“In nature there are
neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences.”
—Robert Green Ingersoll
Chapter 7: Treading Water
“Nothing happens to
anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear.”
—Marcus Aurelius
It was late, and Jason knew
he really was supposed to be in bed. It was still the long twilight of late
summer. The river rushed far below its dry gravel banks while Jason skidded
down through the shingle and turned upstream. He'd left his favorite
matchbox car down on the bank past the willows that morning and he had to
get it before something happened to it.
It had been so boring for
the past week, nobody doing anything but building and laying fish traps, and
then hauling them out and cleaning the fish. Nobody had time for him, even
when he tried to help. It wasn't fun. The traps were too heavy for him to
move, and when they were dragged out of the river they were full of writhing
silver bodies that looked like giant slimy slugs. And when they were dumped
on the ground the fish kept flopping and twitching with their big scared
eyes bugging out, until somebody came along with a stick and whacked them on
the head. Jason had tried to help the other kids carry the fish over to the
boards where they were being gutted, but he dropped the first one he picked
up when he felt it throb in his arms and realized it wasn't dead yet. His
mom had yelled at him then, and he'd tried not to cry, but nobody had wanted
to let him help after that. Today he had run away to his secret place under
the willows. Jason's mom had been gutting salmon all day and Jason couldn't
wait to get away from all those shiny dead eyes. Even his constant hunger
could not make those dead eyes go away.
The still air was hazy with
smoke, drifting in curls over the river from the smoking fires up on the
bank. Ray was still down there, sitting on a driftwood log fixing a broken
trap. There was a pile of them along the shore. Jason felt a little shy of
Ray these days. He wasn't the same man Jason had known last winter. Back
then he had shown Ray his car collection and Ray had been impressed. He told
Jason lots of cool stuff about cars. But then he stopped coming over and got
just as short with Jason as Mr. Snyder next door. And he never seemed to
talk to anybody else either. Maybe he was as lonesome as Jason was these
days.
“Can I help?” he asked
tentatively, prepared to run.
Ray looked up at him and
didn't say anything for what was an awfully long time for a grownup. Jason
knew he'd made a big mistake.
“Sure. Hand me that twine.”
Jason found the spool and held it out. “Thanks.” Okay, so maybe he wasn't
going to bite. He didn't tell Jason to get lost either.
“Why do we have to keep
killing fish? I'm tired of it.”
“Yeah, me too.” Ray wound a
length of twine around a slat and cut it with his pocketknife. “But we don't
have a lot of food right now, and we'll need the fish this winter.”
Oh, Jason thought, that's
what Mom meant about Alain.
“You want to help, you can
hand me the slats.”
Jason found a trap in the
pile that was half unbroken and wiggled a slat out to hand to Ray. This was
great. Somebody finally wanted him around, even if it was only Ray. Jason
didn't quite know what to think about Ray. Ussak said he was a wuss 'cause
he didn't have any guts, and he'd overheard Mr. Snyder telling Mom that it
would have been better if Ray had left with the other losers. And he sure
acted like a loser. He never yelled at anybody any more, no matter what,
just walked away. Jason hoped Ray wasn't going to get really weird, like
Alain had been. Jason peeked over at Ray—he didn't look crazy. He looked
grumpy and tired and thin. He smelled of fish and wood smoke. Jason rubbed
his nose; they all smelled. He missed hot baths. And he was so tired and
hungry all the time.
He kept handing slats of
wood to Ray, hoping he'd talk some more. But he didn't, and they just kept
working steadily, silently, until Jason grew bored. Ray really wasn't much
fun any more. He waited as long as he could and made his escape when the sun
fell below the riverbank. As he scrambled up the path he saw something
looming tall in the dark, brown and huge like a grizzly. He yelped and
stumbled, his heart racing. Then it moved and he saw it was only Fraser, his
heavy brown coat wrapped tightly around him, his head bare to the cooling
night. He cradled his rifle to him in the safety position, just like Jason's
dad had shown him. Jason's heart kept thumping and he felt a little wheezy,
but Fraser nodded and Jason nodded warily back. He was always uncertain
around Fraser and never knew what to say. Fraser wasn't looking at him,
Jason realized with relief. He was staring down toward the river. Jason
craned back, trying to see what Fraser was seeing, but he only saw Ray,
still working alone in the gathering night. The chill began to nibble on
Jason's hands and he nodded breathlessly at Fraser and scrambled up the last
rise. He had forgotten all about his matchbox car.
The light was too far gone
to work now. Ray put down the trap and rolled and stretched his shoulders.
The ache never went away any more. He hunched again and stood slowly, easing
out the cramp and tension in his back, putting off the time when he had to
go back to interacting with people, even with someone so easygoing as Danny.
The wind was coming down the river now, blowing the wood smoke away,
clearing out room to breathe. Jason was a good kid. Curious, but not loud
about it. Ray pocketed his tools and made his way along the riverbank,
taking the long way around through the alders to avoid any chance encounters
in the center of the village.
In a patch of sand washed
around the tree roots was a spot of color, bleached out in the twilight but
still garishly out of place. A toy car. Ray smiled to himself in mock pain.
So that's what Jason came down here for. Not to talk to me at all.
He'd drop it off on the way. He climbed the bank and headed around the back
toward Ilene's cabin. There was still a faint light from the window, and Ray
was suddenly immensely tired. He couldn't talk to Ilene now, make
conversation about fish and supplies and kids and toy cars. He left the car
on the side of the wooden step, where nobody would walk on it accidentally,
and headed off. The tiredness lifted a little with another social encounter
successfully avoided.
Danny and Steph were still
up when he got in, making inventory lists. Steph was big on lists, which she
kept tacked all over the cabin, listing contents and giving directions and
ticking off things to do. Ray wondered what she was going to do when they
ran out of paper.
Danny at least looked up and
smiled when Ray came in. “Hey, Ray. Did you get them all fixed?”
“Nah, there must be half a
dozen left. I don't know if we'll need them before the spawning's over.”
“What do you know about
fish?” Steph said. “The spawning usually lasts at least another three days.”
Danny looked at Ray over
Steph's bent head and shrugged slightly. Ray didn't mind Steph too much. She
didn't like him, but it didn't feel personal. She didn't like anybody much,
except Danny. She snapped at Ray when given the slightest opportunity, but
he mostly tuned it out. It only hurt when she reminded him of Francesca.
“There's some stew left on
the stove,” Danny said. “And at least it doesn't have fish in it.”
Ray made himself a space at
the table, away from Steph's tally sheets, and mechanically ate his share of
the stew. He couldn't have said what it tasted like, since nothing tasted
like anything to him any more. Still, he forced himself to eat; his stomach
had shrunk over the winter and even now the rations were barely enough to
keep up his energy levels.
“Ray, you want to, uh, let
me know what¼”
Danny began, then actually looked up at Ray and stopped. “Never mind.” He
shoved aside the page he was working on and tried again. “You decided about
going with me and Brian up to Keno after the spawning?”
Ray shook his head and kept
eating. He had put the issue off as long as he could. He really wasn't
needed for the trip—just an extra pair of hands and shoulders. He knew Danny
had only asked him along because he was worried about him. Danny was trying
hard, but it had to be exhausting, living with a ghost in his own house.
Ray shoved his bowl away
from him. Or something worse than a ghost, he thought; how about a black
hole that shared your food, your supplies, your living space, yet never
tried to connect? He would have hated it if he'd had to put up with someone
like himself. Funny how things could change.
“Yeah, sure,” he heard
himself say, in the husky voice that still surprised him when he heard
himself speak. He forced himself to keep talking. “Is he back yet from
hunting?”
Danny smiled, pleased. “Not
yet. But we have to get one of the trucks running first. We only have a few
weeks before the weather starts to go bad.” He glanced over at Steph, but
she kept working on her lists.
“You need me to work on
one?” Ray asked reluctantly. Now he was going, he might as well pull his
fair share.
“Yeah. Susan said we can use
her Ford. It's got a winch and chain already and she said it was at least
turning over when she started it in the spring.”
“The carburetor's probably
fouled by now, then,” Ray said. “But that shouldn't take too long to fix and
Susan always took good care of it.”
Danny looked away from Ray's
blank face and started doodling with his pencil. “After the council meeting,
I talked to Fraser and he said we can have whatever gas we need for the
trip, since it's important. So we can leave when Brian gets back.”
“Okay.” Ray made to get up,
but Danny was still talking, trying to keep the conversation going. Ray
settled back into his chair, exhausted at even this minimal conversation.
“I'd help but you know I'm not that good with cars. I've got to get the
supplies and then Fraser asked me to work on the watermill plans. I think if
we can deal with the inconsistent water flow we can generate maybe three
hundred watts per month. Fraser thinks...”
Ray kept nodding, wondering
when Danny would finally give up on trying to include him. Ray really wasn't
interested in listening to what Fraser thought. He really wasn't into
listening to any of this, but he owed Danny and he paid his debts. Ray
looked over at Steph, her brown eyes finally lifting from her list,
considering him briefly before turning to her task, ignoring him. Danny
started sketching his mill design with a finger on the table, his worn hands
tracing the air in widening patterns. He had thinned—they all had, under the
hard work and shortened rations—but his face still carried an openness
between the sun and windburn. His hair spilled over his shoulders, now that
he had given up on trimming the ends. Too much work, he'd said, no need to
bother Steph to cut it for him, but Ray suspected it held a deeper meaning,
a slow return to his roots. Still, when the evening fire burned down and Ray
slipped off to his cot, he could not fault Danny for his desire for
stability, for some sort of connection to the rest of their little
community. There was very little connecting Ray to anything in Stewart
Junction, and sometimes he wondered why he didn't just pack up and go off on
his own.
He shifted on the cot,
tugging the wool blanket down over his stocking feet. Well, he had had his
chance with Dennis. That wasn't much of a choice. And going off alone in the
winter would be suicidal. He wasn't quite there yet. Ray smiled grimly in
the dark. He knew Fraser had been watching him, keeping an eye on him when
he thought he wasn't looking. He probably thought Ray would off himself.
Feeling his own thinness shiver under the blanket, Ray shut his eyes. No
need for suicide when starvation was just as easy.
He began to drift as
exhaustion pulled him under. Now that the fall was almost here, he doubted
he'd leave. No point in trekking thousands of miles through the wilderness
when you still had no place to go. It would be good to get away with Danny,
though. And maybe he could get out from under Fraser's eye. Yeah, he
thought, just before he slipped into sleep. Pity it isn't a one‑way trip.
Susan wasn't in her yard
when Ray stopped by the next day. He skirted the large mounds of scrap metal
she had been collecting, and knocked on the cabin door. Only the soft hiss
of the wind through the spruces answered his calls and he shrugged his
shoulders. Her Ford was parked in the back and it was never locked, so he
might as well get started. Lifting the hood, he pulled out the air filter
and held it up to the pale yellow light. It would need replacing, but he was
certain he could scrounge the necessary parts. Assuming, of course, no one
had any better need for them. Or had promised them to someone else.
A few hours later, he heard
Susan banging in the cabin and stood to stretch. He could hear her laughing
as she opened and then shut the front door. “...so then he said, `Well, why
don't we connect the pipe fitting to the big line?' And before I could point
out it was the septic line, he unscrewed it and shit came flying up
everywhere.”
Someone's voice—a man's, it
sounded like—snorted in response and the door banged closed again, cutting
off the voices. Ray leaned forward, almost unconsciously trying to make out
the conversation. The pipes had given way again? Surely not, after all the
repair work he and Fraser had put into them that spring. He found himself
standing next to the cabin before realizing it. The voices were a bit
clearer; he could almost make out the words now. But he didn't want to hear,
or be caught lurking around the edges of the cabin like a peeping Tom.
Stiffly, he returned to the truck and resumed working. So intent was he on
tuning out all other distractions, he did not hear the shouting until Larry
had almost reached the cabin.
His training took over and
he dropped the wrench and reached the cabin so efficiently he startled Larry
with his speed. Larry's eyes were red-rimmed, his coat open, and his cap was
sliding off his head. Ray focused sharply and saw blood on Larry's shirt and
reached out a hand to steady him. But Larry plunged forward, past Ray and up
the steps. Ray, still moving quickly, caught up with him just as the cabin
door was flung open.
“What the hell's up with
you?” Susan's voice seemed suddenly too large for the clearing. Larry froze,
his hand still reaching for the door latch, and then blurted in one
breathless gasp, “Brian sliced his leg and it's down to the bone and he's
bleeding hard. Is the medic with you?”
Susan, startled, looked over
Larry's head and up the road. Automatically, Ray looked over his shoulder
but saw no one. “No,” she said, stepping out and reaching down to pull her
boots on, “I haven't seen him. He may be over at Rita's checking on Mary.
She's just about due.”
“God dammit.” Larry's voice
cracked. “He's fucking bleeding. It's dark and heavy and...fuck, what are we
going to do? I can't stop the bleeding and I left him by the smokehouse
alone.”
Ray stepped forward and
tried to catch Susan's eye. But she turned away, grabbed her coat, and
shoved past them both. “Then you'd better get moving and grab Jim.” With
that she jogged out of sight and was gone.
For a moment, Ray and Larry
eyed each other. Ray nodded slowly, and saw an answering gleam of
helplessness in the man's eye. Then Larry paled further and ran heavily away
in the opposite direction. As silence fell, Ray could still smell the sharp
tang of blood and glanced down at the smears Larry's boots had left on the
porch. His fists curled into themselves.
Fuck, he
thought. How many more of them would they lose? The young tourist couple
from Ottawa —the Latteaus—had
shot themselves last month. From Danny's description it sounded like a
murder‑suicide. But with no note, only dead bodies, they could only
speculate. Stepping off the porch, Ray looked at the overcast sky. Well,
whatever their reason, they'd been damned lucky it had worked on the first
try. Too many people thought it was easy to shoot themselves. Usually they
botched it and were found still breathing with bits of jaw hanging out and
fragments of eye splattered all over themselves. No, if you wanted to off
yourself all it took was a plastic bag, two rubber bands, and a handful of
sleeping pills. Assuming you could find any pills now.
The day grew chilly and he
decided it was too dark; he'd finish the truck later. He considered heading
back to Danny's but felt restless. He turned right and walked slowly toward
the center. As he passed the bend in the path, he saw Larry's cap, which had
fallen off in his rush to find the medic. Larry sure had changed in the past
few months. It had helped that they'd run out of alcohol and no one wanted
to spare the potatoes to make more. But sometime after Canada Day, Larry had
pulled himself out of his stupor and started helping. Danny had laughed and
said that Larry had even stopped muttering about how soft everybody else
was. Steph had said that when Larry stopped whining, he'd started teaching
useful stuff about living up north. She'd sounded almost respectful when she
said it.
He continued past the cap
without picking it up. Well, just great, he thought. So the town
drunk reforms and everyone rejoices. Hurrah.
Smoke curled from the civic
center but no lamps had yet been lit. He heard the faint sound of scraping
from the back, and caught a sharp unpleasant smell. They were tanning hides,
a messy and disgusting process. He walked around the building and found
Istas working alone. He had removed his coat and was wearing his dirtiest
sweater. Istas had several hides at various stages—scraping, soaking, and
stretching. The small shed had been converted into an enclosed charcoal pit
with smoldering rotten wood to color the hides.
Ray paused, shrugged, and
kept approaching. Istas barely looked up from his scraping. Ray blinked
against the smell and then nodded at Istas and waited.
Istas kept scraping, his
arms swinging the scythe in rhythmic arcs. His dark ponytail lay flat
against his back and his face was well browned. He liked to work outside and
alone. After waiting a few more awkward moments, Ray nodded again. “So how's
Brian?” he asked.
Istas shook his head. The
scythe flew down the hide, removing more sinew in an even stroke. “What
about Brian?”
Ray winced and then let it
go. So no one had told Istas. “Don't know the details,” he said reluctantly.
“Brian hurt himself—cut himself—and Larry and Susan went to get Jim.”
“Ah,” Istas said, stepping
closer to reach a particularly troublesome knot of flesh. “Well, sounds like
they have it well in hand.”
The scraping noise sent a
chill down Ray's back. Well, if it had been me Fraser had left in charge,
I'd double‑check to make sure everything really was okay. I wouldn't just
sit there pulling some pointy stick over a dead animal skin. But
he wasn't in charge, and Ray felt a heavy wave of weariness and hunger wash
over him. He watched Istas working a few more minutes in silence and then
walked to the center's back steps. As he knelt to remove his boots before
entering, he heard the back window edge open and a voice drifted out.
“Who put green wood on the
stove? Christ, it smells like crap in here.” It was Barney Dunn. He had been
hunting with a few buddies when the plague hit. He was the only survivor.
“Close that damn window. I
can live with the smoke. It's the cold that'll kill you.” Ray recognized
George Meeker, a naturalist who had come to the Yukon
on a university grant in the '70s. He
had stayed and started raising huskies for sled racing.
“In a minute. So, you hear
about Brian?”
Ray paused on the steps and
listened to the two men moving about the center.
“Yeah, sounds bad. Hope
he'll make it.” George was standing next to the window and his voice
carried.
More rustling and clinking
noises as the two men started lighting the lamps. The soft light spilled out
the opened window and fell across the snow.
“So you think that boiler
project is still on?” Barney asked.
“I dunno. Danny may have
enough info. But if he's just going to take Ray, I'd think not. He's not the
most reliable.” George replied.
What do you mean, not
reliable, Ray thought and sat down heavily on the steps. I
pull my fair share.
“Well, he does pull his fair
share.” Barney's voice came faintly as he moved away. “But he does it on his
own time and at his own pace.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.
I had a husky like that once. Good dog, just didn't pull with the rest of
the team.” George had regaled them one night with exploits of his
prize‑winning sled dogs.
“Wasn't that Tag? I thought
he was one of your best?” The floor creaked under Barney's feet as he
crossed the room toward the back door. Ray began to rise from the steps.
“He was. He could outrun any
dog in the pack. But he just wouldn't follow the team lead, and you know
what that spells on a sled run.” George sounded irritated, as if the dog had
insulted him personally.
“Yeah.” He heard Barney's
voice end abruptly as the window slammed down.
Absently Ray looked for his
boots, found them on his feet. The cement steps were cold beneath him and
his body was growing numb. He looked around to see if anyone else was about
but he only saw Istas picking the hide off the rack and stacking it on the
pile. Well, there was no point hanging around here. He might as well go back
to Danny's.
Rattling from the kitchen
woke him and Ray realized he had fallen asleep. His sleep was intermittent,
and some nights nonexistent. He had exhausted the village's limited book
collection before guilt at wasting their batteries and candles had put an
end to nighttime reading. Now he spent a good portion of most evenings
listening to the wind and the sounds from the main cabin.
Sliding into his indoor
shoes, he pushed open the door and ran his hand across his face. Steph
always had a pot of something on the stove, even if it was just a watery
stew of wrinkled potatoes and dried fish. Tonight, even the smell of cooking
food couldn't made him hungry. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his
head, and then the room snapped painfully into focus.
Fraser stood next to the
kitchen table, his dark head bent over the map covering it. Ray still
couldn't get used to the beard—it seemed to harden his face into something
unrecognizable. Danny was measuring the distance between two points. Ray
could probably just slip away, back into his corner, before they noticed
him, but he hesitated, his eyes returning to Fraser. He seemed smaller
somehow, his thin body stretched and angular. Fraser nodded once at Danny's
muttered calculations and then bumped awkwardly into the table. Fraser's arm
was in a sling, his fingers wrapped in gauze. From the way Fraser dipped his
shoulder each time he moved, Ray could tell it hurt.
Ray stepped further into the
kitchen and waited for them to finish their calculations. He could see what
Danny was trying to do—how many miles to Keno and back, how much fuel, how
much time before the weather turned. Information that he, Danny, and Brian
were supposed to discuss today. He wondered how Brian was doing. Looking at
Fraser's arm, he decided not to ask.
“Shit,” Danny finally
muttered and then tossed his pencil aside. “I was a math teacher; you'd
think I could do this.” Danny slumped into the chair and frowned down at the
map.
“I think your numbers are
correct. Three days there by truck, two days to select and load the boiler,
and then three back. That gives us a four-to-five-day window before the
freezes begin. It's doable.” Fraser paused and looked up, seeing Ray for the
first time. He nodded in greeting and began fumbling with his left hand to
fold the map. Ray felt an overpowering urge to leave the two of them. He
forced himself to stay in place.
“Yeah, but without Brian to
help choose and load, can we do it in two days? I mean, he knew the most
about steam boilers and which one could best be retrofitted to burn wood.”
Danny glanced at Fraser's arm, then looked back at Ray. Ray focused on a
spot between his feet. He didn't want Fraser along. Hell, he'd hoped to get
away from Fraser. But if Fraser wanted to run the show, it was up to Danny
to raise the practical objections. Like how they'd lift a
seven‑hundred‑pound boiler with a truck winch and only two able-bodied men.
Clearly there were other factors to consider, but Danny didn't know how to
raise them. Ray was just along for the ride. Danny was going to have to deal
with Fraser.
Fraser tossed the map down
as if the matter were closed. Fraser was no fool. He could ignore your
objections until you could no longer remember why you had any in the first
place. He could convince you north was south. Or that the word “
Chicago
” was no longer part of your vocabulary.
“Danny, we have Brian's
list,” Fraser said soothingly. “It's just a matter of picking the right
boiler size. As for my arm—” He wiggled the fingers gingerly. “It's just a
sprain. By the time we get here, the swelling will have gone down.”
Yeah, and if it hasn't,
Danny and I will just have to make do, Ray thought. Fraser's eyes
flickered toward him, and for a moment Ray wondered if he had actually
spoken aloud. God, five years as partners and they could still read each
other too well. The thought unsettled him and he stared at the floor until
he could feel Fraser's intense gaze slide away.
Danny cleared his throat,
breaking the mood. “Okay, well, I guess that's it, then. When do we head
out? Ray, is the truck ready?” He clearly wanted them to move on to
something else. Ray took pity on Danny and sat down at the table; besides,
he was tired of not looking at Fraser.
“The truck is working fine,”
Ray answered. Fraser's eyes were back on him again. “I'll need some help
siphoning the gas from the RV. It should take a few hours. Add a gas cap and
we're ready to go.” He snapped his mouth shut. Fraser nodded at Ray, a flick
of surprise in his eyes, followed by a pleased expression. Danny relaxed,
and Ray felt confusion and will drain away, leaving only vague, shapeless
guilt behind.
Danny returned to the boiler
specs, pausing to ask Fraser for clarification from time to time. Ray saw no
further need to participate and sat in silence, smoothing a discarded list
into smaller and smaller folds of paper. And when Fraser left, he pointedly
did not watch Fraser fumbling with his coat buttons.
That night, Ray tossed with Danny's lists and tables marching through his mind like unweary soldiers.