"Leaving Home", Part Two
Oct. 7th, 2008 09:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luzulaThere was only one road, and it went due south.
Benton hitched a ride with a taciturn trucker, sitting beside him in the passenger seat with his backpack at his feet. He tried to turn and watch Inuvik disappear behind him, but the bulk of the truck blocked his view, so that he could only look forward. So he watched the land pass by through the windshield, feeling the distance grow behind him.
That night, he put his tent up and lay down on his bedroll, the thin fabric of the tent the only barrier between him and the endless land. The wind sang gently in the tent lines. He curled up, alone but not particularly lonely--he had everything he needed to survive on his own.
As he worked his way south, the land changed. Benton had never seen real mountains before, and he wanted to stray from the highway, to linger and explore. These mountains had never been glaciated, he realized, looking at the V-shaped valleys. The peaks were light in color, limestone perhaps, with blocky talus slopes spread beneath them like aprons. But he had a goal, and couldn't allow himself to be sidetracked.
He didn't have much of a problem getting rides, and the fair weather held out, for which he was thankful. When he got to Whitehorse, he didn't even go into town--it would only have delayed him. He just caught another ride at the truck stop outside of town, and saw the cluster of houses from a distance.
It was the second town that he had seen in his life, if he didn't count Inuvik.
The road went east--Johnson's Crossing, then Watson Lake--before it turned south again. The land was mountainous all the way now, an exotic contrast to the rolling hills of Inuvik and the coast around Tuk, flat as a pancake. In Dease Lake, he stopped to mail a postcard to his grandparents, telling them that he was all right.
The travelling wore on him, and he often half-dozed, staring at the white lines on the road as they disappeared in a quick, steady rhythm beneath whatever vehicle he was in at the moment.
When he got close to the coast, following the Skeena River down the Yellowhead Highway, the weather turned ugly. The wipers beat furiously across the windshield to keep the rain at bay. Through the blurred glass, Benton could see glimpses of green: lavish vegetation that looked as though it wanted to overflow the boundaries of the road.
Was this what he was here to cut down? All along the western coast of Canada there was temperate rainforest, he recalled from his geography lessons, watered by the moisture that precipitated when the air from the sea was forced upwards by the mountains. Rainforest--it sounded like some tropical, faraway dream.
Well, there certainly seemed to be enough rain.
***
Tom Bevan lived in a small community outside of Prince Rupert; it hadn't been difficult to find the right house by asking for directions. Benton stood in front of the door, hesitating. Before he could gather the courage to knock, the door opened.
The woman who opened it was maybe in her forties, with her black hair tied back. "Hello?"
Benton smiled and said, as politely as he could, "Good afternoon. I wonder if Tom Bevan is here?"
A child peeked at him from the window, pressing her nose against the glass in curiosity. "Yes, he's ‘round the back."
"Thank you kindly." Benton went around the house to where a man stood chopping wood.
He put the axe down and wiped his brow when Benton approached. His hair was black and streaked with gray above his weathered face.
Nervously, Benton extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Benton Fraser. I'm a friend of Quinn's. He said you might be able to help me find work around here."
To his relief, the man nodded and shook Benton's hand firmly. "Tom Bevan. Yes, Quinn did tell me you'd be along. Shouldn't be a problem finding work in the forest for you, if you're not afraid of working hard."
"I can work, I promise." Tom took a closer look at him, and Benton straightened up.
Benton was acutely aware of his unwashed clothes.
"Did you run away from home, son?" Tom asked mildly.
Benton blushed and ducked his head down, which was as good as a confession, it seemed. He had never been much good at lying.
Tom shrugged. "That's your own business, I suppose. You're a grown man. Just--you're not in any serious trouble, are you?"
"No! I mean, I just want to earn money to pay for my education."
"Right, then. Do you have a place to stay?"
"I have a tent. And I can live off the land."
Tom raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. "Are you sure you want to live outdoors the whole summer? I'm sure we could find you a room somewhere in town. Or there's a barracks where some of the other workers are living."
Benton bristled a little. He knew how to live on his own. "No, I can do this."
"Well, if you say so. I can speak to the elders for you--see if they'll let you hunt here. They likely will, if I vouch for you."
"Thank you kindly. I really would be very grateful."
"Well, you're a friend of Quinn's. He saved my life once, when we were both young. You can come have dinner with us tonight, and we can see about work tomorrow."
***
So this was what a real forest was like. He'd known the trees would be higher here than the spruce trees around Inuvik, with their thin sloping branches. But that hadn't prepared him for the massive bulk of these trees, the way they shut the light out to make their own shady world where the young trees grew from the decomposing mulch of the fallen ones. It was old--this had been a forest since long before his ancestors even came to this land. But not, he thought, before Tom's people came here.
Benton stopped looking around and paid attention to the stocky man, apparently some kind of foreman, to whom Tom had introduced him.
"Sure, we can use more workers," he said, looking appraisingly at Benton. "Let's try you on for a week first, see if you can handle the work."
Benton wanted to protest that he could, but just nodded. "All right."
He was issued a large chainsaw, and the foreman waved one of the other workers over. "Would you show him the ropes, Hank?"
"Sure," the man said agreeably. He was tall, with blond hair that hung down into his eyes.
Benton spent the morning learning how to use a chainsaw.
"See, you've got to watch for kickback," Hank said, demonstrating against the trunk of a sitka spruce. "If you don't start the motor before putting the blade to the trunk, or if you angle it wrong, it'll kind of take hold of the trunk and get thrown upwards."
Benton followed the movements of his hands intently.
"Had a guy here last year, almost sliced his shoulder in half," Hank said conversationally. "Watch it, is all."
Benton resolved to do so--he'd like to keep his shoulder intact, thank you. "Anything else to be careful about?"
Hank shrugged. "You'll learn as you go along. Come on, you can watch us do it first, before you try it yourself."
***
Over the following days, Benton learned how to place the cuts to get a tree to fall a particular way. He learned how dangerous the moment just before the tree fell was, and to cry "Timber!" in warning before it crashed ponderously down, breaking branches and lesser trees on the way.
It was hard work, and at the end of each day he was tired and sweaty, his head buzzing with the sudden silence. Tom had found a pair of earmuffs for him, but he still found the constant noise wearying. He wondered why so few of the others used them.
Each night, he slept deeply, exhausted and craving more sleep than he got, what with both working and needing to hunt for food. He set traps to catch hares, and there was a stream running nearby where he could catch fish, but it took time, and he frequently went hungry.
Benton found the forest to be somewhat overwhelming at first. He was used to having his line of sight unobstructed and having nothing above him but the sky. This closed-in world made him slightly claustrophobic. But he learned to appreciate the details of it--the tall ferns growing around the brook, and the bright green lichen, as big as his hands, hanging in leafy abundance from the tree trunks.
He wished he'd brought some of the botany books from the library with him. Of course, the work didn't exactly leave him with much free time, so maybe it was just as well.
He'd set his tent up on the soft springy bed of needles beneath a stand of western hemlocks, Tsuga heterophylla. They were trees he'd never seen at home, with massive tall trunks, thriving on the moisture from the coast. The needles were green on the upper side and pale when he turned them over, and they were soft and didn't prick his hand when he stroked his hand over the branches.
Of course, he'd have to move when the logging came closer to his camp.
***
"Hey, watch out for that branch!" Matt shouted and waved.
"All right, I see it!" Benton stepped to the side as Hank and Matt cut off one of the large side branches of the fallen redcedar.
He enjoyed the teamwork of logging, and the other workers were good partners in that sense, although Benton didn't find it easy to talk with them otherwise. He'd mentioned the philosophy book he had with him to Matt, but Matt had just stared at him and shrugged. Benton had felt uncomfortable and he wished he hadn't said anything about it. And of course, they teased him sometimes about living in the woods, but mostly they ignored his pecularities. They had work to do, after all.
"Okay, that's the last one for today," Hank said, putting down his saw. "A bunch of us are going in to town tonight. Got our wages, so I figure we deserve a bit of fun, eh?"
"Oh?" Benton said carefully. He didn't want to spend his money, but he couldn't deny that he'd welcome the company.
"Come along if you like. You know, a few beers, maybe buy yourself a girl..." Hank grinned.
Buy...? Benton stepped back, shocked.
"You can't buy a person," he said, hearing the coldness in his voice as if from the outside.
Hank stared at him in disbelief, his grin turning into an ugly sneer. "Oh yeah? Well, I can sure as hell buy myself a good fuck."
They turned their backs on him and joined the other men. Benton sat down on the trunk of a tree, feeling worn out and empty. He could hear their voices, laughing and joking, growing fainter with distance.
Slowly, he made his way back to his camp and took down the remains of a hare he'd cooked that morning. It was hanging in a tree, safe from bears. He ate, chewing slowly, the better to fill his stomach. Then he sat down on the ground and began to methodically sharpen his chainsaw with a file.
It was a time-consuming process that required concentration. Each tooth had to be sharpened separately, and then the blunt sections in between had to be filed down to just the right length. If you filed them down too far, the saw would cut too deeply into the wood and get stuck. If you didn't file them far enough, the saw would be too blunt.
When the light failed, he finally stopped. Benton ducked into his tent and lay down in the bedroll. It began to rain again, as it often did, falling onto the high canopy and then dripping down irregularly onto the fabric of his tent. Benton curled up tightly and tried not to cry.
He was lonely and homesick.
He missed Eric, and his grandparents, and Quinn. Most of all, he wanted someone to hold him. Even the wordless warmth of a sled dog would have been a comfort.
***
The next day he went back to work. There was no discernible difference in how the others treated him, but he still felt like a door had closed that he hadn't even been aware was open.
He didn't think he showed anything, but that afternoon Tom caught his arm before he could leave for the day. "How are you doing, son? Annie and I were just saying that we ought to have you over for dinner."
"I'm fine," Benton said automatically, searching Tom's face for a trace of condescension or pity. But he just smiled a little and said: "I'm sure you are. But she'll be cooking extra tonight, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste."
Benton thought longingly of a roof above his head and food on a plate. Eric would have teased him and called him a weakling for that, he was sure, but he gratefully said yes.
They drove there in Tom's old pick-up truck, mostly in silence, which Benton appreciated. After the incident yesterday, he felt oddly ashamed, although he in fact had nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself. One had to speak one's conscience, and if he'd broken some unspoken rule of the group, then so be it. This, apparently, was the price he'd have to pay.
Tom and Annie's house was warm, noisy with children, and full of heavenly smells. Benton felt almost dizzy with hunger, and tried to eat slowly, so they wouldn't think he had poor table manners.
"Thank you kindly for the food," he told Annie.
She smiled at him and insisted that he have some more, and Benton did.
At Tom and Annie's insistence, Benton sat down in the sofa while they cleaned up, so full that he wasn't sure he could move in the foreseeable future. A little girl sucking her thumb curled up next to him, looking sleepy. He looked down at her, feeling oddly tender at her trustfulness. She took her thumb out of her mouth.
"I'm May," she said, looking up at him expectantly.
"I'm Benton," he replied.
She nodded seriously. "It's past my bedtime, but Mom said I could be up because we have a guest."
"Oh," he said, not sure what to say.
"Can you sing me a lullaby?" she requested.
"I guess so," he said uncertainly. He looked up at Tom and Annie, perhaps for permission, but they seemed busy. Benton began to sing softly, a lullaby that June and Innusiq's mother used to sing. May wouldn't understand the words--her people's native language was Tsimshian, not Inuktitut, but she seemed to like it. Benton could feel her breathing slow as she fell asleep against him.
"You have a nice voice," Annie said as she sat down on the chair next to the sofa.
"Thank you," Benton said, blushing.
"I think it's time for this one to go to bed," she said, lifting the warm body from Benton's side. She handed May over to Tom, who disappeared into an inner room. "You know, I have an old guitar standing around. Do you play as well as sing?"
"Well, yes. I mean, a little. My grandmother taught me."
The guitar was out of tune, so Benton carefully adjusted the tuning keys, finding the E for the lowest string and then A for the next string, then D, G, B, and finally E again. He sang the lullaby again, tentatively finding the chords.
"Sorry. I'm not used to singing that one with the guitar. I'll do something else." He searched his memory for the old ballads he'd learned from the notebooks in the library and from his grandmother. Finally he settled on one and sang it quietly, so as not to wake the children.
"That's very nice," Annie said. "A friend gave me the guitar once, but I never learned to play it properly."
Tom came out of the other room and closed the door soundlessly. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thank you kindly." Benton put the guitar down carefully, leaning it against the side of the sofa.
Tom came over with the tea. "How are you doing with the job?"
"I'm doing fine," Benton replied, willing him not to ask more. He was doing fine, really.
"All right," Tom said mildly, taking him at his word.
"Can I ask you something?" Benton said, surprising himself. He hadn't meant to say that.
"Of course."
"I'm sorry, I really don't mean to sound presumptuous. Don't you find it...isn't it hard for you to cut the forest down? I mean, it's your people's land." Benton bit his lip and looked down, hoping he hadn't offended Tom.
But when he glanced up, Tom merely looked thoughtful. "If you asked me twenty-five years ago, I would never have believed I'd be working this job. Things...change, when you get older. I don't much like doing it, but I have a family to feed now. And I want my children to be able to go to school."
"Oh. I see." He thought of Eric and his anger, and wondered what he'd be like in twenty-five years. He thought of himself, and wondered if he would turn into a corrupt officer who compromised the principles of his youth. No, that would never happen, he promised himself fiercely.
"Well, it's late," Tom said. "You can sleep on the couch if you like."
"Thank you," Benton said.
Annie brought him an extra blanket, and he slept deeply that night.
***
The summer passed. His hair grew out and curled almost to his shoulders, getting into his eyes when he worked. He tied it up with a piece of string to get it out of the way.
Benton was growing increasingly sick of living in the forest by night and cutting it down by day.
While felling a tree, he felt the saw cut swiftly down through the decades and centuries of slow growing. The chips and sawdust from the wood stuck to his sweaty skin, little pieces of history.
He saw the practical value of the lumber, he really did, and people needed wood. But the scale of it--it was such a contrast from the way they lived in the Territories, cutting only what they needed for firewood, or to mend the cabin. Here, trees that were bigger than two people could reach their arms around were casually felled, cut into manageable lengths, and transported away by trucks in a streamlined operation that was clearly driven by the demand for money, not by practical needs. And it was all done with such indifference--not even a doubt that they had the right to use everything in nature for their own ends.
He'd stay to get his wages for August, and then he'd leave, Benton promised himself. He spoke to Tom, who nodded in understanding, laconic as usual.
The day before he left, Tom brought him a package, wrapped up in a large plastic bag. He pulled out a guitar case from it, and said, "Annie wanted you to have this. She said she never plays it anyway."
"Oh! I...thank you. I mean, thank her for me." Benton felt a little awkward accepting the gift.
"I think the case should be pretty waterproof, but I brought the plastic just in case." Tom shook his hand. "All right, Benton, you take care. And give my best to Quinn."
"I will," Benton promised. "Thank you. For helping me."
Tom nodded at him, and started up his pick-up truck.
Benton took the guitar back to his camp and took it out. Hesitantly, he played a few arpeggios. The sounds were strangely comforting in the forest evening, and he sang a lullaby to himself, pausing once to retune the guitar. The dampness and change in temperature was probably not good for the instrument, but he was going home now, and hopefully it would not be damaged.
***
Benton packed his things and hitched a ride with one of trucks that carried the timber away.
He felt some relief at leaving the job behind, but he would miss the forest, he realized, even if it was not truly his home.
"Where are you going?" the driver asked him in heavily accented English. He was a blond man with a knife at his belt who smelled of tobacco. Benton couldn't place his accent.
"North," Benton told him simply.
"Ah. Where I am from, also. But in another country. I come from Inari Lake, in north of Finland. You want?" He offered Benton a piece of something brown.
"What is it?"
"Chewing tobacco." The man gestured toward his mouth, where his upper lip was distended by a piece of the brown stuff.
"No, thank you," Benton said, as politely as he could. But the man didn't seem offended, just put his hand back on the wheel. Where it definitely needed to be, in Benton's opinion--the man drove with a fine disregard for the state of the gravel road.
"How did you end up in Canada?" Benton asked, curious.
"Ah, long story. It's about a woman. Isn't it always?" He looked at Benton, grinning and showing his brown-stained teeth. Benton smiled back in understanding, like he was expected to, and the man launched into a long and complicated story that would have been worthy of a ballad. Benton wondered if it was true.
They reached a place where the highway branched off north and south. "Ah, I talk too much to be a real Finn, that's what they tell me. Anyway, good luck. I go south now. I let you off here?"
"Thank you kindly for the ride," Benton said. He opened the door and jumped off the high steps of the truck onto the dirt at the side of the road.
***
Benton was hungry.
He was almost used to it by now, that hollow feeling in his belly. He'd reached Whitehorse, and being in a town, he couldn't hunt or trap. He didn't want to spend his hard-earned money on food and lodgings--he was determined to leave a fair amount of it for his grandparents when he went to Depot. The truck stop was on the north edge of town, but he couldn't set off again without eating. His stomach made a noise, and he drank some water from his bottle to take the edge off.
Benton sat down against a tree on a strip of grass along a street, looking at the people walking by without seeing him. He imagined himself as he no doubt looked to them: scruffy, with dirty, worn clothes and nothing but a backpack and a guitar case. Idly, he took out his guitar and picked out a few slow minor chords, to suit his mood. His fingers were calloused and the strings hardly made a dent in his fingertips. The chords changed and settled and Benton started singing to himself, low and hesitant at first.
There's a home by the wide Avonmore
that will sweep to the broad open sea...
The song was full of longing, for a girl, naturally, but all Benton heard was the wide river sweeping to the sea, and that was the longing that he sang. He picked out the final notes and then startled at the sound of scattered applause. A few people tossed coins into the open guitar case.
"Hey, sing something else?" a woman asked with a smile.
Benton smiled back in pure surprise and started on another song, this one faster.
People stopped, listened for a few songs and then drifted off again. Benton sang until he was hoarse and his fingers ached, and he had sung all the songs he could think of. Finally, he started on an old song his mother used to sing, a half-forgotten memory mingled with the smell of cinnamon and tea.
Once our valleys were ringing
With songs of our children singing
But now sheep bleat till the evening
And shielings lie empty and broken
Hush, hush, time to be sleeping
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping
Dreams of peace and of freedom
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby...
He trailed off and lifted his head to his audience. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten the rest."
"Hey, I know that one," said a young man a couple of years older than him, and began to sing the next verse.
No use pleading or praying
For gone, gone is all hope of staying
Hush, hush, the anchor's a-weighing
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby
Hush, hush, time to be sleeping...
They finished together as the words came back to Benton, and then he put the guitar down and shook out his tired hands. The people walked on, but the man sat down beside him. He had his hair strangely tangled together in long strands, tied together in the neck. "That's such a great song, where did you learn it?"
"From my mother, when I was small. Thanks for helping me with the last part." Benton gathered up the money he had earned, which was really a lot more than he'd expected, and put it in his pouch.
"Hey, my pleasure. You should've been here at the Frostbite music festival this winter: you'd have fit right in. Want to go grab something to eat?"
Benton looked up, surprised. "Sure!"
"I'm Dave, by the way."
"Benton."
They shook hands, and Benton packed up his things.
"Are you just passing through?" Dave asked.
"Yes, I'm on my way north."
"There's a great diner over on the next street. Cheap, too." Dave jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
After the meal, Benton greedily licked the last bits of grease off his fingers and ignored his grandmother's voice in his head about table manners.
"Wow, you were really hungry, huh?" Dave said.
"Well, yes. I've been hitchhiking, and the hunting wasn't very good."
"Hunting?" Dave looked at him as if he was crazy, and then laughed. "You're kidding, right?" He didn't wait for a reply, though. "You got a place to sleep tonight?"
"Not exactly," Benton said, avoiding mention of his tent. Perhaps Dave would see that as strange too, and besides, he would have to walk out of the town to find a good place to camp.
"You could crash at my place, if you want," Dave offered.
"Oh! That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."
"Hey, it's no trouble. Besides, I thought you could teach me that version of ‘The Two Sisters' ballad that you sang."
"Sure, I'd be happy to do that."
Dave's apartment was a small place--just a room with minimal kitchen facilities and dirty dishes piled high in the sink.
"Sorry 'bout that." He waved his hand in the general direction of the sink, and Benton nodded and spread his bedroll at the opposite end of the room from Dave's mattress. There was a faint trace of some sweet smoke that Benton suspected was marijuana, but he didn't ask, not particularly wanting to know. Dave took down the guitar that was hanging on the wall, and they settled down to a few companionable hours of swapping songs with each other.
***
Benton woke early, not having slept particularly well. The floor was much harder than sleeping outdoors, and the air was closed in and stuffy. Dave seemed to be fast asleep, so he wrote him a note of thanks and slipped out the door.
At the truck stop, he approached the first driver he saw, as politely as he could. "Excuse me? Are you going north?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, son. Going south."
On the fifth try, he finally found someone going the right way. He was a bear of a man with a bushy black mustache, and when they'd swung out on the road he cranked the radio up high and sang along. There was a picture of a busty Dolly Parton dangling from the rear-view mirror. Benton didn't mind country music as a rule, but he gritted his teeth against the man's off-key singing. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. He took out his volume of Wittgenstein and attempted to concentrate.
That evening, he asked to be let off where he saw a creek cutting across the road. He breathed a sigh of relief at the departing dust cloud of the truck, and went down to see if he could catch himself some dinner in the creek. That night, he slept deeply.
The next few days passed in a blur of highway. It stretched before him endlessly, until he felt that the road would keep going until they fell off the edge of the earth into the Beaufort sea.
On the ferry at Tsiigehtchic, as the driver stood a few meters away on the deck smoking, he realized with a sudden jolt to his heart that he would be home soon. He bit his lip, watching the waters of the Arctic Red River flowing into the Mackenzie. He didn't feel guilty, not really. Then he admitted to himself, determined to be honest, that yes, actually he did. He'd sent that postcard to his grandparents to tell them he was fine, but he'd done nothing since then. His stomach twisted a little bit, wondering what they'd say.
The truck left Tsiigehtchic behind, heading ever farther north.
***
Benton asked the driver to let him off about a kilometer before they reached Inuvik. He wanted to wash off before he faced his grandparents. They had always set great store in cleanliness, and Benton felt uncomfortable in the grime and sweat of his journey. There was a bend in the Mackenzie River where it ran deep and green, and he stripped off his clothes and jumped in. The shock of the cold water rendered him wide-awake, his skin tingling with life.
Neither of his two shirts was particularly clean, and there was little he could do about it now; they wouldn't have time to dry even if he could wash them effectively. Benton chose the one he hadn't been wearing, and pulled it over his head quickly to deter the mosquitoes. He wrung the water out of his hair and removed the cord to run his fingers through it, working out the worst of the tangles. Perhaps he should cut it? No, he only had his small shaving mirror, and he'd only end up with an uneven haircut. He tied it up again.
All right. There was nothing further he could think of to delay himself. Benton took a deep breath, shouldered his pack, and walked into Inuvik.
It was just as he remembered, except that it seemed smaller. There was the dome of the church, and there was old Fulton, sitting with a bottle of whiskey on the steps of his trailer like always. Benton stopped by the general store to find out where his grandparents were.
"Mrs McIntyre?" She turned around, squinting at him and wiping her hands on her apron.
"Benton Fraser?" she said, incredulous. "Where have you been? Martha and George have been worried sick over you, you thoughtless boy."
He tried to reply, but she talked right through it. "And you're nothing but skin and bone! Haven't you been eating at all? Come along."
She chivvied him to the house behind the store, sitting him down at the table and serving up an enormous portion of casserole. He ate hungrily while she kept up a steady stream of talk. They had been worried about him? Really?
"Well, they're up Tuk way, there's a supply flight going up there this afternoon, and I dare say they'd let you ride along. You sure you don't want more?"
"I couldn't eat another bite. Thank you kindly, Mrs. McIntyre, for the food and the directions."
"You go straight to Tuk, now, Benton." He could see her reach for the telephone as he closed the door behind him.
***
Benton steeled himself to knock, but the door opened before he could work himself up to it, and he saw his grandmother's familiar face. "Benton! Thank god you're back. Matilda called and told me you were on your way."
Benton straightened. "I'm all right. I've been down in British Columbia, earning money for going to Depot."
Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew cold. "So your note said, yes. And what on Earth made you leave without saying goodbye?"
He swallowed. Now that he had to explain it, he found he couldn't. "I…"
"We've been taking care of you for all these years! And then you run away like a thief in the night! Did you think we wouldn't help you?"
A small, rebellious spark began to glow in him. God knew he was supposed to be grateful for all they had done for him; and he was grateful, he really was. But he had made money on his own now, and all she did was scold him for it. He clenched his jaws and almost raised his voice back, but habit made him lower his head instead. "I'm sorry."
"I should think so. Are you hungry?" He was--it felt like he had eaten that casserole yesterday.
Dinner was a little awkward. Benton ate hungrily, but they were all three of them fairly silent. Afterwards, Benton warmed a pail of water and went around the back to wash out his clothes, dirty from travelling. While he was wringing out the flannel shirts, his grandfather came up to him.
"You know, Martha ran away from home herself once."
"She did? Really?" Benton hadn't known that, and he was intensely curious to find out more.
"Yes. And I don't think she ever thought that someone would run away from her."
Benton looked down, ashamed of himself again. "Why did she run away?"
"That's her story to tell, if she wants to tell it."
He worked up the courage to ask her about it later that evening. Benton had swept all the floors and was now washing the dishes, in some half-conscious attempt to atone, and she was cooking cloudberry jam beside him in the kitchen.
"Grandfather said that you ran away from home once," he said quickly, before he could think better of it.
She glanced at him sharply. "He said that, did he?"
"Yes."
"Well, all right." She measured up sugar from the tin on the shelf and poured it into the pot, and then began to speak. "My father wanted to marry me off to the nearest farm boy. And I suppose I wasn't very interested in that--I wanted more from life than to have babies and work on a farm. So I ran away to Toronto to study. My schoolteacher helped me."
Benton listened, rapt with interest. "Did you ever go back?"
"No, I didn't. And I don't think my father would have wanted me back. I was a disgrace to him." She smiled ruefully. "At least you came back."
"I..." Benton swallowed. "I really am sorry for not telling you. It was just that I knew you didn't approve of me going to Depot, and I thought you wouldn't approve of me going off on my own either, and...I'm sorry." His apology was sincere this time.
"I suppose I still don't think the RCMP is the best thing for you." She sighed. "But perhaps we should have made it clearer that we respect your choice."
Benton felt relieved, as if the world was back to the way it ought to be.
***
Rumor was faster than the wind in Tuk, and the next morning Eric knocked on his window. Benton opened it and Eric leaned on the windowsill.
"Hi, white boy." The teasing was back in his voice.
"You're in Tuk?" Benton said stupidly.
"Helping my uncle with the fishing. How have you been?" Eric's face was a darker brown now, the way it got in the summer, and his teeth flashed white when he smiled.
"I cut down trees until I grew sick of it. I earned the money I need, though."
Eric nodded.
Benton wanted to touch him, but he didn't know--they hadn't promised anything, after all. And Eric looked unreadable, the way he sometimes did.
"Want to go down to the sea?" Eric asked. "You look like you could use a swim."
"Yes. Let me just get soap and a towel." Benton rummaged around, then climbed out the window.
There was no shortage of water around Tuktoyaktuk. The sea, the river delta, it all merged together into a maze of waterways, and where there was no river, there were the shallow ponds and wetlands of the tundra. They walked along the shore until they couldn't see the town anymore, then stripped and ran into the sea, murky with sediments from the river. Even in August, the cold stole Benton's breath, and he washed down quickly, goosebumps rising on his skin.
The sun was warm, though, and the mosquitoes were almost gone this late in the summer, so they sprawled naked next to an old upside-down rowboat that sheltered them from the wind. The gray weathered boards looked almost like the ribcage of some great animal. Benton let his hand touch Eric's, and felt his fingers tighten around his.
"I missed you, you know," Eric said.
"I missed you, too." Benton didn't say that he was going to be leaving again soon, because Eric already knew that, and talking about it wasn't going to change anything. It was just the way it was.
"Mmm." Eric turned on his side, tugging lightly on Benton's hair. "I like it long."
"Well, I just forgot to cut it," he said, shrugging.
Eric's smile broadened. "Gives me something to hold on to," he murmured, and he grabbed a handful of Benton's hair and leaned forward.
Benton made a startled sound into his mouth and then kissed him back with enthusiasm until they were both out of breath.
"You're so thin," Eric said, running his hand along Benton's ribs.
"You're not exactly the first one to say so. It's not like I had a lot of money to spare. Or much time for hunting--I was working," he said, somewhat defensively.
"I can tell." Eric squeezed Benton's arm appreciatively.
Benton felt his face heating, and buried it in Eric's shoulder. His skin smelled of sun and salt, and he licked it, tasting the dried seawater.
He hadn't realized how much he had missed this. Not just the pleasure that filled him when Eric lowered his head and put his mouth on him, but the simple touch of skin to skin: it felt as if life and warmth flowed into him from Eric's hands. Benton let his fingers undo the strip of leather that held Eric's hair together and spread it out over his lap, strands of black hair catching slightly on his callused hands.
He didn't last long, and with a low cry, he came in Eric's mouth, closing his eyes and seeing the sun shine red through his eyelids.
Later, they both lay half-asleep, drowsy with sexual release. Benton curled around Eric, soaking in the feeling of a warm naked body lying full length against his own. This wasn't something they talked much about. It just was, like the river flowing into the sea and the gulls crying overhead.
***
In late September, his father unexpectedly appeared at the door.
"Just popping by for a quick visit," he said, hanging his Stetson on a hook by the door.
"Hi, dad," Benton said. He supposed that his father must know by now, but somehow that did not make it any easier to bring the subject up.
"Well, son," he said as he was taking his coat off. "I heard you'll be going to Depot soon,"
"Yes, I will," Benton replied.
"Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do well." He nodded, as if it were a settled matter, then looked around the kitchen. "Is your grandmother around?"
"She's around the back," Benton said automatically, and his father left to find her.
Benton felt off balance, as if he had been bracing himself for something, only to have it give way without resistance. He didn't know what he'd expected, really--but some kind of reaction other than whatever he had gotten, he supposed.
Well. It wasn't as if he was doing this for his father's sake.
***
His grandparents insisted that he fly, so that he didn't arrive in Regina dirty from living off the land, and his grandmother cut his hair short again. He packed his things and left most of the money he'd earned over the summer in an envelope on his bed, along with a note--he'd get food and board at Depot, and he didn't need money for much else, after all. Perhaps he should've just given them the money, but he felt a little awkward about it. He knew how proud his grandmother was--she'd never want to rely on charity. She'd happily take it for the library, yes, but not for herself. Not that this was charity, because they were family, but still.
To his surprise, his grandmother hugged him briefly before he got on the plane. He hugged back awkwardly, having to bend down slightly to put his arms around her.
"Promise you'll write to us," she said, and Benton promised that he would.
His grandfather clapped him on the back and looked him in the eyes. "Good luck, Benton. Be sure to tell us if you need help."
"I will." He got on the plane, strapping himself into the seat and looking out through the window. His grandparents seemed so small, standing there on the tarmac of the airport.
Benton watched Inuvik disappear below him, the buildings shrinking into the vastness of the landscape around them. He bit his lip. He would not cry--he was going where he wanted to go. He was.
He and Eric had said their goodbyes last night. Eric had pressed his lips and nose against Benton's cheek in a kunik, intimate but not sexual, then said, "Goodbye, Mountie."
Benton had breathed in the smell of Eric's sun-warmed skin. "I'm not a Mountie yet."
"No, but you will be." There had been something almost sad in his voice, as if he were withdrawing some part of himself.
Benton had felt a pang, like something lodging painfully in his chest, and had suddenly wanted more than anything to stay at home. I didn't know. I didn't know that I would lose this.
But of course, he had known. After Depot, he would be stationed wherever the RCMP saw fit to send him. There was no guarantee that he could go back to Inuvik. And even if he could...
He had hugged Eric to him almost roughly, his throat closing up with unshed tears.
Inuvik was barely visible now, just a small blur by the meandering river. Benton resolutely turned his head to look forward instead.
Research notes:
Originally, this was meant to be the story of Benton at Depot, but it kind of grew. The sequel will hopefully be written some time in the future.
I read quite a lot of material about the natural history of western Canada, most of which didn't make it into the story. I am grateful to the arboretum in the Botanical Gardens in my home town, where I could see the trees that grow on the coast of BC. Western hemlocks really are lovely trees. &hearts
I wanted to give some sense of the political conflicts going on in the NWT at that time, but I don't know if I succeeded. And I hope there are no major errors about the Inuit and Tsimshian. If anyone has corrections or reading tips about any of these things, I'd be grateful. (And while I'm talking about ethnic groups, I apologize for my stereotypical knife-wearing Finn with chewing tobacco. *g*)
Maybe it would've been more realistic to have mechanized logging, using harvesters and forwarders. But I didn't go with this, because I liked writing it the manual way. Also, thanks to my boyfriend, who told me at length about chainsaws. (And I realize this makes him sound kind of macho--um, he's really not.)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
primroseburrows saved me from contradicting canon: Eric is Tsimshian, not Inuit as I'd thought. (Obviously I didn't watch "Mask" closely enough.) This was a problem for me, because I'd already written most of the story, and this was a big enough change that it felt like the whole story would have to be rewritten to accommodate it (the Tsimshian live quite far from where Fraser grew up). So I solved it by having Eric be half Inuit, half Tsimshian. If this is AU, so be it.
I cannot figure the geography of canon. I mean, CotW has huge mountains, but they can't be in the Mackenzie delta, where Fraser grew up according to canon, because that area is not that mountainous. In CotW, they talk about a place called Franklin Bay, but when I google that, the only thing I find is a Lady Franklin Bay, up really far north, close to Greenland, and that can't be right, can it? So anyway, I had Fraser be fascinated by seeing mountains for the first time, because I don't think he saw much of that where he grew up. Although of course, he could have lived somewhere else with Caroline...
Another thing is how much forest he'd have seen growing up. In the episode "Easy Money", we see young Fraser learning to track in a forest with Quinn, but that forest is completely unrealistic for the northern NWT--those species of broadleaved trees just don't grow there. I think they couldn't be bothered going up north just to film that bit. Around Inuvik, you get mostly rolling hills and narrow spruce trees (according to a biologist I know who's been there). Tuktoyaktuk, OTOH, is out on the flat tundra and has no trees at all.
Oh, and the big green lichen in the forest is Lobaria pulmonaria. It likes moist climates, and we've got it on the west coast of Sweden as well.
Benton hitched a ride with a taciturn trucker, sitting beside him in the passenger seat with his backpack at his feet. He tried to turn and watch Inuvik disappear behind him, but the bulk of the truck blocked his view, so that he could only look forward. So he watched the land pass by through the windshield, feeling the distance grow behind him.
That night, he put his tent up and lay down on his bedroll, the thin fabric of the tent the only barrier between him and the endless land. The wind sang gently in the tent lines. He curled up, alone but not particularly lonely--he had everything he needed to survive on his own.
As he worked his way south, the land changed. Benton had never seen real mountains before, and he wanted to stray from the highway, to linger and explore. These mountains had never been glaciated, he realized, looking at the V-shaped valleys. The peaks were light in color, limestone perhaps, with blocky talus slopes spread beneath them like aprons. But he had a goal, and couldn't allow himself to be sidetracked.
He didn't have much of a problem getting rides, and the fair weather held out, for which he was thankful. When he got to Whitehorse, he didn't even go into town--it would only have delayed him. He just caught another ride at the truck stop outside of town, and saw the cluster of houses from a distance.
It was the second town that he had seen in his life, if he didn't count Inuvik.
The road went east--Johnson's Crossing, then Watson Lake--before it turned south again. The land was mountainous all the way now, an exotic contrast to the rolling hills of Inuvik and the coast around Tuk, flat as a pancake. In Dease Lake, he stopped to mail a postcard to his grandparents, telling them that he was all right.
The travelling wore on him, and he often half-dozed, staring at the white lines on the road as they disappeared in a quick, steady rhythm beneath whatever vehicle he was in at the moment.
When he got close to the coast, following the Skeena River down the Yellowhead Highway, the weather turned ugly. The wipers beat furiously across the windshield to keep the rain at bay. Through the blurred glass, Benton could see glimpses of green: lavish vegetation that looked as though it wanted to overflow the boundaries of the road.
Was this what he was here to cut down? All along the western coast of Canada there was temperate rainforest, he recalled from his geography lessons, watered by the moisture that precipitated when the air from the sea was forced upwards by the mountains. Rainforest--it sounded like some tropical, faraway dream.
Well, there certainly seemed to be enough rain.
***
Tom Bevan lived in a small community outside of Prince Rupert; it hadn't been difficult to find the right house by asking for directions. Benton stood in front of the door, hesitating. Before he could gather the courage to knock, the door opened.
The woman who opened it was maybe in her forties, with her black hair tied back. "Hello?"
Benton smiled and said, as politely as he could, "Good afternoon. I wonder if Tom Bevan is here?"
A child peeked at him from the window, pressing her nose against the glass in curiosity. "Yes, he's ‘round the back."
"Thank you kindly." Benton went around the house to where a man stood chopping wood.
He put the axe down and wiped his brow when Benton approached. His hair was black and streaked with gray above his weathered face.
Nervously, Benton extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Benton Fraser. I'm a friend of Quinn's. He said you might be able to help me find work around here."
To his relief, the man nodded and shook Benton's hand firmly. "Tom Bevan. Yes, Quinn did tell me you'd be along. Shouldn't be a problem finding work in the forest for you, if you're not afraid of working hard."
"I can work, I promise." Tom took a closer look at him, and Benton straightened up.
Benton was acutely aware of his unwashed clothes.
"Did you run away from home, son?" Tom asked mildly.
Benton blushed and ducked his head down, which was as good as a confession, it seemed. He had never been much good at lying.
Tom shrugged. "That's your own business, I suppose. You're a grown man. Just--you're not in any serious trouble, are you?"
"No! I mean, I just want to earn money to pay for my education."
"Right, then. Do you have a place to stay?"
"I have a tent. And I can live off the land."
Tom raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. "Are you sure you want to live outdoors the whole summer? I'm sure we could find you a room somewhere in town. Or there's a barracks where some of the other workers are living."
Benton bristled a little. He knew how to live on his own. "No, I can do this."
"Well, if you say so. I can speak to the elders for you--see if they'll let you hunt here. They likely will, if I vouch for you."
"Thank you kindly. I really would be very grateful."
"Well, you're a friend of Quinn's. He saved my life once, when we were both young. You can come have dinner with us tonight, and we can see about work tomorrow."
***
So this was what a real forest was like. He'd known the trees would be higher here than the spruce trees around Inuvik, with their thin sloping branches. But that hadn't prepared him for the massive bulk of these trees, the way they shut the light out to make their own shady world where the young trees grew from the decomposing mulch of the fallen ones. It was old--this had been a forest since long before his ancestors even came to this land. But not, he thought, before Tom's people came here.
Benton stopped looking around and paid attention to the stocky man, apparently some kind of foreman, to whom Tom had introduced him.
"Sure, we can use more workers," he said, looking appraisingly at Benton. "Let's try you on for a week first, see if you can handle the work."
Benton wanted to protest that he could, but just nodded. "All right."
He was issued a large chainsaw, and the foreman waved one of the other workers over. "Would you show him the ropes, Hank?"
"Sure," the man said agreeably. He was tall, with blond hair that hung down into his eyes.
Benton spent the morning learning how to use a chainsaw.
"See, you've got to watch for kickback," Hank said, demonstrating against the trunk of a sitka spruce. "If you don't start the motor before putting the blade to the trunk, or if you angle it wrong, it'll kind of take hold of the trunk and get thrown upwards."
Benton followed the movements of his hands intently.
"Had a guy here last year, almost sliced his shoulder in half," Hank said conversationally. "Watch it, is all."
Benton resolved to do so--he'd like to keep his shoulder intact, thank you. "Anything else to be careful about?"
Hank shrugged. "You'll learn as you go along. Come on, you can watch us do it first, before you try it yourself."
***
Over the following days, Benton learned how to place the cuts to get a tree to fall a particular way. He learned how dangerous the moment just before the tree fell was, and to cry "Timber!" in warning before it crashed ponderously down, breaking branches and lesser trees on the way.
It was hard work, and at the end of each day he was tired and sweaty, his head buzzing with the sudden silence. Tom had found a pair of earmuffs for him, but he still found the constant noise wearying. He wondered why so few of the others used them.
Each night, he slept deeply, exhausted and craving more sleep than he got, what with both working and needing to hunt for food. He set traps to catch hares, and there was a stream running nearby where he could catch fish, but it took time, and he frequently went hungry.
Benton found the forest to be somewhat overwhelming at first. He was used to having his line of sight unobstructed and having nothing above him but the sky. This closed-in world made him slightly claustrophobic. But he learned to appreciate the details of it--the tall ferns growing around the brook, and the bright green lichen, as big as his hands, hanging in leafy abundance from the tree trunks.
He wished he'd brought some of the botany books from the library with him. Of course, the work didn't exactly leave him with much free time, so maybe it was just as well.
He'd set his tent up on the soft springy bed of needles beneath a stand of western hemlocks, Tsuga heterophylla. They were trees he'd never seen at home, with massive tall trunks, thriving on the moisture from the coast. The needles were green on the upper side and pale when he turned them over, and they were soft and didn't prick his hand when he stroked his hand over the branches.
Of course, he'd have to move when the logging came closer to his camp.
***
"Hey, watch out for that branch!" Matt shouted and waved.
"All right, I see it!" Benton stepped to the side as Hank and Matt cut off one of the large side branches of the fallen redcedar.
He enjoyed the teamwork of logging, and the other workers were good partners in that sense, although Benton didn't find it easy to talk with them otherwise. He'd mentioned the philosophy book he had with him to Matt, but Matt had just stared at him and shrugged. Benton had felt uncomfortable and he wished he hadn't said anything about it. And of course, they teased him sometimes about living in the woods, but mostly they ignored his pecularities. They had work to do, after all.
"Okay, that's the last one for today," Hank said, putting down his saw. "A bunch of us are going in to town tonight. Got our wages, so I figure we deserve a bit of fun, eh?"
"Oh?" Benton said carefully. He didn't want to spend his money, but he couldn't deny that he'd welcome the company.
"Come along if you like. You know, a few beers, maybe buy yourself a girl..." Hank grinned.
Buy...? Benton stepped back, shocked.
"You can't buy a person," he said, hearing the coldness in his voice as if from the outside.
Hank stared at him in disbelief, his grin turning into an ugly sneer. "Oh yeah? Well, I can sure as hell buy myself a good fuck."
They turned their backs on him and joined the other men. Benton sat down on the trunk of a tree, feeling worn out and empty. He could hear their voices, laughing and joking, growing fainter with distance.
Slowly, he made his way back to his camp and took down the remains of a hare he'd cooked that morning. It was hanging in a tree, safe from bears. He ate, chewing slowly, the better to fill his stomach. Then he sat down on the ground and began to methodically sharpen his chainsaw with a file.
It was a time-consuming process that required concentration. Each tooth had to be sharpened separately, and then the blunt sections in between had to be filed down to just the right length. If you filed them down too far, the saw would cut too deeply into the wood and get stuck. If you didn't file them far enough, the saw would be too blunt.
When the light failed, he finally stopped. Benton ducked into his tent and lay down in the bedroll. It began to rain again, as it often did, falling onto the high canopy and then dripping down irregularly onto the fabric of his tent. Benton curled up tightly and tried not to cry.
He was lonely and homesick.
He missed Eric, and his grandparents, and Quinn. Most of all, he wanted someone to hold him. Even the wordless warmth of a sled dog would have been a comfort.
***
The next day he went back to work. There was no discernible difference in how the others treated him, but he still felt like a door had closed that he hadn't even been aware was open.
He didn't think he showed anything, but that afternoon Tom caught his arm before he could leave for the day. "How are you doing, son? Annie and I were just saying that we ought to have you over for dinner."
"I'm fine," Benton said automatically, searching Tom's face for a trace of condescension or pity. But he just smiled a little and said: "I'm sure you are. But she'll be cooking extra tonight, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste."
Benton thought longingly of a roof above his head and food on a plate. Eric would have teased him and called him a weakling for that, he was sure, but he gratefully said yes.
They drove there in Tom's old pick-up truck, mostly in silence, which Benton appreciated. After the incident yesterday, he felt oddly ashamed, although he in fact had nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself. One had to speak one's conscience, and if he'd broken some unspoken rule of the group, then so be it. This, apparently, was the price he'd have to pay.
Tom and Annie's house was warm, noisy with children, and full of heavenly smells. Benton felt almost dizzy with hunger, and tried to eat slowly, so they wouldn't think he had poor table manners.
"Thank you kindly for the food," he told Annie.
She smiled at him and insisted that he have some more, and Benton did.
At Tom and Annie's insistence, Benton sat down in the sofa while they cleaned up, so full that he wasn't sure he could move in the foreseeable future. A little girl sucking her thumb curled up next to him, looking sleepy. He looked down at her, feeling oddly tender at her trustfulness. She took her thumb out of her mouth.
"I'm May," she said, looking up at him expectantly.
"I'm Benton," he replied.
She nodded seriously. "It's past my bedtime, but Mom said I could be up because we have a guest."
"Oh," he said, not sure what to say.
"Can you sing me a lullaby?" she requested.
"I guess so," he said uncertainly. He looked up at Tom and Annie, perhaps for permission, but they seemed busy. Benton began to sing softly, a lullaby that June and Innusiq's mother used to sing. May wouldn't understand the words--her people's native language was Tsimshian, not Inuktitut, but she seemed to like it. Benton could feel her breathing slow as she fell asleep against him.
"You have a nice voice," Annie said as she sat down on the chair next to the sofa.
"Thank you," Benton said, blushing.
"I think it's time for this one to go to bed," she said, lifting the warm body from Benton's side. She handed May over to Tom, who disappeared into an inner room. "You know, I have an old guitar standing around. Do you play as well as sing?"
"Well, yes. I mean, a little. My grandmother taught me."
The guitar was out of tune, so Benton carefully adjusted the tuning keys, finding the E for the lowest string and then A for the next string, then D, G, B, and finally E again. He sang the lullaby again, tentatively finding the chords.
"Sorry. I'm not used to singing that one with the guitar. I'll do something else." He searched his memory for the old ballads he'd learned from the notebooks in the library and from his grandmother. Finally he settled on one and sang it quietly, so as not to wake the children.
"That's very nice," Annie said. "A friend gave me the guitar once, but I never learned to play it properly."
Tom came out of the other room and closed the door soundlessly. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thank you kindly." Benton put the guitar down carefully, leaning it against the side of the sofa.
Tom came over with the tea. "How are you doing with the job?"
"I'm doing fine," Benton replied, willing him not to ask more. He was doing fine, really.
"All right," Tom said mildly, taking him at his word.
"Can I ask you something?" Benton said, surprising himself. He hadn't meant to say that.
"Of course."
"I'm sorry, I really don't mean to sound presumptuous. Don't you find it...isn't it hard for you to cut the forest down? I mean, it's your people's land." Benton bit his lip and looked down, hoping he hadn't offended Tom.
But when he glanced up, Tom merely looked thoughtful. "If you asked me twenty-five years ago, I would never have believed I'd be working this job. Things...change, when you get older. I don't much like doing it, but I have a family to feed now. And I want my children to be able to go to school."
"Oh. I see." He thought of Eric and his anger, and wondered what he'd be like in twenty-five years. He thought of himself, and wondered if he would turn into a corrupt officer who compromised the principles of his youth. No, that would never happen, he promised himself fiercely.
"Well, it's late," Tom said. "You can sleep on the couch if you like."
"Thank you," Benton said.
Annie brought him an extra blanket, and he slept deeply that night.
***
The summer passed. His hair grew out and curled almost to his shoulders, getting into his eyes when he worked. He tied it up with a piece of string to get it out of the way.
Benton was growing increasingly sick of living in the forest by night and cutting it down by day.
While felling a tree, he felt the saw cut swiftly down through the decades and centuries of slow growing. The chips and sawdust from the wood stuck to his sweaty skin, little pieces of history.
He saw the practical value of the lumber, he really did, and people needed wood. But the scale of it--it was such a contrast from the way they lived in the Territories, cutting only what they needed for firewood, or to mend the cabin. Here, trees that were bigger than two people could reach their arms around were casually felled, cut into manageable lengths, and transported away by trucks in a streamlined operation that was clearly driven by the demand for money, not by practical needs. And it was all done with such indifference--not even a doubt that they had the right to use everything in nature for their own ends.
He'd stay to get his wages for August, and then he'd leave, Benton promised himself. He spoke to Tom, who nodded in understanding, laconic as usual.
The day before he left, Tom brought him a package, wrapped up in a large plastic bag. He pulled out a guitar case from it, and said, "Annie wanted you to have this. She said she never plays it anyway."
"Oh! I...thank you. I mean, thank her for me." Benton felt a little awkward accepting the gift.
"I think the case should be pretty waterproof, but I brought the plastic just in case." Tom shook his hand. "All right, Benton, you take care. And give my best to Quinn."
"I will," Benton promised. "Thank you. For helping me."
Tom nodded at him, and started up his pick-up truck.
Benton took the guitar back to his camp and took it out. Hesitantly, he played a few arpeggios. The sounds were strangely comforting in the forest evening, and he sang a lullaby to himself, pausing once to retune the guitar. The dampness and change in temperature was probably not good for the instrument, but he was going home now, and hopefully it would not be damaged.
***
Benton packed his things and hitched a ride with one of trucks that carried the timber away.
He felt some relief at leaving the job behind, but he would miss the forest, he realized, even if it was not truly his home.
"Where are you going?" the driver asked him in heavily accented English. He was a blond man with a knife at his belt who smelled of tobacco. Benton couldn't place his accent.
"North," Benton told him simply.
"Ah. Where I am from, also. But in another country. I come from Inari Lake, in north of Finland. You want?" He offered Benton a piece of something brown.
"What is it?"
"Chewing tobacco." The man gestured toward his mouth, where his upper lip was distended by a piece of the brown stuff.
"No, thank you," Benton said, as politely as he could. But the man didn't seem offended, just put his hand back on the wheel. Where it definitely needed to be, in Benton's opinion--the man drove with a fine disregard for the state of the gravel road.
"How did you end up in Canada?" Benton asked, curious.
"Ah, long story. It's about a woman. Isn't it always?" He looked at Benton, grinning and showing his brown-stained teeth. Benton smiled back in understanding, like he was expected to, and the man launched into a long and complicated story that would have been worthy of a ballad. Benton wondered if it was true.
They reached a place where the highway branched off north and south. "Ah, I talk too much to be a real Finn, that's what they tell me. Anyway, good luck. I go south now. I let you off here?"
"Thank you kindly for the ride," Benton said. He opened the door and jumped off the high steps of the truck onto the dirt at the side of the road.
***
Benton was hungry.
He was almost used to it by now, that hollow feeling in his belly. He'd reached Whitehorse, and being in a town, he couldn't hunt or trap. He didn't want to spend his hard-earned money on food and lodgings--he was determined to leave a fair amount of it for his grandparents when he went to Depot. The truck stop was on the north edge of town, but he couldn't set off again without eating. His stomach made a noise, and he drank some water from his bottle to take the edge off.
Benton sat down against a tree on a strip of grass along a street, looking at the people walking by without seeing him. He imagined himself as he no doubt looked to them: scruffy, with dirty, worn clothes and nothing but a backpack and a guitar case. Idly, he took out his guitar and picked out a few slow minor chords, to suit his mood. His fingers were calloused and the strings hardly made a dent in his fingertips. The chords changed and settled and Benton started singing to himself, low and hesitant at first.
There's a home by the wide Avonmore
that will sweep to the broad open sea...
The song was full of longing, for a girl, naturally, but all Benton heard was the wide river sweeping to the sea, and that was the longing that he sang. He picked out the final notes and then startled at the sound of scattered applause. A few people tossed coins into the open guitar case.
"Hey, sing something else?" a woman asked with a smile.
Benton smiled back in pure surprise and started on another song, this one faster.
People stopped, listened for a few songs and then drifted off again. Benton sang until he was hoarse and his fingers ached, and he had sung all the songs he could think of. Finally, he started on an old song his mother used to sing, a half-forgotten memory mingled with the smell of cinnamon and tea.
Once our valleys were ringing
With songs of our children singing
But now sheep bleat till the evening
And shielings lie empty and broken
Hush, hush, time to be sleeping
Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping
Dreams of peace and of freedom
So smile in your sleep, bonny baby...
He trailed off and lifted his head to his audience. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten the rest."
"Hey, I know that one," said a young man a couple of years older than him, and began to sing the next verse.
No use pleading or praying
For gone, gone is all hope of staying
Hush, hush, the anchor's a-weighing
Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby
Hush, hush, time to be sleeping...
They finished together as the words came back to Benton, and then he put the guitar down and shook out his tired hands. The people walked on, but the man sat down beside him. He had his hair strangely tangled together in long strands, tied together in the neck. "That's such a great song, where did you learn it?"
"From my mother, when I was small. Thanks for helping me with the last part." Benton gathered up the money he had earned, which was really a lot more than he'd expected, and put it in his pouch.
"Hey, my pleasure. You should've been here at the Frostbite music festival this winter: you'd have fit right in. Want to go grab something to eat?"
Benton looked up, surprised. "Sure!"
"I'm Dave, by the way."
"Benton."
They shook hands, and Benton packed up his things.
"Are you just passing through?" Dave asked.
"Yes, I'm on my way north."
"There's a great diner over on the next street. Cheap, too." Dave jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
After the meal, Benton greedily licked the last bits of grease off his fingers and ignored his grandmother's voice in his head about table manners.
"Wow, you were really hungry, huh?" Dave said.
"Well, yes. I've been hitchhiking, and the hunting wasn't very good."
"Hunting?" Dave looked at him as if he was crazy, and then laughed. "You're kidding, right?" He didn't wait for a reply, though. "You got a place to sleep tonight?"
"Not exactly," Benton said, avoiding mention of his tent. Perhaps Dave would see that as strange too, and besides, he would have to walk out of the town to find a good place to camp.
"You could crash at my place, if you want," Dave offered.
"Oh! That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."
"Hey, it's no trouble. Besides, I thought you could teach me that version of ‘The Two Sisters' ballad that you sang."
"Sure, I'd be happy to do that."
Dave's apartment was a small place--just a room with minimal kitchen facilities and dirty dishes piled high in the sink.
"Sorry 'bout that." He waved his hand in the general direction of the sink, and Benton nodded and spread his bedroll at the opposite end of the room from Dave's mattress. There was a faint trace of some sweet smoke that Benton suspected was marijuana, but he didn't ask, not particularly wanting to know. Dave took down the guitar that was hanging on the wall, and they settled down to a few companionable hours of swapping songs with each other.
***
Benton woke early, not having slept particularly well. The floor was much harder than sleeping outdoors, and the air was closed in and stuffy. Dave seemed to be fast asleep, so he wrote him a note of thanks and slipped out the door.
At the truck stop, he approached the first driver he saw, as politely as he could. "Excuse me? Are you going north?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, son. Going south."
On the fifth try, he finally found someone going the right way. He was a bear of a man with a bushy black mustache, and when they'd swung out on the road he cranked the radio up high and sang along. There was a picture of a busty Dolly Parton dangling from the rear-view mirror. Benton didn't mind country music as a rule, but he gritted his teeth against the man's off-key singing. Well, beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. He took out his volume of Wittgenstein and attempted to concentrate.
That evening, he asked to be let off where he saw a creek cutting across the road. He breathed a sigh of relief at the departing dust cloud of the truck, and went down to see if he could catch himself some dinner in the creek. That night, he slept deeply.
The next few days passed in a blur of highway. It stretched before him endlessly, until he felt that the road would keep going until they fell off the edge of the earth into the Beaufort sea.
On the ferry at Tsiigehtchic, as the driver stood a few meters away on the deck smoking, he realized with a sudden jolt to his heart that he would be home soon. He bit his lip, watching the waters of the Arctic Red River flowing into the Mackenzie. He didn't feel guilty, not really. Then he admitted to himself, determined to be honest, that yes, actually he did. He'd sent that postcard to his grandparents to tell them he was fine, but he'd done nothing since then. His stomach twisted a little bit, wondering what they'd say.
The truck left Tsiigehtchic behind, heading ever farther north.
***
Benton asked the driver to let him off about a kilometer before they reached Inuvik. He wanted to wash off before he faced his grandparents. They had always set great store in cleanliness, and Benton felt uncomfortable in the grime and sweat of his journey. There was a bend in the Mackenzie River where it ran deep and green, and he stripped off his clothes and jumped in. The shock of the cold water rendered him wide-awake, his skin tingling with life.
Neither of his two shirts was particularly clean, and there was little he could do about it now; they wouldn't have time to dry even if he could wash them effectively. Benton chose the one he hadn't been wearing, and pulled it over his head quickly to deter the mosquitoes. He wrung the water out of his hair and removed the cord to run his fingers through it, working out the worst of the tangles. Perhaps he should cut it? No, he only had his small shaving mirror, and he'd only end up with an uneven haircut. He tied it up again.
All right. There was nothing further he could think of to delay himself. Benton took a deep breath, shouldered his pack, and walked into Inuvik.
It was just as he remembered, except that it seemed smaller. There was the dome of the church, and there was old Fulton, sitting with a bottle of whiskey on the steps of his trailer like always. Benton stopped by the general store to find out where his grandparents were.
"Mrs McIntyre?" She turned around, squinting at him and wiping her hands on her apron.
"Benton Fraser?" she said, incredulous. "Where have you been? Martha and George have been worried sick over you, you thoughtless boy."
He tried to reply, but she talked right through it. "And you're nothing but skin and bone! Haven't you been eating at all? Come along."
She chivvied him to the house behind the store, sitting him down at the table and serving up an enormous portion of casserole. He ate hungrily while she kept up a steady stream of talk. They had been worried about him? Really?
"Well, they're up Tuk way, there's a supply flight going up there this afternoon, and I dare say they'd let you ride along. You sure you don't want more?"
"I couldn't eat another bite. Thank you kindly, Mrs. McIntyre, for the food and the directions."
"You go straight to Tuk, now, Benton." He could see her reach for the telephone as he closed the door behind him.
***
Benton steeled himself to knock, but the door opened before he could work himself up to it, and he saw his grandmother's familiar face. "Benton! Thank god you're back. Matilda called and told me you were on your way."
Benton straightened. "I'm all right. I've been down in British Columbia, earning money for going to Depot."
Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew cold. "So your note said, yes. And what on Earth made you leave without saying goodbye?"
He swallowed. Now that he had to explain it, he found he couldn't. "I…"
"We've been taking care of you for all these years! And then you run away like a thief in the night! Did you think we wouldn't help you?"
A small, rebellious spark began to glow in him. God knew he was supposed to be grateful for all they had done for him; and he was grateful, he really was. But he had made money on his own now, and all she did was scold him for it. He clenched his jaws and almost raised his voice back, but habit made him lower his head instead. "I'm sorry."
"I should think so. Are you hungry?" He was--it felt like he had eaten that casserole yesterday.
Dinner was a little awkward. Benton ate hungrily, but they were all three of them fairly silent. Afterwards, Benton warmed a pail of water and went around the back to wash out his clothes, dirty from travelling. While he was wringing out the flannel shirts, his grandfather came up to him.
"You know, Martha ran away from home herself once."
"She did? Really?" Benton hadn't known that, and he was intensely curious to find out more.
"Yes. And I don't think she ever thought that someone would run away from her."
Benton looked down, ashamed of himself again. "Why did she run away?"
"That's her story to tell, if she wants to tell it."
He worked up the courage to ask her about it later that evening. Benton had swept all the floors and was now washing the dishes, in some half-conscious attempt to atone, and she was cooking cloudberry jam beside him in the kitchen.
"Grandfather said that you ran away from home once," he said quickly, before he could think better of it.
She glanced at him sharply. "He said that, did he?"
"Yes."
"Well, all right." She measured up sugar from the tin on the shelf and poured it into the pot, and then began to speak. "My father wanted to marry me off to the nearest farm boy. And I suppose I wasn't very interested in that--I wanted more from life than to have babies and work on a farm. So I ran away to Toronto to study. My schoolteacher helped me."
Benton listened, rapt with interest. "Did you ever go back?"
"No, I didn't. And I don't think my father would have wanted me back. I was a disgrace to him." She smiled ruefully. "At least you came back."
"I..." Benton swallowed. "I really am sorry for not telling you. It was just that I knew you didn't approve of me going to Depot, and I thought you wouldn't approve of me going off on my own either, and...I'm sorry." His apology was sincere this time.
"I suppose I still don't think the RCMP is the best thing for you." She sighed. "But perhaps we should have made it clearer that we respect your choice."
Benton felt relieved, as if the world was back to the way it ought to be.
***
Rumor was faster than the wind in Tuk, and the next morning Eric knocked on his window. Benton opened it and Eric leaned on the windowsill.
"Hi, white boy." The teasing was back in his voice.
"You're in Tuk?" Benton said stupidly.
"Helping my uncle with the fishing. How have you been?" Eric's face was a darker brown now, the way it got in the summer, and his teeth flashed white when he smiled.
"I cut down trees until I grew sick of it. I earned the money I need, though."
Eric nodded.
Benton wanted to touch him, but he didn't know--they hadn't promised anything, after all. And Eric looked unreadable, the way he sometimes did.
"Want to go down to the sea?" Eric asked. "You look like you could use a swim."
"Yes. Let me just get soap and a towel." Benton rummaged around, then climbed out the window.
There was no shortage of water around Tuktoyaktuk. The sea, the river delta, it all merged together into a maze of waterways, and where there was no river, there were the shallow ponds and wetlands of the tundra. They walked along the shore until they couldn't see the town anymore, then stripped and ran into the sea, murky with sediments from the river. Even in August, the cold stole Benton's breath, and he washed down quickly, goosebumps rising on his skin.
The sun was warm, though, and the mosquitoes were almost gone this late in the summer, so they sprawled naked next to an old upside-down rowboat that sheltered them from the wind. The gray weathered boards looked almost like the ribcage of some great animal. Benton let his hand touch Eric's, and felt his fingers tighten around his.
"I missed you, you know," Eric said.
"I missed you, too." Benton didn't say that he was going to be leaving again soon, because Eric already knew that, and talking about it wasn't going to change anything. It was just the way it was.
"Mmm." Eric turned on his side, tugging lightly on Benton's hair. "I like it long."
"Well, I just forgot to cut it," he said, shrugging.
Eric's smile broadened. "Gives me something to hold on to," he murmured, and he grabbed a handful of Benton's hair and leaned forward.
Benton made a startled sound into his mouth and then kissed him back with enthusiasm until they were both out of breath.
"You're so thin," Eric said, running his hand along Benton's ribs.
"You're not exactly the first one to say so. It's not like I had a lot of money to spare. Or much time for hunting--I was working," he said, somewhat defensively.
"I can tell." Eric squeezed Benton's arm appreciatively.
Benton felt his face heating, and buried it in Eric's shoulder. His skin smelled of sun and salt, and he licked it, tasting the dried seawater.
He hadn't realized how much he had missed this. Not just the pleasure that filled him when Eric lowered his head and put his mouth on him, but the simple touch of skin to skin: it felt as if life and warmth flowed into him from Eric's hands. Benton let his fingers undo the strip of leather that held Eric's hair together and spread it out over his lap, strands of black hair catching slightly on his callused hands.
He didn't last long, and with a low cry, he came in Eric's mouth, closing his eyes and seeing the sun shine red through his eyelids.
Later, they both lay half-asleep, drowsy with sexual release. Benton curled around Eric, soaking in the feeling of a warm naked body lying full length against his own. This wasn't something they talked much about. It just was, like the river flowing into the sea and the gulls crying overhead.
***
In late September, his father unexpectedly appeared at the door.
"Just popping by for a quick visit," he said, hanging his Stetson on a hook by the door.
"Hi, dad," Benton said. He supposed that his father must know by now, but somehow that did not make it any easier to bring the subject up.
"Well, son," he said as he was taking his coat off. "I heard you'll be going to Depot soon,"
"Yes, I will," Benton replied.
"Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do well." He nodded, as if it were a settled matter, then looked around the kitchen. "Is your grandmother around?"
"She's around the back," Benton said automatically, and his father left to find her.
Benton felt off balance, as if he had been bracing himself for something, only to have it give way without resistance. He didn't know what he'd expected, really--but some kind of reaction other than whatever he had gotten, he supposed.
Well. It wasn't as if he was doing this for his father's sake.
***
His grandparents insisted that he fly, so that he didn't arrive in Regina dirty from living off the land, and his grandmother cut his hair short again. He packed his things and left most of the money he'd earned over the summer in an envelope on his bed, along with a note--he'd get food and board at Depot, and he didn't need money for much else, after all. Perhaps he should've just given them the money, but he felt a little awkward about it. He knew how proud his grandmother was--she'd never want to rely on charity. She'd happily take it for the library, yes, but not for herself. Not that this was charity, because they were family, but still.
To his surprise, his grandmother hugged him briefly before he got on the plane. He hugged back awkwardly, having to bend down slightly to put his arms around her.
"Promise you'll write to us," she said, and Benton promised that he would.
His grandfather clapped him on the back and looked him in the eyes. "Good luck, Benton. Be sure to tell us if you need help."
"I will." He got on the plane, strapping himself into the seat and looking out through the window. His grandparents seemed so small, standing there on the tarmac of the airport.
Benton watched Inuvik disappear below him, the buildings shrinking into the vastness of the landscape around them. He bit his lip. He would not cry--he was going where he wanted to go. He was.
He and Eric had said their goodbyes last night. Eric had pressed his lips and nose against Benton's cheek in a kunik, intimate but not sexual, then said, "Goodbye, Mountie."
Benton had breathed in the smell of Eric's sun-warmed skin. "I'm not a Mountie yet."
"No, but you will be." There had been something almost sad in his voice, as if he were withdrawing some part of himself.
Benton had felt a pang, like something lodging painfully in his chest, and had suddenly wanted more than anything to stay at home. I didn't know. I didn't know that I would lose this.
But of course, he had known. After Depot, he would be stationed wherever the RCMP saw fit to send him. There was no guarantee that he could go back to Inuvik. And even if he could...
He had hugged Eric to him almost roughly, his throat closing up with unshed tears.
Inuvik was barely visible now, just a small blur by the meandering river. Benton resolutely turned his head to look forward instead.
Research notes:
Originally, this was meant to be the story of Benton at Depot, but it kind of grew. The sequel will hopefully be written some time in the future.
I read quite a lot of material about the natural history of western Canada, most of which didn't make it into the story. I am grateful to the arboretum in the Botanical Gardens in my home town, where I could see the trees that grow on the coast of BC. Western hemlocks really are lovely trees. &hearts
I wanted to give some sense of the political conflicts going on in the NWT at that time, but I don't know if I succeeded. And I hope there are no major errors about the Inuit and Tsimshian. If anyone has corrections or reading tips about any of these things, I'd be grateful. (And while I'm talking about ethnic groups, I apologize for my stereotypical knife-wearing Finn with chewing tobacco. *g*)
Maybe it would've been more realistic to have mechanized logging, using harvesters and forwarders. But I didn't go with this, because I liked writing it the manual way. Also, thanks to my boyfriend, who told me at length about chainsaws. (And I realize this makes him sound kind of macho--um, he's really not.)
primroseburrows saved me from contradicting canon: Eric is Tsimshian, not Inuit as I'd thought. (Obviously I didn't watch "Mask" closely enough.) This was a problem for me, because I'd already written most of the story, and this was a big enough change that it felt like the whole story would have to be rewritten to accommodate it (the Tsimshian live quite far from where Fraser grew up). So I solved it by having Eric be half Inuit, half Tsimshian. If this is AU, so be it.I cannot figure the geography of canon. I mean, CotW has huge mountains, but they can't be in the Mackenzie delta, where Fraser grew up according to canon, because that area is not that mountainous. In CotW, they talk about a place called Franklin Bay, but when I google that, the only thing I find is a Lady Franklin Bay, up really far north, close to Greenland, and that can't be right, can it? So anyway, I had Fraser be fascinated by seeing mountains for the first time, because I don't think he saw much of that where he grew up. Although of course, he could have lived somewhere else with Caroline...
Another thing is how much forest he'd have seen growing up. In the episode "Easy Money", we see young Fraser learning to track in a forest with Quinn, but that forest is completely unrealistic for the northern NWT--those species of broadleaved trees just don't grow there. I think they couldn't be bothered going up north just to film that bit. Around Inuvik, you get mostly rolling hills and narrow spruce trees (according to a biologist I know who's been there). Tuktoyaktuk, OTOH, is out on the flat tundra and has no trees at all.
Oh, and the big green lichen in the forest is Lobaria pulmonaria. It likes moist climates, and we've got it on the west coast of Sweden as well.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-08 05:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-08 09:44 am (UTC)