find the local RCMP detachment?" he asked.
"It's in the center of town."
"Do you know how I can get there?"
"Well, you could take a taxi, I suppose."
A taxi? How much did that cost? The plane ticket was expensive enough. "Are you sure I can't walk? How far is it?"
"Three miles or so, I think. Town's that way, anyway." He jerked his thumb to the right. Benton shouldered his pack and started to walk. There should be time--his appointment wasn't until twelve o'clock.
The wind off the lake was icy, but he was used to that, and the lake didn't look much different from the tundra, frozen as it was. The trees looked different, though, sturdier and not as thin, as if they grew with more confidence further south. Benton trudged along beside the road as trucks thundered by.
Benton found Yellowknife to be overwhelming, despite the knowledge that it was actually a fairly small town compared to the cities further south. It looked functional and not precisely ugly--more indifferent to beauty--and it seemed to have grown haphazardly, not a planned community the way Inuvik was. But the largest difference was the people. Benton felt as if he was shrinking into himself at their indifferent glances, and it struck him with sudden force that no one knew him here. No one would gossip to his neighbors if he misbehaved, no one would care if he vanished without a trace. He shivered, and felt relief when he finally found his way to the RCMP detachment.
There were a few other people there to take the tests, mostly young men, like him, but also a young woman with short blonde hair. He nodded at them, and they nodded back, probably preoccupied or nervous.
Benton wasn't used to time-limited tests with many small problems, like these. He'd mostly been home-schooled, and his grandparents gave him Chinese translations to do, or open-ended math problems, or sat down and discussed the reasons behind the fall of the Roman Empire with him. So he was surprised at how well his mind instinctively sorted the difficulty of the problems and kept track of the time left. In fact, he was good at this. He finished the tests with rising confidence.
After the last test, which was math, the boy next to him leaned back in his chair and sighed. "God, I hate math. I hope I didn't flunk it."
"I'm sure you did fine," Benton replied.
"But it was so hard. Didn't you think so?"
Benton had in fact found the problems to be trivial, but he could hardly say so. He smiled noncommittally and packed up his things. The boy moved on to a small group of other people discussing the tests.
After eating the sandwiches he'd brought for lunch, a physician checked his reflexes, listened to his heart, took blood tests, tested his eyesight and hearing and many other things. Benton followed the proceedings with interest. When he was younger, he'd sat for hours reading the medical encyclopedia in the library.
"Well, you seem healthy enough," the doctor finally announced. "Although we'll have to wait for the blood test results to be sure, of course."
"What are you testing for?" Benton asked curiously.
"Various blood-borne diseases such as hepatitis." The doctor looked at him, frowning. "Why?"
"Oh, I'm just curious."
He was pretty sure he did all right on the physical test, as well. It left him panting from the hard exercise, but it seemed that he'd passed.
Benton spent the night at a cheap hotel, and walked back toward the airport the next day. Away from the residential areas and government buildings, the real business of the town was obvious. He could see the silhouettes of the buildings around the mines, where the rocky ground was piled up as if the earth had thrown up its guts. There was a smell in the air--arsenic, perhaps? He remembered it from one of his chemistry lessons.
Benton got on the plane with the unreal feeling of a week having passed, despite the fact that it had only been a day and a night.
***
Back in Inuvik, the days were lengthening. It was March now, and the brilliance of sun on snow for a whole hour every day felt like a gift, a long awaited blessing.
"Are you done with those crates?" his grandmother asked.
Benton checked the ropes on the cargo sled one more time. "Yeah, they're secure," he called back.
They were going to Aklavik on a library trip, leaving most of the books behind and only bringing those that had been requested, along with especially popular books and ones that were useful as references. And of course some that they liked and hoped to get people to read.
"Right, let's go, then," his grandfather called.
Benton jumped up in front of one of the crates and the heavy snowmobile rumbled to life. He pulled a caribou skin up over his legs and settled down for the ride. They followed the ice-covered Mackenzie at first, and the noise and exhaust fumes from the engine contrasted with the sparkling white of the world. Benton wished for the silent swiftness of travelling by dogsled, but a load this heavy would've needed about twelve dogs. He sometimes borrowed Quinn's team, but they were only seven dogs. And his father's team, of course, wasn't there.
If he could return north after Depot, he would get a team of his own. One of Eric's cousin's dogs had a litter of puppies that was almost grown now, and there was one in particular that he'd been looking at. She seemed obedient and would probably make a good lead dog. Strong runner, too, and she had the loveliest reddish shading on her head...
A bump woke him from his daydream. They'd gone up the bank from the river, and the trail wasn't as smooth. He held on and paid attention.
When they finally reached Aklavik, the drone of the engine felt like a thrumming deep in his bones. Benton was stiff and sore, and he stretched his legs gratefully.
"I'll come get you in a week, then," said Scott Riley, after he'd helped them unload the heavy crates and carry them inside. He drove off, leaving them with silence ringing in their ears.
"Well, I'll go to the general store and tell them we're here, if you'll start putting things in order." His grandmother put her snowshoes on and disappeared into the gloom of late afternoon.
They usually borrowed a cabin that had stood empty since Mary Pitseolak had moved south with her husband, and the books were put up in one of the two rooms. Benton hung up a sign on the door that read "Northwest Travelling Library. Opening hours: 10-6."
Someone had been by to start a fire for them, but it hadn't been enough to drive out the cold completely. They kept their heavy sweaters on as they sat down to a dinner of canned soup and sandwiches.
That night, Benton lay shivering in a nest of blankets that were still chilly and damp. He was reading Milton by the light of a candle on the windowsill, the small print almost blurring together in the dim light. Finally he put the book down, pulled his cap down over his ears, and curled up. Briefly, he wished Eric were there to share body heat with him, his long limbs wrapping around him, lips and breath warm on his neck. The thought seemed out of place with his grandparents sleeping across the room. He was fairly sure they knew about him and Eric, but they'd never said anything and neither had he.
Well, not explicitly, at any rate.
He did remember one day last summer when he was almost done with his studies for the day and was trying not to squirm impatiently, waiting for the moment when he could run down to the river to meet Eric.
His grandmother had let him out early, saying: "Tell Eric to return that overdue book, would you?"
Benton had blushed, deep and red. She had smiled, and it had felt like a benediction. He had fled, feeling as overwhelmingly happy as the rare times when she praised his schoolwork.
***
Over the next few days, people stopped by to borrow new books and return old ones. They took turns minding the library and managing the meticulously organized card system to keep track of the loans. One afternoon, Benton was minding the library while his grandmother was helping out as a teacher at the local school and his grandfather was outside chopping wood. The muffled sounds of the axe came far between, and Benton wished he'd thought to chop the wood himself last night. His grandfather's arthritis was getting worse, but to go out now and offer to take over would only embarrass him.
There was a knock on the door, and June came in.
"Ben!" she said brightly, giving him a hug. Not even her bulky sealskin parka could hide her obvious pregnancy. She was two years older than him and Innusiq, and she'd always been the responsible older sister. Or the bossy one, as Innusiq had put it.
"Hi, June!" He didn't quite know what to say. It was as if she had entered some mysterious adult sphere of life that felt very far away to him. He wondered if he would ever have children. Probably not--the life of a law enforcement officer didn't seem to leave much room for family.
"Congratulations," he said awkwardly.
"Thank you." She beamed at him and smoothed one hand over her belly, emphasizing the swell of it. "Innusiq says hi."
"Tell him I said hello." June nodded and returned her book.
He and Innusiq had been inseparable when they were eight or so, but had drifted apart later when Innusiq wasn't that interested in discussing books and Benton wasn't that interested in looking at girls. They'd moved the main library to Inuvik when Benton was thirteen, anyway, and he had eventually discovered the point of looking at girls, although he found he was far more interested in looking at boys.
Not that it usually did him much good--he remembered the sweet frustration of wrestling with Mark, his hands all over Benton's body, but not the way he wanted them.
Not that he'd really known what he wanted then, anyway.
***
They went back to Inuvik, and the days grew ever lighter, gathering momentum for the coming spring. Benton tried not to dwell too much on his application results, with little success. He was pretty sure he'd done well on the tests, but there were other parts of the application process, as well.
One day, he was called to an interview with Sergeant Collins, a middle-aged man with a chest like a barrel and a bushy mustache that tended to grow small icicles in the winter. Benton had always wondered why he kept it.
In his office, Sergeant Collins stroked his mustache and rumbled, "Bob Fraser's son, eh? Well, the apple doesn't land far from the tree, isn't that what they say?" He winked at Benton.
"I suppose so, sir," Benton replied, at his most polite.
"Oh, lighten up, son. You look like you're going to your execution."
Benton tried to smile.
The questions seemed to be from a set list, and he answered them as best he could, with his gaze trained on Sergeant Collins. Most questions seemed easy, though some were surprising. Regardless, he was sworn to secrecy at the end. Benton was disappointed--he'd have liked to have told Eric about the questions.
"You'll be all right, son." Sergeant Collins clapped him on the back with a heavy hand. The interview was over.
***
One day in early June, soon after the ice broke on the Mackenzie, there was a slim letter for him with the RCMP logo. He slipped it into his pocket before anyone else had seen it, and went into his room. Benton almost couldn't bring himself to read it, balancing between anticipation and apprehension in a way that made his stomach churn, but finally he took a deep breath and cut the envelope open with his knife, pulling out a single piece of paper.
Benton Fraser,
The RCMP is pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. You should report to Depot in Regina on October 1st, 1980.
There was more, but he could only sit down on his cot, stunned by relief and by getting what he wanted.
The money from his mother had turned out not to be enough, and his grandparents had little to spare. Running a travelling library wasn't particularly lucrative, and his grandfather had had to quit his extra job some time ago, on account of his arthritis. Reading in his room one evening, Benton heard his grandparents talking over their evening cup of tea.
"I wonder when Robert will be home--didn't he say he'd stop by in the spring?"
"He'll come when it pleases him to do so." His grandmother's voice was dry.
"I really do think he could contribute some money toward Benton's education. Did that never occur to him?" The disapproval was clear in his grandfather's voice.
Benton hid his face in the pillow and wished sound didn't carry so well through the door. He would not beg his father for money--the very thought made him feel ashamed. Over the last few years, Benton had worked extra, to help make up for the loss of his grandfather's income. It wasn't enough to make much money for himself, though, since his grandparents insisted he couldn't neglect his schooling, and he also helped out in the library.
But he could earn money on his own. They would see.
When he asked Quinn for advice the next day, Quinn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the oil rigs employ a lot of people around here, of course. But I'm not sure you'd want to work there."
He looked at Benton with piercing black eyes, and as always, Benton felt as though they looked right through him.
"No, I wouldn't," he said firmly.
"Well, not much else work around here now, not that you could get full-time. Maybe if you went south a ways? There's mining, of course. And I have a friend who says there's always work in the logging business. He could help you, I think."
"What's his name?" Benton asked.
"Tom Bevan. Lives a bit inland from Prince Rupert, in British Columbia."
Benton braced himself. "Aren't you going to try to convince me not to be a Mountie?"
Quinn smiled, the lines around his mouth deepening. "You make your own choices, Ben. Always have, always will. And you'll be all right."
"Thanks, Quinn," Benton said sincerely.
He hadn't thought about leaving to earn money elsewhere, but why not? He didn't have any real friends his own age here now, except for Eric. They'd moved back and forth between the small communities of the north over the years, and it hadn't been easy to keep in touch with any friends he made. Mark had been drafted by the Winnipeg Jets the year before last; he still sent postcards sometimes, bragging about the progress he'd made.
His grandparents would probably object to him leaving. They didn't really want him to go to Depot in the first place, and they'd probably think he should stay here. But it would take forever to get the money he needed that way, and Benton was impatient.
He would do this his own way, no matter what they thought. And he'd bring money back for them, too. He knew they needed it, even if they didn't often talk about it.
Benton went by Eric's family's place, and Eric's sister told him that he was fishing down by the river.
Benton approached quietly, trying not to alert Eric to his presence. This was an old game between them, from when they practised hunting and tracking together. Eric sat on the bank with his legs crossed, not turning around, while Benton came closer, one careful step at a time. Finally, Benton touched him on the shoulder, and Eric turned around and grinned at him, looking unsurprised. Benton was unsure whether this was because he'd heard Benton approach, or because he was good at controlling his reactions.
"Hi, Ben."
"I'm going south, to find work." Benton said with no preliminaries, and sat down beside Eric.
"Where?"
"Prince Rupert, in British Columbia." Eric raised his eyebrows; Benton knew that was close to where Eric's father's people lived, although Eric didn't have much contact with them.
"What kind of work is it?"
"Logging. Quinn has a friend there who works in the forest, and Quinn said he'd help me find a job."
"How long will you be gone?"
"A couple of months, I think. And you know I'm going to Depot in October?"
"Yeah, I know."
Benton felt he had to explain. "The thing is, I don't just need money for myself. My grandfather...he can't work all that well anymore, and they'll lose my income when I go to Depot. So I want to leave some money for them."
"It's okay, I get it."
"You've never thought about going down to the Tsimshian lands? To visit your father's people, I mean. You could come with me, when I go." Part of that question was a wish for Eric's company, Benton admitted to himself, but it was also honest curiosity.
"Well, I always thought I'd go down there, some day. But not this summer. I'll be apprenticed to David Tanuyak." He looked up quickly to meet Benton's eyes, as if he wanted to see his response.
"You will?" Benton repeated, surprised. The more the thought about it, though, the more it made sense. David Tanuyak was an angakkuq, a shaman who was highly respected in the area.
He squeezed Eric's hand. "That's...I'm really happy for you."
Eric squeezed back, smiling almost shyly. "Thanks. Sorry for not telling you before. I mean, I didn't know if he'd take me, and, well..."
"No, that's all right." It wasn't as if he himself had been forthcoming about his plans to go to Depot. But then, he'd known Eric would disagree with him about that.
They sat in silence for a while. Benton looked out over the water, sparkling in the sunlight, and felt Eric's presence, close by his side. He imagined Eric as a shaman, how he'd learn to heal people and speak with the animals, and Benton felt a vague kind of melancholy come over him. He'd grown up in communities that were mostly Inuit, but no matter how well he spoke their language, he'd never be one of them.
Benton leaned against Eric's body, feeling the solidity and the softness, how the warmth of him contrasted with the chill rising from the water, and felt Eric leaning back into him.
Finally, he got up to leave, and Eric put aside his fishing rod and hugged him roughly.
"I'll miss you, Eric," Benton mumbled in Inuktitut into his neck.
"Me too, white boy," Eric whispered back. The way he usually said that phrase, it was teasing. This time, it was almost an endearment.
The next day, when his grandparents were working, Benton packed his small tent and bedroll; a cooking pot; a road map of Canada and a compass; fishing line and a hook; flint and steel; a knife and a small sharpening stone; a bag of pemmican; and some more supplies. He agonized over which books to take, if any. Books were heavy, but he didn't think he could do entirely without something to read. Finally, he took a volume of poetry by Robert Service and Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations, on the grounds that poetry and philosophy would last longer than fiction. They were his own books; he wouldn't risk the library's property. He wrapped them up carefully in a plastic bag to protect them.
Benton wrote a note, saying that he was leaving to find work further south, and that they shouldn't worry. He squashed down the slight feeling of guilt that asserted itself--they'd said it was his choice, hadn't they? He could do this on his own.
Part Two is here.
Title: Leaving Home
Author:
luzulaPairing: Benton Fraser/Eric Kitikmeot (although it's more of a Fraser-centric story, really)
Rating: R
Length: 12.800 words
Summary: The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik, and he followed it due south.
Author's notes: Huge thanks to my betas,
secretlybronte and primroseburrows. They saved me from embarrassing mistakes and offered insightful comments that really helped me think about the story. nos4a2no9 also gave me helpful advice. There are long geeky research notes at the end of the story, if you're interested in that kind of thing. The year that Benton turned eighteen, the highway finally reached Inuvik. It ran all the way down to Dawson City, and there was an inaugural ceremony, with talk of inevitable progress and impending prosperity. He and Eric stood at the edge of the crowd in the warm, dusty August afternoon and listened to the mayor make his speech. Eric had scoffed at the flowery words, and Benton was inclined to agree. It wasn't as if the oil money was staying there, after all--it was going south.
Benton was fascinated, though, as he watched the highway stretch off into the distance on its raised bed of gravel. He imagined it as a newly grown artery in a far-flung system of blood vessels, tying them into the circulatory system of Canada. New little roads would branch off from it to form capillaries to nearby villages, giving people access to the wider world.
But most of the traffic on the road was trucks, bringing supplies for the oil industry. Benton saw the oil workers in town sometimes, groups of raucous, hard-drinking men who walked on the street as if they owned it, which in a way they did. He knew that the oil industry was basically the reason for the town's existence, but still, he couldn't help resenting it.
Eric kicked at a rock as they walked down the main street after the ceremony. "This is our land; they don't have any right to do this."
He looked darkly at a truck rolling by, and Benton knew what he was thinking. "Well, I agree, but I still don't think sabotage is the right way to go."
"No? And what do you think is the right way?"
"Go to court."
Eric switched to Inuktitut, the better to swear. "Yeah? It'd take forever, and all we'd get would be a fucking piece of paper, even if we did win."
"I think you're underestimating the legal system--I mean, the land claims process will really make a difference."
"You trust the system too much, Ben. What's to stop them from ruining the land while we sit around and talk?"
***
Summer turned into fall, and the highway closed during the autumn, to allow ice bridges to form at the river crossings. It opened again in winter, white on white in the snow, with nothing to mark it as separate from the land except its shape, raised above the permafrost of the tundra by a solid bed of gravel, and the occasional traffic that crept along it.
Benton's home schooling continued. They'd always travelled around a lot, so it was easier for his grandparents to give him lessons than for him to change classes all the time, and after all, they had all the books they needed at their disposal. He'd attended school in Inuvik, Aklavik or Tuk sometimes, but it always felt awkward--he never had time to get to know his classmates, and he would know most of what the others his age were learning anyway.
When his father and Buck came by to visit that winter, Benton both dreaded it and longed for it. He wanted to tell his father something, but somehow he couldn't--there just wasn't any space there. Every time he came home, it was the same, as if they were following a script that had no room for improvisation.
"Hello, Benton," his father would say, clapping him on the back. "How are you doing?"
"Fine, dad," he would reply, as he was expected to, and then his dad would go back out to unharness the dogs.
Buck would smile and joke that he got taller every time they stopped by, which wasn't true any more--Benton was eighteen now, and full grown. Although at least he'd stopped ruffling Benton's hair.
They would all have dinner together: Buck, his grandparents, his father and him. There was just enough room for all of them around the small kitchen table, and Benton would sit on a stool at the end. Buck and his father would tell stories about the adventures they'd had on their latest patrols, long winding stories that both fascinated Benton and made him slightly resentful.
"And it turned out that the Soviet spy was posing as a fur trapper in Paulatuk," his father finished the latest story.
Buck laughed appreciatively, adding: "Didn't know what hit him, when you came after him with that frozen beaver."
Benton didn't know what it was, exactly--perhaps it was their easy camaraderie, which left him feeling as if he was on the wrong side of a windowpane, looking in. Benton rehearsed the words in his mind: Dad, I've decided to go to Depot. Or Dad, I want to join the RCMP. He didn't know how to say them.
In his imagination, Buck and his father would just go on talking, telling stories as if he hadn't said anything. As if he weren't there at all.
***
Benton let out the breath he'd been holding. He'd said it, finally. Not to his father--he had left two weeks ago--but to his grandparents. He had kept it to himself for so long that the words felt strange in his mouth when he said them aloud, as if they were a magic spell that made his thoughts part of the real world. Benton nervously twisted his fingers in his flannel shirt below the table, and kept his back straight.
"I just think you could do better for yourself." His grandmother frowned, folding her hands on the dinner table.
"What do you mean? How is becoming a member of the RCMP not good enough?"
"We just thought it was a phase that you'd grow out of," his grandfather said.
And yes, Benton could remember--how when he was a child, he'd drawn pictures of his father in his red uniform and told his grandparents he wanted to be a Mountie like his father. But it wasn't just because of his father; that wasn't his only reason, or any reason at all, really.
Benton pressed his lips together stubbornly. "It's not a phase. I'm eighteen years old now. I'm old enough to decide for myself."
"Well, of course it's your choice. I just thought--" his grandmother hesitated, then continued slowly. "You have something special, Benton. I've never taught someone so...talented and quick to learn. If you went to university, you could go far."
Benton stared at her, then looked down at his empty plate, where the knife and fork lay neatly together. He didn't know what to reply. He knew that he was good at his lessons compared to others, but for his grandmother to say that he…She had never told him anything like that before. Neither of them had.
"Do you mean that?" he blurted out. Something in him wanted more, soaked it up like water on dry ground.
She nodded. "Yes. Do you really think you'll be satisfied in the RCMP? I think you'll want more, to learn more than you ever will being a policeman."
"But that isn't all of me," he objected. "I mean, I…"
Benton didn't know how to tell them what he meant. No matter how naïve it sounded, he wanted to do some good in the world, to fight for what he believed in. And if he went to university in a big city, he was sure he'd feel hemmed in. He didn't think he could stand not being able to stand on the runners of a sled, with the wind in his face and his whole body focused on the dogs running before him.
"I want to do this," he said firmly.
His grandparents exchanged a wordless look, the way they did when they were deciding something, and then his grandfather said, "Very well. Caroline left you some money. It's stated in her will that she wanted it to help pay for your education. I don't know if it will be enough, but we'll see. Though I do think you should consider this more carefully first."
Benton swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He'd thought of the money issue, of course, and tried to calculate how long he'd have to work before he could go to Depot. But his mother had planned for this, even when he was still just a child.
"Thank you," he said in a choked voice, and got up to take his plate to the sink.
***
"You're going to be a Mountie?" Benton had often seen Eric angry, but it wasn't often directed at him.
"That's what I told you, didn't I?" Benton lifted his chin defiantly.
"You know what they did to us! How can you even consider it?"
Privately, Benton thought that an angry Eric was a magnificent sight, all that energy and beauty focused on one unfortunate target.
"The RCMP isn't all bad! It's flawed, yes, but that's why we have to change it. And I want to do that from the inside."
"The RCMP isn't flawed, it's rotten! What are you going to do when they order you to move a tribe to make way for more developments?" Eric's eyes were sharp and black gazing out from inside the hood of his heavy parka.
"It's still possible to work around it. When my father was ordered to relocate a village on Ellesmere Island, he fabricated a new village and let them stay where they wanted. If he had been someone like Corporal Ellis, what do you think would've happened?" Benton had heard the story from Buck, when they'd stopped by for a few days last fall.
"Oh, it's about your father, is it? I should've known." This wasn't fair, and Benton finally raised his voice. "It is not about my father! That's not fair! Do I drag your father into discussions?"
"Well, you're the one who brought him up."
Benton couldn't deny this, of course, and he tried to backtrack. "It was only an example. Do you want the RCMP to consist of old racists, or men who actually care about the people who live here?"
"You think it's that easy? It'll wear you down, Ben, until you're just another Mountie obeying orders." He shook his head.
But the heat of Eric's anger had left him now, and he leaned on a tree by the riverbank, tugging Ben close beside him. This was their special place, secluded by willows that would grow leaves like small green mouse ears when spring came. Ice still shackled the river, waiting patiently for the snow melt when it would swell and overflow its banks. Eric put his arm around Benton in tacit apology, squeezing his shoulders briefly.
"I know it won't be easy. But I want to do this." Benton could admit Eric's point now that he had calmed down.
He had studied ethics as a theoretical subject, had pored over Kant and Spinoza under his grandparents tutelage, but in real life, things were more...tangled. He would simply have to do the best he could.
Eric laughed. "Well, it's not like anyone could change your mind about anything if you didn't want to. I wish you luck, I really do."
"Thanks." He took Eric's hand, feeling the press of his fingers through their two pairs of gloves. But he couldn't let the topic go. "If not through the law, then how do you think we can have justice? I mean, if everyone used brute force to solve conflicts, we'd be at war all the time."
Eric shook his head. "Why can't you see that the law is just a tool for the rich and powerful? It's not like they're going to listen to us unless we make them."
***
Benton had kept the information papers from the RCMP for months in an envelope under his mattress, and he knew the application procedures by heart. A physical test, a written test, a medical examination, all to be done in Yellowknife, the regional capital. This would be followed by an investigation into his background and an interview by a member of the RCMP. If he passed, he'd be summoned to Depot.
His hands tightened on the armrests as the plane surged forward, pressing him back into the seat. Benton closed his eyes at the exhilarating power of it, and then looked through the window to see the ground dropping away. Never having flown on a plane before, he pressed his nose against the glass with interest and saw the artificial lights and orderly square shapes of Inuvik, shrinking rapidly into the surrounding dim white.
When he'd gotten off the plane onto the tarmac of the Yellowknife airport, he hesitated, wondering where to go. There was a bored-looking man in a uniform, perhaps some kind of guard, and Benton turned to him in relief.
"Excuse me? Do you know where I can find the local RCMP detachment?" he asked.
"It's in the center of town."
"Do you know how I can get there?"
"Well, you could take a taxi, I suppose."
A taxi? How much did that cost? The plane ticket was expensive enough. "Are you sure I can't walk? How far is it?"
"Three miles or so, I think. Town's that way, anyway." He jerked his thumb to the right. Benton shouldered his pack and started to walk. There should be time--his appointment wasn't until twelve o'clock.
The wind off the lake was icy, but he was used to that, and the lake didn't look much different from the tundra, frozen as it was. The trees looked different, though, sturdier and not as thin, as if they grew with more confidence further south. Benton trudged along beside the road as trucks thundered by.
Benton found Yellowknife to be overwhelming, despite the knowledge that it was actually a fairly small town compared to the cities further south. It looked functional and not precisely ugly--more indifferent to beauty--and it seemed to have grown haphazardly, not a planned community the way Inuvik was. But the largest difference was the people. Benton felt as if he was shrinking into himself at their indifferent glances, and it struck him with sudden force that no one knew him here. No one would gossip to his neighbors if he misbehaved, no one would care if he vanished without a trace. He shivered, and felt relief when he finally found his way to the RCMP detachment.
There were a few other people there to take the tests, mostly young men, like him, but also a young woman with short blonde hair. He nodded at them, and they nodded back, probably preoccupied or nervous.
Benton wasn't used to time-limited tests with many small problems, like these. He'd mostly been home-schooled, and his grandparents gave him Chinese translations to do, or open-ended math problems, or sat down and discussed the reasons behind the fall of the Roman Empire with him. So he was surprised at how well his mind instinctively sorted the difficulty of the problems and kept track of the time left. In fact, he was good at this. He finished the tests with rising confidence.
After the last test, which was math, the boy next to him leaned back in his chair and sighed. "God, I hate math. I hope I didn't flunk it."
"I'm sure you did fine," Benton replied.
"But it was so hard. Didn't you think so?"
Benton had in fact found the problems to be trivial, but he could hardly say so. He smiled noncommittally and packed up his things. The boy moved on to a small group of other people discussing the tests.
After eating the sandwiches he'd brought for lunch, a physician checked his reflexes, listened to his heart, took blood tests, tested his eyesight and hearing and many other things. Benton followed the proceedings with interest. When he was younger, he'd sat for hours reading the medical encyclopedia in the library.
"Well, you seem healthy enough," the doctor finally announced. "Although we'll have to wait for the blood test results to be sure, of course."
"What are you testing for?" Benton asked curiously.
"Various blood-borne diseases such as hepatitis." The doctor looked at him, frowning. "Why?"
"Oh, I'm just curious."
He was pretty sure he did all right on the physical test, as well. It left him panting from the hard exercise, but it seemed that he'd passed.
Benton spent the night at a cheap hotel, and walked back toward the airport the next day. Away from the residential areas and government buildings, the real business of the town was obvious. He could see the silhouettes of the buildings around the mines, where the rocky ground was piled up as if the earth had thrown up its guts. There was a smell in the air--arsenic, perhaps? He remembered it from one of his chemistry lessons.
Benton got on the plane with the unreal feeling of a week having passed, despite the fact that it had only been a day and a night.
***
Back in Inuvik, the days were lengthening. It was March now, and the brilliance of sun on snow for a whole hour every day felt like a gift, a long awaited blessing.
"Are you done with those crates?" his grandmother asked.
Benton checked the ropes on the cargo sled one more time. "Yeah, they're secure," he called back.
They were going to Aklavik on a library trip, leaving most of the books behind and only bringing those that had been requested, along with especially popular books and ones that were useful as references. And of course some that they liked and hoped to get people to read.
"Right, let's go, then," his grandfather called.
Benton jumped up in front of one of the crates and the heavy snowmobile rumbled to life. He pulled a caribou skin up over his legs and settled down for the ride. They followed the ice-covered Mackenzie at first, and the noise and exhaust fumes from the engine contrasted with the sparkling white of the world. Benton wished for the silent swiftness of travelling by dogsled, but a load this heavy would've needed about twelve dogs. He sometimes borrowed Quinn's team, but they were only seven dogs. And his father's team, of course, wasn't there.
If he could return north after Depot, he would get a team of his own. One of Eric's cousin's dogs had a litter of puppies that was almost grown now, and there was one in particular that he'd been looking at. She seemed obedient and would probably make a good lead dog. Strong runner, too, and she had the loveliest reddish shading on her head...
A bump woke him from his daydream. They'd gone up the bank from the river, and the trail wasn't as smooth. He held on and paid attention.
When they finally reached Aklavik, the drone of the engine felt like a thrumming deep in his bones. Benton was stiff and sore, and he stretched his legs gratefully.
"I'll come get you in a week, then," said Scott Riley, after he'd helped them unload the heavy crates and carry them inside. He drove off, leaving them with silence ringing in their ears.
"Well, I'll go to the general store and tell them we're here, if you'll start putting things in order." His grandmother put her snowshoes on and disappeared into the gloom of late afternoon.
They usually borrowed a cabin that had stood empty since Mary Pitseolak had moved south with her husband, and the books were put up in one of the two rooms. Benton hung up a sign on the door that read "Northwest Travelling Library. Opening hours: 10-6."
Someone had been by to start a fire for them, but it hadn't been enough to drive out the cold completely. They kept their heavy sweaters on as they sat down to a dinner of canned soup and sandwiches.
That night, Benton lay shivering in a nest of blankets that were still chilly and damp. He was reading Milton by the light of a candle on the windowsill, the small print almost blurring together in the dim light. Finally he put the book down, pulled his cap down over his ears, and curled up. Briefly, he wished Eric were there to share body heat with him, his long limbs wrapping around him, lips and breath warm on his neck. The thought seemed out of place with his grandparents sleeping across the room. He was fairly sure they knew about him and Eric, but they'd never said anything and neither had he.
Well, not explicitly, at any rate.
He did remember one day last summer when he was almost done with his studies for the day and was trying not to squirm impatiently, waiting for the moment when he could run down to the river to meet Eric.
His grandmother had let him out early, saying: "Tell Eric to return that overdue book, would you?"
Benton had blushed, deep and red. She had smiled, and it had felt like a benediction. He had fled, feeling as overwhelmingly happy as the rare times when she praised his schoolwork.
***
Over the next few days, people stopped by to borrow new books and return old ones. They took turns minding the library and managing the meticulously organized card system to keep track of the loans. One afternoon, Benton was minding the library while his grandmother was helping out as a teacher at the local school and his grandfather was outside chopping wood. The muffled sounds of the axe came far between, and Benton wished he'd thought to chop the wood himself last night. His grandfather's arthritis was getting worse, but to go out now and offer to take over would only embarrass him.
There was a knock on the door, and June came in.
"Ben!" she said brightly, giving him a hug. Not even her bulky sealskin parka could hide her obvious pregnancy. She was two years older than him and Innusiq, and she'd always been the responsible older sister. Or the bossy one, as Innusiq had put it.
"Hi, June!" He didn't quite know what to say. It was as if she had entered some mysterious adult sphere of life that felt very far away to him. He wondered if he would ever have children. Probably not--the life of a law enforcement officer didn't seem to leave much room for family.
"Congratulations," he said awkwardly.
"Thank you." She beamed at him and smoothed one hand over her belly, emphasizing the swell of it. "Innusiq says hi."
"Tell him I said hello." June nodded and returned her book.
He and Innusiq had been inseparable when they were eight or so, but had drifted apart later when Innusiq wasn't that interested in discussing books and Benton wasn't that interested in looking at girls. They'd moved the main library to Inuvik when Benton was thirteen, anyway, and he had eventually discovered the point of looking at girls, although he found he was far more interested in looking at boys.
Not that it usually did him much good--he remembered the sweet frustration of wrestling with Mark, his hands all over Benton's body, but not the way he wanted them.
Not that he'd really known what he wanted then, anyway.
***
They went back to Inuvik, and the days grew ever lighter, gathering momentum for the coming spring. Benton tried not to dwell too much on his application results, with little success. He was pretty sure he'd done well on the tests, but there were other parts of the application process, as well.
One day, he was called to an interview with Sergeant Collins, a middle-aged man with a chest like a barrel and a bushy mustache that tended to grow small icicles in the winter. Benton had always wondered why he kept it.
In his office, Sergeant Collins stroked his mustache and rumbled, "Bob Fraser's son, eh? Well, the apple doesn't land far from the tree, isn't that what they say?" He winked at Benton.
"I suppose so, sir," Benton replied, at his most polite.
"Oh, lighten up, son. You look like you're going to your execution."
Benton tried to smile.
The questions seemed to be from a set list, and he answered them as best he could, with his gaze trained on Sergeant Collins. Most questions seemed easy, though some were surprising. Regardless, he was sworn to secrecy at the end. Benton was disappointed--he'd have liked to have told Eric about the questions.
"You'll be all right, son." Sergeant Collins clapped him on the back with a heavy hand. The interview was over.
***
One day in early June, soon after the ice broke on the Mackenzie, there was a slim letter for him with the RCMP logo. He slipped it into his pocket before anyone else had seen it, and went into his room. Benton almost couldn't bring himself to read it, balancing between anticipation and apprehension in a way that made his stomach churn, but finally he took a deep breath and cut the envelope open with his knife, pulling out a single piece of paper.
Benton Fraser,
The RCMP is pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. You should report to Depot in Regina on October 1st, 1980.
There was more, but he could only sit down on his cot, stunned by relief and by getting what he wanted.
The money from his mother had turned out not to be enough, and his grandparents had little to spare. Running a travelling library wasn't particularly lucrative, and his grandfather had had to quit his extra job some time ago, on account of his arthritis. Reading in his room one evening, Benton heard his grandparents talking over their evening cup of tea.
"I wonder when Robert will be home--didn't he say he'd stop by in the spring?"
"He'll come when it pleases him to do so." His grandmother's voice was dry.
"I really do think he could contribute some money toward Benton's education. Did that never occur to him?" The disapproval was clear in his grandfather's voice.
Benton hid his face in the pillow and wished sound didn't carry so well through the door. He would not beg his father for money--the very thought made him feel ashamed. Over the last few years, Benton had worked extra, to help make up for the loss of his grandfather's income. It wasn't enough to make much money for himself, though, since his grandparents insisted he couldn't neglect his schooling, and he also helped out in the library.
But he could earn money on his own. They would see.
When he asked Quinn for advice the next day, Quinn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the oil rigs employ a lot of people around here, of course. But I'm not sure you'd want to work there."
He looked at Benton with piercing black eyes, and as always, Benton felt as though they looked right through him.
"No, I wouldn't," he said firmly.
"Well, not much else work around here now, not that you could get full-time. Maybe if you went south a ways? There's mining, of course. And I have a friend who says there's always work in the logging business. He could help you, I think."
"What's his name?" Benton asked.
"Tom Bevan. Lives a bit inland from Prince Rupert, in British Columbia."
Benton braced himself. "Aren't you going to try to convince me not to be a Mountie?"
Quinn smiled, the lines around his mouth deepening. "You make your own choices, Ben. Always have, always will. And you'll be all right."
"Thanks, Quinn," Benton said sincerely.
He hadn't thought about leaving to earn money elsewhere, but why not? He didn't have any real friends his own age here now, except for Eric. They'd moved back and forth between the small communities of the north over the years, and it hadn't been easy to keep in touch with any friends he made. Mark had been drafted by the Winnipeg Jets the year before last; he still sent postcards sometimes, bragging about the progress he'd made.
His grandparents would probably object to him leaving. They didn't really want him to go to Depot in the first place, and they'd probably think he should stay here. But it would take forever to get the money he needed that way, and Benton was impatient.
He would do this his own way, no matter what they thought. And he'd bring money back for them, too. He knew they needed it, even if they didn't often talk about it.
Benton went by Eric's family's place, and Eric's sister told him that he was fishing down by the river.
Benton approached quietly, trying not to alert Eric to his presence. This was an old game between them, from when they practised hunting and tracking together. Eric sat on the bank with his legs crossed, not turning around, while Benton came closer, one careful step at a time. Finally, Benton touched him on the shoulder, and Eric turned around and grinned at him, looking unsurprised. Benton was unsure whether this was because he'd heard Benton approach, or because he was good at controlling his reactions.
"Hi, Ben."
"I'm going south, to find work." Benton said with no preliminaries, and sat down beside Eric.
"Where?"
"Prince Rupert, in British Columbia." Eric raised his eyebrows; Benton knew that was close to where Eric's father's people lived, although Eric didn't have much contact with them.
"What kind of work is it?"
"Logging. Quinn has a friend there who works in the forest, and Quinn said he'd help me find a job."
"How long will you be gone?"
"A couple of months, I think. And you know I'm going to Depot in October?"
"Yeah, I know."
Benton felt he had to explain. "The thing is, I don't just need money for myself. My grandfather...he can't work all that well anymore, and they'll lose my income when I go to Depot. So I want to leave some money for them."
"It's okay, I get it."
"You've never thought about going down to the Tsimshian lands? To visit your father's people, I mean. You could come with me, when I go." Part of that question was a wish for Eric's company, Benton admitted to himself, but it was also honest curiosity.
"Well, I always thought I'd go down there, some day. But not this summer. I'll be apprenticed to David Tanuyak." He looked up quickly to meet Benton's eyes, as if he wanted to see his response.
"You will?" Benton repeated, surprised. The more the thought about it, though, the more it made sense. David Tanuyak was an angakkuq, a shaman who was highly respected in the area.
He squeezed Eric's hand. "That's...I'm really happy for you."
Eric squeezed back, smiling almost shyly. "Thanks. Sorry for not telling you before. I mean, I didn't know if he'd take me, and, well..."
"No, that's all right." It wasn't as if he himself had been forthcoming about his plans to go to Depot. But then, he'd known Eric would disagree with him about that.
They sat in silence for a while. Benton looked out over the water, sparkling in the sunlight, and felt Eric's presence, close by his side. He imagined Eric as a shaman, how he'd learn to heal people and speak with the animals, and Benton felt a vague kind of melancholy come over him. He'd grown up in communities that were mostly Inuit, but no matter how well he spoke their language, he'd never be one of them.
Benton leaned against Eric's body, feeling the solidity and the softness, how the warmth of him contrasted with the chill rising from the water, and felt Eric leaning back into him.
Finally, he got up to leave, and Eric put aside his fishing rod and hugged him roughly.
"I'll miss you, Eric," Benton mumbled in Inuktitut into his neck.
"Me too, white boy," Eric whispered back. The way he usually said that phrase, it was teasing. This time, it was almost an endearment.
The next day, when his grandparents were working, Benton packed his small tent and bedroll; a cooking pot; a road map of Canada and a compass; fishing line and a hook; flint and steel; a knife and a small sharpening stone; a bag of pemmican; and some more supplies. He agonized over which books to take, if any. Books were heavy, but he didn't think he could do entirely without something to read. Finally, he took a volume of poetry by Robert Service and Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations, on the grounds that poetry and philosophy would last longer than fiction. They were his own books; he wouldn't risk the library's property. He wrapped them up carefully in a plastic bag to protect them.
Benton wrote a note, saying that he was leaving to find work further south, and that they shouldn't worry. He squashed down the slight feeling of guilt that asserted itself--they'd said it was his choice, hadn't they? He could do this on his own.
Part Two is here.
