“In nature there are
neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences.”
—Robert Green Ingersoll
Chapter 8: The Ravens
“Think not disdainfully
of death, but look on it with favour; for even death is one of the things
that Nature wills.” —Marcus
Aurelius
It took nearly four days to drive the
two hundred miles from Stewart Junction to Keno. It wasn't so much that the
highway was in bad condition, though signs of that spring's violent thaw
were evident whenever the road neared the river. But downed trees and
washouts were everywhere. Sometimes it was just as fast to go forward on
foot, dragging branches out of the way. In a few places near the river the
road was gone entirely and they had to creep along the old bankside
shoulder. Late summer had slipped briskly into autumn. But even the cool
fall days would only last a few weeks under the onslaught of the Yukon
snows.
“We really should have done
this last winter,” Danny grumbled on the second day, after they had spent
almost the entire afternoon making only five miles. “We could have taken the
snowmobiles most of the way up the river and not followed the road at all.”
“Yes,” Fraser said, while
the rear wheels slipped again as Danny ground the transmission back down.
“But their engines don't have the power to run the winch, let alone
transport anything of size. And it would have been just as difficult to
drive the highway after freeze-up. This year will probably be our last
opportunity to use the road at all.”
When they turned off the
highway to start the climb to Keno the conditions improved. The spruce
forest gave way to willow scrub and alders so that no more debris blocked
the road. The road had been well graded two years before and the only thing
that held them back was the skull-cracking washboard surface.
Ray grabbed the roof handle
on the cab of the truck as Danny maneuvered around a pothole. Fraser sat
stiffly between them, the seat belt keeping him from sliding on the worn
vinyl seats. From time to time he glanced at Ray; his face seemed older,
more vulnerable. Almost questioning. It disturbed Ray and he studiously
avoided any eye contact.
Fraser's arm was still in a
sling. He had shaved, something which Ray thought was bizarre. You spend
days and days in sight of water and soap and you don't shave. But you go off
for a five‑day trek in the woods and suddenly facial hair is a no‑no. He was
probably afraid of being mistaken for a bear.
Fraser's thigh bumped
against his and Ray squirmed away. It was cramped and the window Danny
insisted on cracking didn't help matters. The gears ground and something hit
the windshield and bounced off.
“Christ, what was that?” Ray
tightened his seat belt with one hand.
“Probably just a rock
falling.” Fraser pointed with his good hand at the sheer wall that rose
outside the window. Dark green moss covered the chalky dirt. Small
waterfalls, partially frozen, cascaded down the slope and puddled across the
road. They were slowly climbing higher. Overhead, the sky had turned to a
dark gray. To their left, the land sloped away, slowly at first, then
steeply into a deep ravine. A bank of mist absorbed the other side, merging
the horizon into a large blank blur. Ray shivered and pulled up his collar.
A yellow sign squiggled in
front of them and the road curved even more sharply. Danny slowed to a
crawl. “Fraser, I think I'm going to need to take a break. I'm getting
pretty hungry.”
“Sure, Danny, just find the
next level spot and we can stop and make sandwiches.”
“Yummy,” Danny smiled,
“peanut butter and jelly. My favorite. Hey, Vecchio. What'll you have?” He
accelerated into the next curve.
Ray shrugged. It was all the
same to him. They could cook only when they camped. This left them with
cheese and tomato sandwiches in the summer and peanut butter and jelly in
the fall for lunches. They'd probably devolve to pemmican by next year. By
the following year, they'd be sucking on stones or chewing leaves. Fraser
would probably be in heaven.
The cliff grew taller, more
rockier. Moss had disappeared, washed away by the steadier trickles of
water. The road was now completely wet. Ahead, Ray saw the yellow line curve
into the deep shadow of an overhang. Fraser leaned forward, rolling to the
right and pressing himself firmly into Ray to catch a better glimpse of the
road. Trapped against the truck door, Ray turned his head away.
The truck slipped and began
skidding, lightly angling away from the overhang and toward the edge. Ray
lurched, his hands grasping at nothing.
“Steer into—” Fraser shouted
and then the cabin tilted, hard. Their bodies rose and smacked into the
ceiling, only to be flung against the doors as they tumbled. Green, yellow,
and gray cycled past the windshield until the colors barreled over and over.
Something smashed into Ray's chest and his mouth filled with blood.
Coughing, he flailed and blacked out.
“Ray, Ray.” He heard the
voice and a hand tugged at his shoulder. He coughed and then gagged. The
pain was incredible, worse than anything he'd ever known. For a second he
felt nauseous as the hand tapped him again. “Yeah,” he mumbled and then lost
all breath. Something was wrong inside, something loose and hot and sharp.
He spat but his mouth kept filling. Scared, he opened his eyes and saw
dead‑white sky through the windshield.
“Ray, can you reach the door
latch?” Confused, he raised his right hand only to see it flop toward the
top of the cabin, then realized they must be upside down. Moving slowly, he
fumbled for the handle, but his fingers only brushed it.
“Mmm,” he mumbled and let
his arm fall back.
“Ray.” Fraser's voice was
slow, his breath moist on Ray's neck. “I can't reach the latch from here.
Can you unlock the door on your side?” He was lying on top of—well,
underneath—well, somehow next to Fraser. Their seat belts had kept them from
going through the windshield.
“Fraser,” he tried and
coughed again. This time his mouth stayed clear. His voice was thready and
trembled. “Why don't you unlock it yourself? Something broken.” He ran out
of air again and gasped.
“I can't, Ray. If I do—”
Fraser paused and then spoke even more calmly. “Just try to lever the latch
with your fingers. It's partially open already.”
Fuzzily, he craned one eye
and saw Fraser was right. Lucky for them the door hadn't popped all the way
open or they'd've been flung out, seat belts or no. He'd seen enough traffic
accidents to know what happened when you started flying without a helmet.
Gingerly, he moved his arm
again and touched the handle. It gave way and the door flopped open.
Puzzled, he tried to raise his head but Fraser stopped him. “Stay still. I
am going to unbuckle you. I want you to slide out. Slowly.”
“Like hell I will, Fraser,”
Ray was hurting now. Even raising his arm was painful. “No way in hell. I've
got something broken.”
Danny moaned then, a deep
wet sound. Then he began gasping for air. Ray felt nauseous. “Danny, Danny,”
he shouted. And reached back across Fraser.
Fraser grabbed his arm and
forced him still. “Ray, he's hurt. The cab slid on a patch of ice and we're
too close to the edge of the ravine. You must keep still.”
Ray stared through the
windshield and realized why he had been confused. The truck was lying on its
back. He could only see the sky and the mist‑covered horizon through the
cracked windshield. The only way out was through his door.
“Shit,” he swore and nodded.
Fraser fumbled with his good hand and unbuckled Ray and then himself.
Breathing shallowly, Ray inched toward the door. Pain shot through him. Even
his teeth hurt. He could feel a small trickle of blood forming in the back
of his throat and whimpered in fear. But Fraser's hand pushed against the
back of his neck, supporting him. The fingers felt cold, clammy, as he edged
his way out of the cab.
The ground was soft and
muddy, scraped down to rock where the truck had skidded. Ray lay heavily on
the piney earth, trying to ease the pain in his chest. The sky kept swimming
back and forth, in and out of focus. Danny had stopped moaning, but the air
shivered with a sharp metallic whine that increased in pitch as the cab
teetered against Fraser's shifting weight. First his boots, then his legs
crossed the door. The truck held steady and he gingerly lifted his torso,
holding himself steady with one good arm to clear the frame.
The vehicle rocked sharply
and then steadied. As Fraser slid out of the cab, Ray caught a glimpse of
Danny, a flash of red, grisly white, and the shock of dark hair.
Stunned, Ray rolled his head
back and allowed the sky to blanket his eyes. He tried to speak, only to
find his throat had closed again. He tried to breathe, with little better
results. His body began rolling with low shudders as it fought for oxygen.
“DannyDannyDannyDanny,” his mind chattered into the haze that overtook him.
Fraser pulled at his face,
his fingers touching his carotid before peeling back an eye. He seemed
satisfied because he leaned back and began running his hands slowly down
Ray's head, neck, and body. He's checking me for injuries, Ray
thought dimly. Involuntarily, his eyes flicked back to the ravine while the
air bled past his lips again. “Breathe, Ray.” Fraser's voice cut through him
urgently. “One breath at a time. Slowly, steadily.” Fraser's fingers touched
his face briefly, cupping his chin, and Ray felt warmth return to him. And
with warmth came breath, and with breath came awareness and memory and pain.
He took a shallow gasp of air and then focused his gaze on the nothing
curling over Fraser's shoulder. Fraser kept blurring in and out of focus.
He heard dim, scraping,
metallic sounds and blinked to clear his eyes. Fraser was gone and the sound
was coming from the truck. He flicked his eyes to see what was happening and
then looked away. He could still see Danny, hanging motionless inside the
cab, pinned in place by his seat belt. Fraser's legs stuck out through the
open door as he backed out gingerly. He rolled to his knees and stood,
staring down at the truck before looking up and over into the ravine. He
fumbled with something and then wheeled sharply and walked briskly toward
Ray, breathing heavily, a dark frown between his eyes. His face was chalk
white, smeared with tiny, dark droplets.
Ray closed his eyes. Danny
was dead. A new pain, deep in his gut, clawed at him and his throat closed.
He felt Fraser crouch down, lift his wrist, and start taking his pulse. Ray
squinted past blurring tears and saw that Fraser's other arm—the injured
arm—was out of the sling but hanging stiffly from his shoulder. Fraser's
eyes were half‑closed.
They sat there silently,
until the chill settled into them. Fraser released Ray's wrist and rolled
back onto his haunches. Ray avoided his gaze, still staring blindly into the
air. Fraser took off his coat and put it over Ray's chest. He pulled the
gloves from the pocket and gently picked up Ray's hand. “Ray,” he said as he
inserted first the right, then the left hand into each glove. His voice was
harsh, thick—almost as if he had been crying. He cleared his throat and
tried again. “Ray. We need to find shelter and treat your injuries. I think
I can move you—but not very far.”
Numb, Ray stared at him.
Danny was dead. He had been wearing a seat belt. How could he be dead? Ray
opened his mouth to protest, but the breath would not come.
“Do you understand, Ray?” he
heard Fraser saying from a distance. “I am going up the road a bit—the last
building I saw was ten miles back and I don't think I can carry you that far
safely.” The cliff overhang had robbed them of the little sunlight, making
it hard to see what Fraser was saying. He tried nodding but found himself
paralyzed. Fraser leaned closer and spoke more precisely. “Ray, you need to
keep still and stay warm. And breathe shallowly. Little breaths. I won't be
gone more than an hour.” He felt a soft tug on his head and Fraser's woolen
cap was pulled down around his ears. As Fraser's hand flashed in front of
his face, he recognized what covered Fraser's cheeks and forehead. It was
the same thing that covered his hands and every other exposed part of his
body: a fine brown spray of blood. Danny's blood. He swallowed and found the
strength to nod, hoping it would be enough to send Fraser far away.
As the gray mists enfolded
him, Ray could almost see Fraser rounding the first bend slowly, testing for
icy patches. The road curved back out from the overhang and the road grew
less slippery. Fraser began to jog, pulling his arm back into the sling. His
feet thudded loudly in the stillness, startling a pair of ravens nesting in
a twisted alder that still clung to the edge of the ravine. They flapped
awkwardly, screeching, and for a moment Ray's vision wavered, then cleared
as Fraser's steady uphill slog left them behind. Mile after mile skipped by,
and with each passing road marker, Fraser's breath grew more and more
cloudy. The temperature was falling, the slate clouds carried the sharp tang
of moisture. Soon it would rain.
The cliffs to the right soon
leveled off into a range of rolling hills almost outside of Ray's vision.
Below, Fraser had almost reached the crest and soon would begin the long
descent into Keno. His speed had increased, so he almost missed the small
turn‑off. It had once been paved but now had been covered with gravel and
mud. The steep path climbed, guiding them both to an old mining site. The
main office had faded from its original green to a bone white‑gray. Its
windows had been broken long ago and the western half of the roof had
collapsed under the weight of winter snows. A tool shed stood in the lee of
the shaft, its doors tilting off their hinges. The site was bare, having
been stripped of valuable parts, machinery, and tools when it was shut down.
The surrounding hills were bare as well, stripped with the same cruel
efficiency of wood or cover. Rocky shale and broken boulders littered the
slopes. It would be decades before the land reclaimed itself. As the first
drops of rain fell, two birds swung past Fraser's head toward the dark
recesses of the ruined building. The rain glistened on their black wings and
the echoes of their caws followed Ray until he sank deeper into
unconsciousness.
Something clattered and then
splintered. Ray jerked, feeling a sharp stab in his chest. The travois had
finally given way. Blearily, he raised his head and saw they had almost
reached their destination. A peeling, half‑sunken building surrounded by
mountains of stone. It looked vaguely familiar. He concentrated on not
throwing up.
“Here,” Fraser said, and
helped Ray to his feet. Ray grunted with pain, then gasped.
“Shit, that hurts,” he
muttered as he tried to put his arm around Fraser's shoulder. “I think this
is going to be a bad idea.”
“It's not far, Ray. I found
what might have been the old office. It will be better than the shed.”
Ray figured Fraser would
explain it all eventually. At the moment he concentrated on putting one foot
in front of the other without jarring his chest and making his breathing
shut down from the pain.
The building was small,
cabin-like, possibly built during the first survey, since it was made out of
wood and not pre-fab. A battered metal desk and chair stood in the center,
with empty metal shelving lining the wall behind. Dust, dirt, torn papers,
dirty rags, and broken glass littered the floor. Nests of small rodents or
giant insects were scattered through the wreckage.
They made their way to the
back room, which was bare except for a truly filthy sofa that the rodents
had torn up for nesting material and, amazingly enough, a cast-iron wood
stove.
Fraser helped Ray lean
gingerly against the sofa back. Ray barely noticed; his breathing had gone
very shallow and he was starting to black out around the edges.
“We'll need the stove. There
was some kind of well in the back but the pump was electric,” Fraser
informed him in that academic voice while carefully removing Ray's jacket
and shirt. “Ray, you're hyperventilating; try to slow down your breathing.”
In a peculiar moment of clarity, Ray, realized that Fraser only got pedantic
when covering something up. Graying again, he gave up on pushing Fraser just
this minute. Maybe later, after he got his breath back. And the room focused
again.
Ray's right side, from
shoulder to waist, was swollen and purple with bruising. Fraser ran his
fingers across the ribs very lightly, and Ray winced but said nothing.
“This is going to hurt, Ray.
I'm going to try to probe a bit for injury.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
It hurt. Then it hurt more.
A lot more. And then it hurt exactly like Ray imagined it would if someone
stuck a hot six‑inch knife into his chest and let it twist there a bit.
“Christ, Fraser,” he panted,
and then had to stop, because it hurt too much to speak.
“I'm sorry, Ray. I think you
have at least one broken rib, and probably several cracked ones. The
severity of the pain worries me, though.” And then Fraser shut up suddenly.
Christ. Wonderful,
Ray thought. Fraser's worried.
Fraser tried to make Ray
comfortable, messing with the awful sofa cushions, vaguely sweeping clean a
bit of floor by the stove.
“I'll have to go and salvage
what's left of the supplies. I may be a while.” He looked at Ray steadily,
almost measuring him, both waiting and wanting acknowledgment, but
determined. Ray remembered that look—Fraser had stared at him the same way
while waiting in the bank vault to drown. Ray looked back the same way, as
best he could.
“I'll be okay.”
Fraser nodded, then left.
It was a long time before
Fraser returned. It was cold and boring, and as the light dimmed he grew
anxious. Fraser was carrying the sleeping bags and his and Danny's duffels.
He made a better nest on the floor with the bags, and explained that this
was all he could salvage. The rest, in the back of the truck, had slid off
the back into the ravine. They were lucky the truck was still there.
“Danny?” Ray asked.
“He's dead.” Ray nodded and
swallowed hard. He knew it. He'd just needed to hear Fraser say it.
Fraser was still speaking.
“I buried him. It's too dangerous, otherwise.”
Animals, big ones, Ray
guessed. But the ground was getting too hard, so Fraser must have piled
rocks over Danny. They wouldn't last long. He hated the thought of Danny
lying open to the night. He fought the thought down and focused on the
grim-colored wall.
More cracking, thwacking
noises came from outside, and Fraser returned this time with wood: by its
appearance, a broken shutter from the shed. Using the trash in the next room
for tinder, he lit the stove.
Then he was out of the
office again, crunching around the back, searching. When he tromped back
into the room he was carrying a rusty pot and a can of something. The long
twilight was ending and it had been nearly eight hours since the accident.
Fraser had not stopped working all that time, and as he wrestled with the
pot Ray could see how tired he was.
“So what's the therapy for
broken ribs?” He found talking hurt, but the silence was even more painful.
“I don't know,” Fraser
replied. “Something to immobilize the chest, so the bones don't rub so much,
but I don't know that we have anything. I think you'll just have to not move
as much as possible until they heal.”
“I can't just lie here.”
“I don't think you have a
choice, Ray. You nearly blacked out several times just moving around.”
Ray thought about that,
unhappily. Then, “Tell me the rest of it, Fraser. I can tell when you're
hiding something.”
Fraser sighed. “We have no
transport. We have no supplies. Winter freeze‑up is due in two to four
weeks. I can scrounge until then, but we'll have only traps for game after
it snows. We have no weapons or ammunition. And this shelter is not
weather‑tight.”
Silent, Ray sat, taking it
all in. “Okay, so what's the bad news?”
Fraser smiled briefly at
that. “I'm worried that you might have a punctured lung. Any movement could
drive the rib in again, and of course there's the risk of infection. Our
first‑aid supplies are pretty inadequate.”
Ray nodded, still finding it
hard to talk to Fraser. He waited for more, but Fraser had unbuttoned his
shirt and was peeling off his undershirt, his pale skin turning a deep brown
where the sleeves ended. With deft hands, he ripped the undershirt
lengthwise into long strips.
Kneeling next to the sofa,
he maneuvered Ray gently forward, taking his weight on his left shoulder.
Ray shivered in the cold air, only to feel the cold wash away in the flood
of pain that followed. He had just enough control to prevent himself from
biting the inside of his mouth. Fraser hesitated after tying the last strip,
resting one hand gently on Ray's chest, the other stabilizing Ray from
behind. He cocked his head intently, listening to the beating of Ray's heart
beneath the wrappings. Fraser's hands and face were clean, all traces of
Danny's blood now gone. His skin glowed brown and copper where it had tanned
and his eyes were round, dark, and enormous. His face was very still,
covered by tiny lines of pain. Something began to tighten in Ray's throat to
a fine, dangerous precision.
The moment stretched, and
then a whimper escaped from Ray. Fraser released him with exaggerated care
and Ray shut his eyes in embarrassment. When he opened them Fraser was by
the stove, feeding bits of broken wood into its blackened belly. It seemed
to be an absorbing task, one that required real concentration, for he said
nothing more. A chill wasp of air cut across the room, wending its way
through the broken slats in the floor. Ray tucked his feet up underneath
him, trying to find a position that didn't hurt so damn much.
“Well,” he said, finally
breaking into the darkened silence. “So what's the plan?” The words startled
him, but not as much as they surprised Fraser, who shot him a questioning
look, only to look away, hunching closer to the stove. The shutter wood was
almost gone and he'd have to round up more to keep it going through the
night. Ray licked his dry lips, wanting water but afraid of pushing Fraser
in this strange, silent mood.
He must have dozed because
he woke hours later, when the room was pitch black and cold. The stove was
still giving heat, but the house's gaps and partial roof leached its warmth
away. Both sleeping bags were piled on top of him. He tried to make out
Fraser's shape in the dark. He was sleeping next to the stove, lit by a dull
red glow. He'd found a wooden box for firewood. Pulling the covers closer,
Ray realized that he was wearing not only Fraser's coat, but also his cap
and gloves. He wanted to shove off the covers and give Fraser something to
keep warm but the pain trapped him in place. His eyes grew heavier, and in
spite of himself he fell back asleep.
The next morning Fraser rose
early, found water, and then opened the can he found. They made a quick meal
and Fraser disappeared again before Ray could question him further. The pile
of wood stacked in the room grew slowly all day. More boxes, probably used
to store equipment; the shed door. A few wood braces from the mine. Fraser
checked each piece of wood carefully for bits of metal. By midday
, the pile was still depressingly small.
Later, Fraser returned with some roots and spruce needles, which he boiled,
and they drank the liquid. It tasted horrible, like mold with a bitter
aftertaste.
“
Hhhm
, Yukon
tea?” he asked, trying to draw Fraser
out.
“Actually, these are sura
roots. They are a good source of vitamin A. The needles contain vitamin C,”
Fraser said neutrally. He was splintering the wood into smaller pieces.
Without an axe, he had to lever the wood against the desk with his body
weight.
Grateful that at least
Fraser was speaking again, Ray took the conversational opening. “I bet the
woods are full of stuff like that around here?” He didn't know why, but it
was important to keep Fraser talking.
“Well, the immediate area is
denuded. Strip mining requires a large quantity of wood. Luckily it also
requires a good water supply and I was able to rig a bucket to reach into
the well.”
Ray hesitated and then
decided not to ask how far Fraser had had to go to find even those few
items. Casting about for another topic, he pointed to his chest. “So how
long before we can move me?”
It seemed the wrong thing to
say. Fraser's face, already remote and distant, closed even further. He
answered tersely, “Assuming you receive the proper care and rest, ten days.
It'll give me time to fix the truck.”
Ray blinked. “Fix the truck?
Fraser, the truck is lying on its back on the edge of a ravine.”
“Yes, but flipping it is
just a matter of leverage and basic physics. Then we just need to get it
running again and we can make it back before the freeze.” Fraser's voice was
calm and clear, and offered no room for disagreement. No way to point out
that there were no spare parts and most cars required at least some
structural integrity in order to operate.
Sinking deeper into the
sofa, Ray nodded wearily. There was no use arguing with Fraser when he was
like this.
The next day passed and he
waited for Fraser to return. The pain kept sucking him back into a gray
zone, one where breathing and fear merged into a large mass inside his
chest. Moisture ran down the walls of the cabin and the dampness settled
into him, accentuating the pain. He couldn't move and even small things,
like peeing and drinking, loomed large in his mind. He tried a few times to
push himself into a more comfortable position. One time he miscalculated,
pushed too hard, and passed out.
When Fraser had not returned
well after sunset, he began to get worried. The cabin creaked and whistled
and the lack of candles and lamps made the deepening gloom smothering. He
heard Fraser before he saw him. Footsteps traveled slowly across the outer
office, stepping across debris with aching precision. He heard a soft gasp
and then Fraser walked into the room. Squinting against the dark, Ray could
barely see Fraser. He was moving strangely, cradling his right arm with his
left hand. He put more wood in the stove and as the door swung open, the
room brightened and Ray looked more closely. Fraser had hurt himself—even
worse than before.
“Fraser, you okay?” he
asked, tentatively. The back of Fraser's head nodded and he stood slowly,
carefully, holding his arm close to his side.
“I'm fine, Ray. Just a
little twinge I got when rolling the truck back up. Excuse me one moment.”
Fraser turned abruptly and left the room. Puzzled, Ray listened and heard
the sound of flesh clunking against something hard, and a faint, sickening,
crunching sound. Then Fraser came back into view, his arm hanging stiffly
but more normally at his side. “See, right as rain,” Fraser said and began
working on opening another can for their dinner.
Ray stared at him, confused.
Fraser fumbled the knife he was using to pry open the lid. His shoulders
were tight and he lacked his usual grace. “You dislocated your shoulder,”
Ray blurted out.
“Of course, Ray. But a door
jamb is a fairly effective substitute for traction.” Fraser was dividing the
contents—they looked like ravioli—into two portions.
“Shouldn't you put ice on
that?” The words dragged out of him, unwillingly. “Or something cold,” he
corrected himself even more weakly.
Fraser shook his head and
handed the tin cup that doubled as a bowl to Ray. “No,” he said. The word
bounced shapelessly back and forth in the high corners of the room. He sat
there, not breathing, not blinking, as if he were something honed into shape
by wind and weather. Then Fraser looked down into his bowl, moved briskly
over to Ray, dumped his share of food into Ray's cup, and simply walked
away. It took Ray a moment to realize he had left the cabin. Puzzled, he sat
there for a while listening for Fraser. He heard cracking noises—more wood,
he guessed. He looked down at his food and lifted the cup. He really had no
appetite—in fact, he really had no hunger. Nothing much could push past the
pain and the growing dullness that threatened to cloud his mind. He put the
cup down and allowed himself to gray out.
That night he woke, his body
shivering uncontrollably. He heard a soft whimpering noise and realized with
embarrassment he was making the sound. Fraser rolled to his feet and stared,
his eyes night‑dark, and picked his way carefully over to the couch. Ray
whimpered again before firmly clamping his teeth, but even the muscles of
his jaw wouldn't obey.
Fraser's hands on his arm
came as a shock and he jerked his head in protest. Fraser ignored him and
tried to place one arm across Ray's shoulder to pull him close. He gasped in
pain, even the weight of Fraser's arm unbearable. Fraser sat back, settling
on his knees and staring at him gravely. Ray finally understood; Fraser was
trying to give him his body heat, but there wasn't room for them both on the
sofa without moving Ray.
Fraser reached out again and
began rubbing his hands slowly up and down Ray's arm. The friction warmed
Ray and Fraser increased the pressure until he was rubbing vigorously.
Without pausing, his hands traveled down to Ray's hands, then his thighs,
his calves, and finally his feet. When that was done, Fraser worked his way
methodically back up Ray's body. Ray felt his shudders slowly ease under
Fraser's touch. He blinked, welcoming the small store of warmth that
returned to him. After a while, Fraser drew back, one hand shaping around
Ray's right wrist in the dark, and then Ray's fingers. He crouched, his head
bowed, then solemnly moved away, the dim stove light melting over his face.
Ray wondered suddenly if he knew Fraser at all. Puzzled, he grew still, so
still he could hear the beating of his own heart until he slid beneath
sleep.
More days passed; each day
Fraser would rise, parcel out their little food, and disappear. He returned,
every evening, looking more and more grim. When he talked about the truck
repairs, he shifted from specifics to generalities. Ray stopped asking
Fraser how things were going. Ray could see their food dwindling and he
could feel the nights growing colder. Fraser's face grew more and more
haggard, with dark circles underscoring his eyes. His arm was still stiff
and at times he fumbled even routine tasks, like stacking wood or emptying
the pot that served as a bedpan.
Ray wasn't doing much
better; the stove's heat kept leaking through the exposed roof and gaps in
the floor. He was also unable to move to warm himself; often, when Fraser
was gone, he'd find himself shaking so hard he imagined his skin would
simply slide off his body. But the pain in his chest was the only marker
between what was real and what he imagined. Pain tinted every moment and lay
in wait for him with every small move. He hated it, hated how it trapped him
in the small cabin, hated how it shaped his every interaction with Fraser.
“Fraser¼”
he started one evening, watching Fraser struggle with placing a plywood
board over the broken cabin window.
“Yes, Ray.” Fraser balanced
the board on one hip and angled it into the frame. He barely spoke to Ray
now—when he wasn't working on the truck, he spent his day trying to find
more food. Or futilely trying to prop up the building to make it
winter‑tight.
“Nothing.” Ray tried not to
sound sullen, but knew he failed. He was so tired of hurting. He was tired
of watching Fraser try so hard. He was tired of waiting to get better. He
rubbed one hand gingerly across his chest and probed. The pain sang under
the slightest pressure. He gasped and sagged back. He couldn't even imagine
ever being pain‑free or warm again.
Fraser stepped back from the
window and pushed against the plywood. When he thought it would hold, he
stepped back. The plywood fell with a crash. Ray had a sudden memory of
Fraser trying to piece the broken vase together. He wondered how long Fraser
would keep trying before he gave up.
But Fraser just knelt down,
picked up the leading edge of the plywood sheet, lifted it, and shoved it
back into position. Ray realized then that Fraser would never quit, that he
would keep working, would keep pushing himself far past any human endurance.
He won't stop until he's
dead, Ray thought and felt suddenly sick. Fraser had meant it when he'd
said he'd do anything to keep Ray alive. And you could not even pretend to
hate a man who would lay down his life for you.
Ray was good at math. He was
even better at figuring things out. The truck wasn't going to be fixed. They
couldn't over‑winter here. Fraser couldn't build shelter and scavenge at the
same time. He was strong, but even he couldn't drive the cold winter away.
And if Fraser stayed here any longer, winter would be close at hand and
travel on foot impossible.
He thought of Steph, and
Ussak, and Victor. They had lost Danny. If Fraser didn't go back, they'd
never know what happened to him. He thought of Ilene and Jason and all the
rest. If Fraser didn't go back, they'd probably wouldn't survive another
winter. If Ray's life was held up against their lives, his life would always
come up short. He had failed his old man. He had failed his mother and
sister. He had failed as a cop long before Fraser arrived. He had failed
Alain. And in the end, he really couldn't blame any of it on the people of
Stewart Junction.
Ray felt surprisingly calm.
As long as he didn't think too hard and long, he knew he would stay calm.
And wasn't that the first thing they taught you in the academy: no matter
what happened, you had to stay calm?
Wetting his lips, he hooked
his thumb around the tin cup Fraser had found in the tool shed and sipped
some water. He opened his mouth to speak, then shivered.
“So, Fraser, how long do you
think it'll take you to reach Stewart Junction?”
Grunting, Fraser shoved the
plywood and then wedged it into place with a smaller piece of wood. “Two
days once the truck is fixed.”
“And on foot?”
Fraser stepped around the
end of the sofa, tugging at his sweater. His eyes traveled across the room
as though he were searching for something. “Well, it's a distance of two
hundred miles. There's at least ten hours of light, so if the weather holds
and the roads aren't washed out a man can cover at least sixty or
seventy-five miles a day. That's four days on foot for someone with full
rations and in peak condition.”
“Ah well,” Ray whispered,
with a little catch in his voice.
Quit stalling, he
thought and smiled crookedly. “So you'd better get started at first light
then? You'll need the coat, hat, and gloves at least. It's not like I'll be
the one traipsing through the woods.”
Fraser stood framed in the
doorway. He must have moved, so silently that Ray had not heard him go. He
couldn't see much of him; the angle was all wrong and he'd hurt himself if
he twisted to get a better glimpse.
Fraser's forehead, under the
curling bangs, was high and straight, and tight with unspoken words. He
seemed at once real and unreal, caught between the desires to stay and to
go. Then he raised one chapped hand and rubbed his eyes. It was an ordinary
gesture. But it was eloquent of weariness and sorrow in a way Ray had never
seen, and he was filled with shapeless melancholy.
Ray's fingers ached from
clutching the cup. He pried them loose and allowed it to clatter to the
floor. The sound startled Fraser and he stepped back into the room.
“I can set you up so you
have food, water, and wood in reach,” Fraser began, the words coming out in
a rush. “You shouldn't move for at least a few weeks.” He stopped, silenced
by the sight of Ray's hands, knotted, clinging to the edges of the sofa.
They stared at each other,
caught in their own thoughts until Fraser made a harsh, dry sound, like a
crow's laugh. He was looking into the fire as if he were watching it weave a
dream to an ending. He turned away from it abruptly, but not before Ray saw
his eyes, black and expressionless as the eyes of the dead, eaten to the
bone by the truth.
Then Fraser set to puttering
around the room, clearing more of the debris, trying to seem at ease, his
equilibrium recovered. It was very different from the real thing, but Ray
let it slide.
He felt a wave of exhaustion
overwhelm him. Time enough to sleep later. After Fraser was gone. Instead,
he found the strength to respond to Fraser's stream of conversation. They
would move the sofa within reach of the stove. Fraser would spend the rest
of the afternoon stacking and breaking as much wood as he could find. He'd
tour the site one more time and hopefully find some more cans of food. He'd
also stack jugs and buckets of water, again within reasonable reach. And
he'd leave by first light. Ray spent the rest of the day listening while
thunderheads gathered low in the sky and threatened to surround them with
the last bleak breath of autumn.
Morning came hard and fast,
shaking Ray awake with brightness. Fuzzily, he thought he heard kitcheny
sounds from the other room until he remembered where he was. The knowledge
that Fraser was still there both comforted and annoyed him in equal measure.
He pushed the thought away and reached for the bucket Fraser had
considerately placed in arm's reach. They'd have to figure out a way to
handle the waste before Fraser left.
He heard a tap on the
doorframe and looked up. Fraser was carrying two jugs of water easily in one
hand. “Good God, Fraser. If I drank all the water you're leaving I'd float
away,” he said, looking wryly around the cluttered room.
An expression flicked across
Fraser's face and was gone before he could identify it.
“No harm having a bit of
extra water. I wish I could have found more food,” he said, gesturing to the
three cans he'd pulled from underneath the cracked boards of the storage
shed. Squinting, Ray saw a small pile of weeds lying neatly next to the warm
stove.
“What am I supposed to do
with that?”
“Those are dandelion roots.
Ideally, you should grind them into a paste and bake them. But you can boil
them in water, along with spruce needles, which—”
“—which are an excellent
source of vitamin C. Yes, I know, Fraser. I'll stick to the canned food.”
Fraser rearranged a few of the water bottles to make space for the new ones.
He seemed preoccupied; Ray suddenly wanted to get this over so he could
rest. His chest was hurting badly—the dull throbbing of the broken ribs was
now matched by the burning tensions of the bruises as they swelled and
stiffened.
“We need to do something
about this—” He gestured at the slop bucket.
“I thought of that. We need
to keep you from moving too much. So I've knocked a hole in the floor and
you can dump it through there. You may want to cover it up when you're not
using it to help with the smell.”
“I think I can manage,” Ray
said dryly, gauging the distance from the sofa and thinking it couldn't be
far enough away. Fraser eyed him worriedly over the kindling stacked next to
the stove.
“Let it rest, Fraser. You've
stacked it six ways to Sunday. Have you eaten, yet?” he asked, pulling off
the gloves and then the wool cap without raising his arms.
Fraser glanced up and
frowned, shaking his head.
“Sorry,” Ray muttered and
then reached out his hand. “You're going to have to help me with the
jacket.”
Fraser seemed reluctant to
approach him, pushing the wood closer to the sofa.
“Fraser, come on,” he
growled. “If you stack anything more around the sofa, I'll roll over it and
break my neck.”
Fraser rose, sliding around
the stacks of wood and water like a dancer. Ray blinked, his irritation
fading as he was gently pulled forward and the coat unbuttoned. With some
efficient tugging and mild wrestling it slipped off and draped loosely over
Fraser's arm. As Fraser stepped back, sidestepping the piles without
looking, Ray felt absurdly as though he were participating in a solemn
ritual. The thought made him uneasy. Something unbreakable and angled, like
grief, was pushing in his chest, into his throat; after a moment he realized
it was not grief, but something harder, crippling and deep.
Fraser stared down at him,
wearing another of his inscrutable faces, and Ray puzzled over it until he
realized it was simply fear. Ray found himself looking into dark blue eyes,
unnervingly close. Fraser closed his eyes and a muscle worked in his jaw. A
stillness fell over Ray, and over Fraser as well, it seemed; all expression
slid from his face, followed by the quick motion of Fraser's chest as he
drew a breath.
Ray's chest leapt in
response in an unpleasant way. Beneath the constant pain, the friction of
broken bone grating against broken bone was a new sensation, heavy and
depressing.
Not knowing how to end it,
he yawned exaggeratedly. “Hope you don't mind,” he mumbled. “Guess I am
still sleepy. Didn't sleep too well last night. I think I'll nap a bit
longer.” He shut his eyes quickly before Fraser could respond. He waited,
until finally the floor creaked. He heard the hiss of the stove as more wood
was added, the rustle as Fraser donned the jacket, and finally the gravel
faintly crunching beneath Fraser's boots as he faded into the bright
morning. Grimly, Ray kept his eyes shut until he was certain the prickling
beneath his lids had passed.
The first day passed without
too much effort; he spent it dozing, eating his half-can at noon
and drinking warm water to keep his
internal temperature up. The bright morning sun turned out to be only a
brief break in the day; soon the cabin grew dark as more rain clouds
gathered. He watched it rain lightly through the broken window, where the
sheet of plywood had slipped when the winds returned. The rocky hills
deepened their color as they became wet, and his mood followed suit. Rain
always seemed to seep into his bones; in the last few years any bad weather
settled in his knees. He inched his arms slowly under the sleeping bag to
rub them. His hands missed the gloves, but he firmly told them to stop
complaining. He wished his ribs would shut up too, but they kept singing
their chorus of pain.
“Great, talking to my body
parts. First sign you're losing it.” He didn't realize he had spoken aloud
until he heard the crack of his voice. Pulling the covers back up, he
sighed. He was bored, too.
He leaned back, against the
armrest, tilting his head to study the ceiling. There were water patterns,
and he amused himself trying to see figures and faces in the yellow
markings. That could only pass so much time and soon he was bored again.
The first night alone was
unsettling. He would hear something creak or rattle in the rising wind and
shake himself awake, his heart pounding. He hadn't noticed the sounds when
Fraser was here. Of course, the trick was to get any sleep at all; the pain
was pretty much a constant companion.
In the morning he decided to
try to move a bit. He was getting too stiff and he remembered something
about inactivity being a bad thing. As he shifted the covers aside, he
braced himself on the armrest and swung his legs down. Trembling, he rolled
forward into a half crouch. As he bent forward, the pain burst into full
force, racing around his chest in tightening circles. Before he could stop
he felt himself retch and fought to keep his stomach down. He made only a
few tottering steps, before he realized he was not going to make it to the
door. Falling would be disastrous, so he retraced his steps sweating.
Lying back on the couch, he
stared about the room with new eyes. This was it. The peeling wallpaper,
hanging in sheets. The stained yellow ceiling, the rotten floorboards. The
four‑inch gap in the window and the open door without a handle leading to
the office beyond. This was where he would die.
His body shuddered as he
took in the thought and tried it on for size. He would die here. Ever since
that day in Carey's store, he'd known it would come to this. But at least
he'd die on his own terms and not at someone else's hands. He'd die as Ray
Vecchio and not screaming in fear in the mud.
A red squirrel popped its
head through the plywood gap, peering nervously around the room. Something
had been carting the room away bit by bit over the years, gnawing on
woodwork. Given the lack of trees in the immediate area, Ray wondered how
far this squirrel had traveled to get here.
“Nothing here, folks. Move
along,” he said, and watched its tail twitch before it disappeared. His
stomach growled. If he had a BB gun he could have shot it and eaten it.
Fraser had killed a number of them in the months between the salmon and
caribou seasons, when even rabbits were hard to trap. He'd always refused to
eat them; he drew the line at rodents. But now he found himself surprisingly
flexible. Now, when it'd do him little good.
Irritated with that line of
thinking, he began calling up his favorite basketball plays. He'd used this
trick on boring stakeouts when he'd been saddled with partners who didn't
care to even speak to him.
The squirrel's head appeared
abruptly again and it made a loud chittering noise. Ray eyed it
speculatively, only to see it streak into the room and head for a small pile
of insulation hanging loose from the wall. It snatched a mouthful, flicked
its tail insultingly, and fled through the window gap.
He fought a smile, then gave
in. God, even the squirrels were giving him the finger.
Yawning, he listened to the
rain return and watched it drip through the roof into the far corner of the
room. The soft pattern lulled him into fitful sleep. The sullen glow of the
stove greeted him when he awoke in the evening. He swung his legs to the
floor and rolled a piece of wood with his feet until he could lift it
without too much effort. The sofa was perilously close to the stove, but his
reach was too limited to allow any more distance. He warmed his chilled
hands, and then set to heating some more water. The rain had stopped, but
the utter darkness outside told him the cloud cover had remained in place.
He sniffed the air and smelled the tang of ozone, which could only mean more
rain. He suddenly wondered where Fraser was, if he'd been able to find
shelter. There had been only a few houses in the last fifty or so miles.
Maybe there were more cabins further back in, but that would mean a detour
and—
He angrily shoved the stove
door closed and rubbed his face. He knew what his father would say, if that
bastard were still alive. Trust no one. Every man for himself. I am in it
for number one. And the old tried and true: it's your own damn fault for
following that Mountie.
He snorted cynically. He
doubted his father would have survived the plague. No, if he had still been
alive he would have died scrabbling, bleeding on some barroom floor, far
from his family.
And without warning the
tears came. They welled up like unwelcome guests, ripping sobs from his
throat. A part of him sat in shock—all this time and he'd never cried for
Franny or his mother. He'd never mourned them properly. Had never said any
prayers nor lit any candles. But they were gone, so long gone.
He choked and then pinched
himself, trying to stop the tears. He hated crying; he refused to cry. This
was stupid. He sputtered to a stop, then wiped his cheeks with his fingers.
The moisture glistened in the red stove light and for a moment he thought he
saw blood. His body went rigid with alarm. The adrenaline rush drove the
last of the tears away and he blinked until his hands swam and then reshaped
themselves into fingers, wet with only tears.
His chest hurt and he softly
rubbed the bandages beneath his shirt. He gazed randomly around the room,
trying to find something to distract him. The stove's glow was not bright
enough to reach the walls or penetrate the darkness beyond the door. He
stared dumbly into the dark, growing more and more numb. He watched the dark
until it crawled into the room to blanket him.
Ray struggled the next day
to keep the fire going, to drink, and to empty the slop bucket. The can of
food tasted funny and he debated throwing the rest out. He opted to leave it
half‑eaten for later. The rain had turned to sleet; he could hear it
striking the roof and bouncing off the rocks wetly. He felt sluggish and a
bit feverish and dozed off and on.
Twilight had fallen when
scrabbling woke him. His lids were gummed up and he rubbed his eyes. The
squirrel must have returned and he felt absurdly grateful for the sight of
something living. He turned his head and froze.
A small black bear was
licking the food from the open can. He could smell its damp fur, could hear
its hoarse grunting as it pawed at the floor. It was barely inches from his
head. He held his breath, hoping it would finish quickly and then leave. The
can rattled in circles under the bear's tongue; then it lifted it up,
holding it between its jaws before dropping it and snuffling the area in
frustration. It batted the can and then pawed at the two remaining sealed
cans.
Ray heard more scrabbling
and forced himself to remain still. Oh God, not another one. Something small
and red flashed at the end of the couch and the squirrel peeked around its
edge. It saw the bear, peered briefly at Ray, and then fled. Ray felt a
sudden urge to laugh.
A loud groan pulled his eyes
back to his right and he swallowed his fear. The bear, tiring of the
impervious cans, had batted them across the floor. Small clouds of dust rose
behind the cans as they rolled. The bear sneezed, then shook its head. As it
moved, its fur gleamed in the stove light, smoothly rustling like a flood of
black water. Mesmerized, Ray stared as its bulk rotated around the cans,
past the water bucket, and right into the hot stove.
A meaty roar burst into the
room, jerking him up involuntarily. The stove tipped, spilling its contents
onto the floor. As the flames caught, the bear half rose on its legs, claws
extended, and Ray squeezed his eyes shut. The room filled with smoke,
driving the bear back out into the front office and through the open door.
Panting, Ray felt all his
muscles release their tension until he was watery and soft. His heart raced
and his lips tingled. The smoke thickened and he looked at the stove in
alarm. The fire was still small—the leak from the roof had dampened the bits
of paper and debris so they were smoldering rather than burning. But not for
long.
Galvanized, Ray swung
himself up without thinking. He bent forward, grabbed the bucket, and tossed
it over the stove and the small fire. As the flames winked out, he felt
something shift inside his chest and was filled with searing pain. He stared
down, surprised, before the world blacked out and he fell. Oh, God, no
was all he had time to think before he mercifully lost consciousness.
The smell of smoke was
strong. His mouth was full of something and he spat it out. He lay face down
on the floor, his hand inches away from the still-warm stove. He turned his
head and listened. He was alone. He wasn't certain whether to be relieved or
to cry. He tried to push himself up off the floor and blacked out again.
It was fully dark when he
came to the second time. The stove was cold, still lying on its side. His
body was shivering and for a moment he wondered if you could shiver if you
were unconscious. This time he moved with more care, rolling onto his good
side. The pain was liquefying and he tasted blood. His groans pierced the
room, broadcasting his distress to the world outside. At least, that's what
he imagined, and he stifled his next moan. There were worse things than
bears and he didn't want to advertise his whereabouts.
He focused on the shallow
breathing technique Fraser had taught him, but nothing seemed to make the
pain better. Each time he tried moving he would come that much closer to
blacking out. And each time he grew weaker until he finally lay there,
waiting for the sun to rise.
The next few days were a
blur. He could not raise himself up even to right the stove or reach the
sleeping bag. His body had stopped shivering and there were moments where
the cold numbed him so badly that even the pain faded away. In the
afternoons he watched the sun travel across the back wall only to fade away
when the clouds returned. It was quiet; the only sounds were his occasional
whimpers and gasps. Even the squirrel stayed away.
Amazingly enough, the second
bucket of water had stayed upright and was within his reach. From time to
time he would carefully reach his cup up and over its rim, scoop up water,
and suck it down. He didn't know what he'd do when the water level fell
below his reach. Somehow he couldn't think too much about that.
He dreamed, small weird
disjointed dreams where he was walking in the snow with Fanny and his
mother, barefoot. They kept teasing him about losing his shoes and then he
was ten, again chasing after the bullies who stole his new Adidas from his
locker. Each time, he jerked himself awake and listened for some sound, some
hope of rescue. Fraser had been gone five days already—or was it four?—and
he should be on his way back.
Ray coughed, his eyes
tearing with the pain. He'd developed some sort of infection, maybe even
pneumonia. Who was he kidding? Even if Fraser ran all the way from here to
Stewart Junction, he wasn't coming back. Ray was just like Alain:
expendable. And he was going to die like Alain—without dignity.
And there would be no one to
bury him. The thought obsessed him. There had to be some way to prevent the
scavengers from getting to him. Goddamn Fraser, he couldn't even stick
around and do this last little thing.
The coughing prevented him
from getting any rest, so the next morning the day seemed hazy and unreal.
It seemed too much of an effort to even dip for water any more. He was very
warm now and kept touching his face with his frozen hands to cool himself
off. Pulling his fingers away from his face, he noted they were wet. Is
it raining now inside? he thought dimly, before remembering he'd been
crying. That, too, didn't seem to matter much any more.
The building creaked around
him. The wind had picked up, signaling another storm, and the air had a
heavy bite. It was going to snow, he could tell by the falling temperature.
He licked his chapped lips, wondering how long it would take for him to die.
He thought of suicide. Where were those handy sleeping pills and plastic
bags now? Oh, right, he'd forgotten; good Catholic boys don't get sleeping
pills, they get nailed to the cross and die slowly, screaming for their
mothers. He wondered if Christ had felt the cold, or was it warm when they
strung him up?
He remembered his mother
telling him not to ask questions like that. His father had laughed and told
him not to worry, dead is dead no matter how you get there. His mother had
yelled and there'd been another fight. She stopped attending mass with his
father, which was fine by the old man.
Ray shifted on his side,
stifling the coughing spasms. He hated that his father was right. The thing
he had always admired about Fraser—no, loved—was that he had known so
clearly what to do in any situation. Every day, Ray had lived wondering what
kind of difference he could make, knowing that no one respected his caring,
and constantly listening to his father's voice telling him he was no good,
to shut up and sit down. But Fraser had understood his doubts and failures.
And had still acted like Ray was someone worth respecting, was someone worth
spending time with, was somebody worth saving. Once Fraser had even thought
Ray was someone worth loving. His discomfort with Fraser touching him that
way seemed remote and small now. There was so little love in his life and
all he knew how to do was push it away.
The room turned icy, his
breath frosting the air with each labored breath. The cold hurt his face and
he groaned in irritation. But the effort shook him awake ever so slightly.
The smell of his own body waste filled the room, making him sick. He wasn't
going to die. Not here, inside an old rotting shack, smelling of piss like
his drunken old man. He rolled onto his stomach, this time not trying to
silence his cries of pain. And then, slowly, he pulled himself toward the
door, to the outside. He passed out several times, each time clawing his way
back to consciousness. The pain kept grabbing him and shaking him until he
could have puked—but there was nothing left. He had no idea of time or space
or distance. All he saw was the open door and the gray rocks and gravel
beyond.
He came to feeling small wet
pebbles beneath his fingers. He could barely turn his head, but fingered
each stone like a gift. He had made it. He smiled but found his face was
frozen.
The rain stopped but the
clouds hung low and dark. The gravel road sloped down and away from him,
curving before it disappeared. Ray liked the thought that if he could just
stand up he could walk down the path, turn left, and head back home.
He laughed, a soft
breathless thing. He wasn't going anywhere. He was going to die. Just as the
Fraser he had loved had died. He felt a wave of sympathy for Fraser. At
least he'd be dead, but Fraser would have to go on living with the loss of
his identity, his world, and the innocence he'd tried so hard to protect.
Fraser had known this all along, from the moment they first sat in Carey's
bedroom: he would have to sacrifice his compassion for their survival. And
while death had a thousand doors to let out life, life had only one door you
could walk through. Fraser would now have to walk through that door alone.
Ray's only regret was that he hadn't realized this until it was too late.
Something wet trickled down
his check and he blinked. It was a snowflake. He could see another one
spiraling lazily down from the gray sky. Then the flakes stopped, leaving
the wind to rush past the cabin and down the road.
He shuddered under its icy
caress and then lay still. Their survival was what Ray had been fighting
against all along. Not a battle of wrong and right. Not a fight for
civilization or standing up for the little guy. No, he and Fraser had been
locked in a barebones fight for existence.
He found it ironic that in
telling Fraser to go he had—without really thinking about it—finally agreed
to die on Fraser's terms. There was no shelter from the rockslide. You
couldn't outrun it, you couldn't deflect it, you could only stand there and
accept that you couldn't win. So maybe Fraser was right—only when you accept
that you cannot win, only when you surrender, will you survive.
And it was somehow okay.
Because nature made use of everything. The squirrel rummaging through
insulation to build a nest. The bear lapping up the remains of old
campsites. In the end nothing got wasted, nothing vanished; everything found
its own place and purpose.
A few more flakes trickled
down from the heavens. Ray's open-mouthed, heavy breathing sounded loud in
his ears. Then he heard something scratch and a soft tapping sound. He
opened his eyes weakly. Two ravens stood a few feet from his head, studying
him intently. One was eyeing him suspiciously, while the other bobbed its
head up and down like a window‑shopper angling for a better look.
“Hey,” he whispered. The
suspicious one rattled its wings. The curious one started hopping from foot
to foot. “So whaddya say?” he asked the curious one—George, he decided to
call it.
“Looks good, Barney. I
think, whaddaya say, it looks good.” It turned to the other, larger one and
opened its beak. The second bird shook its head and peered more closely
before offering an opinion. “It'll do, I guess. There's an awful lot of
him.”
“Well, so much the better.”
George jumped onto a nearby rock and resumed his bouncing. “More for us!”
“And less for me, I guess,
eh guys?” Ray muttered, feeling very light-headed.
“Well,” Barney began
pompously, “I see lots of nest-building opportunities there, with that coat
and shirt and all. Not much use for the hair—it degrades too quickly due to
its organic nature.” Ray snickered; the bird sounded like Fraser lecturing
on the medicinal properties of some native root.
“But the buttons, the
buttons. And eyes, too!” George chirped, looking like a small child eager
for Christmas. He arched his back and flapped wildly with anticipation.
“Have at them, boys,” Ray
said, gesturing with one hand toward his chest. The pain, which had been so
dim and unreal, shot through him, choking him, and he coughed once,
explosively. When he opened his eyes again, the birds were gone. The snow
had picked up and a light dusting covered the gravel and his arm and hand.
The pain was wonderfully absent, almost as if he had coughed the last of it
away. He could smell a faint piney scent and opened his mouth. The
snowflakes dissolved sweetly on his tongue. One brushed his nose, tickling
him.
It was so peaceful here. His
breathing slowed and he felt the light-headedness return. He floated slowly
at first, then higher until he could see the caved-in roof and the worn shed
standing next to it. The hills really were denuded; only a small stand of
scraggly spruces had survived the ravages. Turning, he followed the gravel
road, just as he had imagined, turned left, and headed west. As his speed
increased something white below caught his eyes. Swooping down, he saw three
wolves chasing a herd of caribou. Curious, he leaned closer and was then
running fleet-footed beside one of the stragglers. His mouth was open and he
was breathing hard—but it felt good to be whole again, without pain. The doe
swerved and he shot ahead to cut her off. Overestimating his speed, he found
himself tangled beneath her hooves and fell to the ground, dying as she
crushed his skull.
Then he was flying again,
leaving the herd behind. The air was crisp and the snow flung itself into
his face like sand-tossed sky. He could feel the hum of life all around him,
electrifying him and pulling him along. When he came to a river he allowed
himself to fall and enter the partially frozen flow. His fins scraped on
some rocks as he hugged the riverbed. The current was strong, carrying him
downstream to the sea. Then jaws closed around him, grabbing him, lifting
him out of the water into the sudden light that broke through the clouds and
dazzled him, turning the water into white gold.
He was standing on a cliff
above the Pacific Ocean ,
watching the setting sun turn the sky and the clouds into layer after layer
of gold and red. The light bathed his face, warming him, enfolding him until
he could almost taste its sweetness. He sensed someone standing beside him
and turned to look. But everywhere he turned, the sun followed, filling his
eyes so he could not see. He turned and turned and turned until he finally
felt the brush of warm skin and heard the sound of someone breathing his
name, softly, like a song so remote and clear.