#canoe has been dried off and brought inside

[daisywords]

success! (think)

[nedcanquen]

Le Loupgarou - Chapter 4 - Home/Journey

I’m still insisting on finishing this one!

Tags: Werewolf AU, supernatural, Historical AU.

Pairings: NedCan

Image from Pexels

Names: Christian - Luxembourg Odd - Norway

It’s no longer home.

After Daan had walked out into the storm into certain death, Matthieu had raged. First came the denial - it hadn’t happened, or clearly, the other man must have lied to get Matthieu to stop him from trying to save him. After a while, Matthieu had to face the truth: the confession had simply felt too real. Desperate but real.

Then the fury came - roaring against the man who had taken his food and space, and squirmed into his heart, but more than that, it roared against Matthieu himself. Matthieu had saved the man’s life, had decided to share a part of himself on his own. Why was Matthieu always so stupid?

When the fury finally abated, all that remained was a hollow emptiness, and shame. Matthieu had chosen to save a man because it was the right thing to do. Whatever “right” meant anymore in this world. Maybe he truly was stupid, maybe doing the “right” thing was the path to death and pain and nothing else now. Still, Matthieu had long ago decided that he would rather hide from the world than be forced to do things he did not wish to, in order to survive. Here, he learned that doing right or wrong barely mattered - he helped someone, and this was what he had earned.

Matthieu didn’t know how much time had passed that night before he eventually tried to follow after the creature - not for concern but out of anger. He wanted to do the exact thing that it seemed desperate for him not to do. Even though the loupgarou had made a futile attempt to block his door, it wasn’t difficult for Matthieu to open it. But it wasn’t the door or the feeble attempt at stopping Matthieu that actually stopped him. It was nature itself.

White upon white, the wind howled with the same rage that howled through Matthieu’s own heart. He wanted to scream into it but he couldn’t. Spit would freeze before hitting the ground at these temperatures - no sky, no ground. Could he die if we ventured out on some mad quest for vengeance? Absolutely. A great part of him was tempted - cold numbs everything. Before the end Matthieu would finally be numb to all pain, he would no longer feel his flesh protesting his folly, he would no longer feel the tear deep within his heart, the heavy weariness in his eyes, or the pounding in his head.

Ultimately it’s the same fury that saves him. If he’s going to die, it’s not going to be for that thing. Matthieu has done his part. If it dies, it dies. If it...he…no...Leve...oh God.

Matthieu throws his door shut in rage and helplessness and screams. He screams and keeps screaming until there’s no voice left. He can’t take it anymore. He can’t keep feeling, he doesn’t want to be this raw, he has to...he…

There. Matthieu crawls over to his chosen supply chest and pulls out the old bottle of rum - a curiosity purchase he had traded a pelt for a few years back. Usually he only drinks it to help numb the pain after stitching up a particularly painful wound, but tonight is different. Matthieu tosses the bottle back and gulps it down like water after a scorching day. He lets the fire burn through him - through the back of his throat, settling in his belly, but most importantly, it burns through his mind, banishing feelings he wishes were never there to begin with.

Matthieu does eventually try to look for him. After the hangover, after doing all the practical things he can think of doing, by the third day he can stand it no more. Even though it’s going to be useless, Matthieu sets out to find...something, anything. Some hint of a body, or fight or…

“There are many things that can survive a storm like this.”

Matthieu shakes off the chilling hope at the memory of those words and walks.

He loses count of the days that he searches to no avail. He’s also lucky that he’s stored extra with the expectation of needing to feed and house an extra person, but eventually that also runs out. He had even brought along the creature’s hand-drawn map from the many papers he had left behind - Matthieu hates it, but the Loupgarou had mapped the surrounding terrain with incredible detail and it would have been foolish to leave such a useful tool behind.

Purposefully or not, as the weather warms, Matthieu travels farther and farther from his little cabin, setting up traps, gathering food and other needed materials, hunting when he needs to, and sleeping under the temporary shelters he builds from the branches he finds. When he has time, he expands the map as best he can. It’s not as accurate as the Loupgarou’s but it fulfills its purpose.

When the snows have completely melted, he backtracks, circling the cabin from afar and closes in. There’s no body to be found but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Months have passed, the werewolf could have been dragged away or eaten by other hungry animals or humans even, scavenging in the winter. He could have…

Matthieu sighs and looks down at his feet in front of the door. The snows have melted, green has started to show itself in the fresh beginnings of spring, but Matthieu still feels the emptiness of winter howling within him. He looks at the cabin, once the only home he chose, but now it’s just dried wood and something he can’t recognize. Matthieu looks around him and it’s already painful. He feels the absence of Leverett where the wood stacks are piled, all around this now neglected little haven he once had. Now he knows that if he walks inside the ache will be worse, that he’s been avoiding coming back because that means he will have to face reality, no matter how irrational -

It’s no longer a home.

And he knows, he knows that that man (he can’t say his name anymore) that man deserves his curse, deserves his fate. Matthieu thought he had taken in a man in need of help, he was wrong. He had taken in a wendigo into his home, into his-

Not anymore.

Matthieu stands, he doesn’t even open the door, he can’t. He turns, and goes where the wind takes him.

---

Six years later

The full-time wandering lifestyle suits Matthieu. Before (before), as a part-time coureur des bois , he did caught enough to get what he needed to hide and retreat to his cabin for periods of time. Now he has developed a comfort of sleeping anywhere - in the woods, on his canoe, a floor, an inn, it did not matter - Matthieu finds rest in his wandering. It is harder to be an independent coureur these days, regulations were turning most into owned employees of fur trading companies - voyageours . Matthieu did not feel like being owned. He could handle independent contracts between two people, or even small groups, but if he were going to sign himself away, he would have stayed with the Jesuits.

New France was changing once again. Once he would have cared, once that change would have terrified him. Now Matthieu has grown numb. Life is change, New France is simply some idea that the Europeans had come up with, the land had already been here before it was renamed. Tomorrow who knows? They may change the name again.

People changed. The idea of a new name is no longer so significant to Matthieu, people live short lives and they are meant to change. He now knows many people who have had more than one name in their lifetime. Ironically, his own name never changed, but he had.

Matthieu inhales deeply from the pipe again, letting the sweet flavor rush into him before breathing it out. “This is the best tobacco I have smoked in a long time!”

The man sitting across from him smiles just like he does - like his mother did, and her older sister did. Maybe Matthieu is imagining it, but he’s hoping he isn’t. Some things, time cannot change. The Haudenossaunee may have taken his cousin and given him a new name, as was the post-war custom (at least, Matthieu is pretty sure that this Mohawk warrior/trader called Odeserundiye is his cousin), this is the same boy who took it upon himself to always make sure that odd little Matthiue had been included. The same boy who had always been the most adaptable of them all.

Matthieu wonders if he’s right, if he’s imagining it, if Odeserundiye recognizes him, or is playing along for the sake of a good business relationship, or if there’s some kind of funny charade that they’re both going along with here.

“Best batch of the year!” Odeserundiye boasts. “Worth some of your best pelts.” As the bargaining began in earnest, there were forms to be observed - of course both of them were terribly inconvenienced, no the tobacco wasn’t that good, the pelts not that important. Bargaining is a pretty terrible charade at the end of the day, but a necessary part of the process. Shame, because Matthieu is terrible at it, and only gets through it by pretending to be someone else. It makes him grit his teeth painfully, but it kind of works.

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to be toothless before you hit old age.” Odeserundiye laughs. “And there’s no reason for you not to grow ripe and old. I used to think you were an angry wanderer but now I think I’ve figured it out - I only see you when we have business to do and you just hate bargaining so you make that face. Well if that’s the case, don’t bother, just be yourself.”

Matthieu has to laugh back, all relaxed now. “Yes, you would prefer that wouldn’t you? Then I’ll be limping back to Montreal naked and unarmed because I’ve given you everything for a handful of tobacco.”

Odeserundiye smiles fondly, and that familiar face pulls at Matthieu’s chest. “Relax, relax. Just enjoy the moment.” Matthieu inhales another long drag from the pipe and slowly breathes it out. After a long pause of taking Odeserundiye’s advice, Matthieu focuses on enjoying the sound of the river next to them, as they comfortably sit along its banks.

Eventually the other man breaks the silence. “If you’re willing to take advice, I already like doing business with you. I wouldn’t let you limp back anywhere unarmed and vulnerable - it means losing a good trading partner.”

Matthieu snorts. “I can handle myself.”

“I am sure that you can...you’re alive after all. You’re one of the very few independents still around, still thriving. You can probably continue doing this, but the companies are taking over. It’ll be difficult to survive as an independent for long.”

The contented mood is broken, and Matthieu exhales his smoke this time in frustration. “Why do we always have to accommodate them? They come here, with their new things, and they destroy everything. I was perfectly happy living here before they brought their guns, I was perfectly happy living on my own before I had to sell them fur again, and I have been content as an independent agent. What else will they ruin?”

“No you were not.”

Matthieu turns sharply and peers at his smoking partner, who slowly inhales from his pipe and lets the smoke out from his nose. “No one is perfectly happy all the time. I am guessing your father is one of them, you favor him. You still speak with the accent of the People of the Bear, so you must have been raised as a child with your mother’s people. While there are many children among our nations with European fathers, it is rare to favor them as much as you do; blonde-haired and pale-skinned. Perhaps your mother herself had some voyageur blood as well. It cannot have been easy, looking so different from everyone else-”

“I had a family!” Matthieu hasn’t felt this pain in a long time, he’s used to clamping it down. “They took care of me. They would have continued taking care of me, people would have gotten used to me eventually.”

Odeserundiye simply looks at him, assessing and sad. “I have lost three mothers. My first died of the pox, so my first mother’s sister adopted me. She was killed in the war, and I was given to a new mother in place of the son that she had lost. My third mother was killed in a retaliatory raid. Clearly they succeeded, but it never brought any of my mothers back. Matthieu, there has been war for as long as I can remember. If business is the price of whatever form of peace we have now, I will take it.”

Matthieu does not know where his temper had come from, he usually controls it well. Maybe Odeserundiye is right, war would have come sooner or later. Even before the Europeans had appeared his nation had struggled to keep the peace with the Haudenosaunee. He’s not going to imagine everything would have been perfect, but he likes to imagine that the conflict would have been less imbalanced - a series of small conflicts and skirmishes, but with his people and nation still existing. Not the aftermath of a genocide that he lives with now. “So, you want to keep me around as a business partner, and somehow this means I must join a company?”

Odeserundiye shrugs. “They would hire you. I could be your business partner. They wouldn’t hire me.” He says matter-of-factly. Matthieu knows he’s right - other than a European appearance, another thing that he inherited from his unknown French father was papers. Either that, or the Jesuits invented them for him. These ridiculously fragile papers gave Matthieu rights he never would have dreamed of being denied in his own birthplace - they mark him as a recognized citizen of New France. In these papers, his name is written as Matthieu Gellone. His father’s name is Francis and his mother’s name is written as Marguerite. He knows that’s not the name she used when he was a child. He sometimes wondered if she was actually baptized out of a real sense of faith or out of convenience to have her child with this ‘Francis’ recognized. Either way, he has saved these papers for no other reason than to have this tiny shred of evidence of her existence. The papers have been more useful than he had ever imagined they could be. The entire time he lived in the cabin he mostly forgot about them unless he was especially homesick for the past. Since he’s left the cabin and New France has grown, they have become more important.

Matthieu lets out a sigh. “Is this advice or is this a proposition to form a business partnership?”

“You could start your own company, don’t look away Matthieu I am serious! We could pool our resources, and start a company, have the protections afforded to a company! Under you, we would be protected from European advancement.”

What madness is this? “Protection? The companies go to war as much as our nations used to! I’ve seen so many dead tradesmen I leave them well alone. Staring up a fledgeling company is to put a target on our backs, on the backs of your family!”

“And what happens without risking this? We become enslaved to the companies that remain after the dust settles?”

Matthieu shakes his head. “You have the wrong business partner. I don’t have the brain for it. I don’t like it.” He knows who would have...once upon a time. Matthieu forces the memory of a tall man, straight-backed and lost in his world of calculations, out of his thoughts.

Odeserundiye places a comforting hand on Matthieu’s shoulder. “I would prefer you, but I will ask more. Think about it at least. Here, this is your tobacco. As agreed.”

Matthieu hands over the pelts and gathers up the tobacco. Before they part ways they embrace briefly.

“I am serious Matthieu, think about it.”

Matthieu doesn’t want to, but nods anyway.

---

On the way to Montreal, Matthieu thinks about the man who either looked and acted a lot like his former cousin, or was his cousin. If he is his cousin, this company formation is another act of his older cousin looking out for him. Matthieu cannot deny Odeserundiye’s read on their situation. And really, Matthieu is long past the point of pretending that he only needs his own company to survive. Ever since setting out again on his own again, Matthieu had to put aside enough of his aversion to other people to build a solid network for himself - reliable trade partners, customers, and bases of operation. Still, he likes being on his own. As much as he likes some of the people in his network, it’s easier to bargain with himself - put up with the social niceties and haggling, and reward himself with months of solitary travel.

“Still holding yourself back.” A familiar voice sounds in his head, it’s not accusing, it’s sad. Matthieu narrows his eyes and pushes on, focusing on the path.

Matthieu’s pelts and tobacco earn him good money at Montreal, he’s become familiar enough with the town that it is a comfortable base for now. It’s big enough that no one wants to know too much, it’s close enough that he’s treated to meals when he arrives. Odeserundiye’s words echo in his mind and he thinks deeper than his own instinctive aversion to the idea - objectively, Matthieu does well for himself, he has a small network spread across New France and among the Confederacy. Starting a small company is not inconceivable, and wouldn’t it serve to use his European face and name to afford some protection over this network? There’s a part of him, still a child, that is somewhat averse. Odeserundiye belongs to the nation that killed his family. But he has more in common with them now than to the Europeans.  

Speaking of the Europeans, Matthieu has become adept at imitating them too. Right now he’s sitting comfortably in his favorite inn - not too fancy, not too bad. It’s owners are honest immigrants who try a little too hard to marry him off to their daughter, but he knows how to avoid that for the most part. Instead, he observes.

There were newcomers to Montreal all the time, it was the center for fur trading, and it attracted more and more people. Then … there! Out of the corner of his eye.

Matthieu freezes, then he cannot help but look. Nothing. He looks again to make sure then laughs at himself in relief.

It doesn’t often happen now. In the early years just after he walked away from his cabin, Matthieu always imagined the Loupgarou just out of sight - in that corner, in the turn of that man’s face, in the shadow before a man moved. But it was never him. He thought he felt the other man’s familiar company on lonely walks for months on end in the woods, before realizing that he was only imagining a travel companion in the silence to keep loneliness at bay. It shamed him that of all the companions he could have imagined, it was still him.

He waits for his heart to calm itself then continues drinking. Still, he can’t help but turn around to get another glimpse over his shoulder, just in case.

It happens again. Matthieu thinks he sees a familiar head walk into a hidden corner.

‘I will put this idiocy to rest once and for all.’ He tells himself and stands to confront his imagination, where he is sure he will find nothing.

He turns the corner and finds a knife threatening his gut, held by an unknown man who is sitting across from a very very familiar face.

“Turn around now. Find another boy.” A deep voice advises with a bored tone - accented, Scandinavian? Those Northern settlers were usually more competent than the others, taking to the woods and surviving in them like second skin, almost as well as Matthieu himself.

“What?”

“I said-”

“I heard what you said! I’m not here for…” Matthieu looks at the boy with the very familiar face again and is horrified at the resemblance. But it’s not him. The boy, no young man, is shorter, his hair wavier and loose. His face however, is recovering from shock and settling into a familiar look of concentration.

“Odd please!” The young man suddenly smiles, all amiable as if he owns the Inn and is trying to attract a guest. “Let our new friend sit. I know what men look like when they want me, this one...isn’t looking at me like that. But, that’s not important. Sir...you look like you’ve seen me before.”

Matthieu looks between the young man with the Loupgarou’s face, which is trouble enough for him and his memories, and the other man...Odd? Who is putting away a very large knife. The latter has sharp, almost feminine facial features, very light blonde hair, a long walking staff strapped to his back, and there was just something about him that put Matthieu on edge. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but there was something...more about that man. Too much trouble. Nope.

He tries to turn around and finds that he can’t. Now instead of holding a knife to him, the man... Odd , is holding his arm. Matthieu has to fight an odd compulsion to stay and easily twists his arm out of the grip. Odd looks somewhat surprised at that.

“Look you two,” Matthieu says, “I can’t imagine what kind of unsavory characters have come after you since you’ve arrived here but if you -” He looks at the younger man with the too familiar face, “insist on looking like a bag of gold with legs, I would do something about not looking like that. Meanwhile you -” He looks at Odd and pauses, what did he want to say? “You ah, clearly have skills as a woodsman and you can teach him how to look less…” polished? Rich? “Obvious, but if you insist on pulling a knife on everyone who looks at him the wrong way, it’s not going to help you both stay hidden. None of these things gives either of you the leave to manipulate me or manhandle me. That’s all the help I can offer, I’m going now.”

“Wait!” The younger man runs in front of him with an earnest look he has never seen before but he can’t quite ignore either. “Sorry about that, we started off wrong. Let’s try again please? My name is Christian, and I’m looking for my brother!”

The world condenses right then and Matthieu has to take a deep breath and let it out.

And do it again, and again. Matthieu has to keep doing it….this boy is looking for his brother. Of all the brothers, could it be? Memories comes back, a too familiar voice sounds in his head - ‘somewhere my sister and brother are laughing and they don’t know why…’ the warmth in those eyes whenever he spoke about his siblings, then ‘I bought...my mother her retirement and my siblings a future out of a whorehouse…’

Matthieu looks away.

“You know him.” Christian declares. It’s not a question. “He’s alive then, I knew it. I wasn’t wrong, I couldn’t be. Please tell me where to find him. I can find him myself eventually but it will be so much faster if you-”

“I can’t help you!” He didn’t mean to be so threatening, but Christian shrinks away from him and Odd is standing in front of Christian protectively, looking ready for a fight again. Matthieu takes a deep breath. “I am sorry. I know you must have come a long way, but people arrive here all the time and disappear. Our land is much bigger than yours.”

Slender fingers take his hand, there’s a strange...tingle to them. “Is he dead?” Odd asks softly, almost a whisper. Matthieu did not expect that strong pull to answer...

“I…” Why can’t he answer? “I…” He looks Christian, at those familiar green eyes and that eager face. He doesn’t want to break it, he doesn’t...he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves, and to search, and search...and search. It would be cruel to let that search continue, this young man should live his life properly - too many had died just for this boy to live a happier life. “I once met someone who looked like you. He’s dead. A winter storm took him.”

And for a moment it happens - Christian’s face goes slack with shock, before twisting into a look of such pain it’s too achingly familiar. Matthieu tries to steel himself from it, to remind himself of what the Loupgarou had done for the sake of this younger brother. He looks at his young man who is falling apart - is he worth everyone and everything that Matthieu’s ever loved?

As Christian folds into himself in grief, and Odd goes to comfort him, for the first time Matthieu allows his thoughts to fly where he’s never allowed them to go - at the volatile age of fourteen when he almost ended his life on this world...if someone had brought his mother back to him, but with a knife held to her throat...promised her freedom if only Matthieu agreed to something that could kill everyone on some nameless nation he didn’t know, across the sea, would he have at least tried?

‘It’s not the same’ Matthieu tells himself. ‘It can’t be compared.’ It didn’t happen that way. “I am sorry for your loss.” Matthieu says, surprised to realize that he actually means it.

Christian shakes his head, but his voice is breaking. “No. No it can’t...he’s a fucking cockroach! Nothing can...he can’t....” Odd’s face is soft and sympathetic, he envelopes the younger man in a hug. Christian grabs onto him, sobbing into his shoulder.

Matthieu turns and sighs - three men arguing then one young man losing all composure is attracting too much attention. “We should leave. I have a room upstairs.”

---

Well...this is awkward.

Once again, Matthieu finds himself sharing his personal space, except this time with two strangers. His sympathy for a young man who has just suffered a great loss has led Matthieu to let Christian sleep on his bed. Tonight, he will make do with the floor, together with another man he barely knows, and who had greeted him with a knife.  Perfect. Why does he keep doing this?

‘You’re not even here, you’re dead…’ Matthieu speaks to that all-to-familiar memory in his head. ‘Why is it that I can STILL blame all the strange things in my life to you?’ Why could he not turn away a boy with that familiar face? Why does he feel a churning inside?

Odd sits on the bed, leaving a steadying hand on heaving shoulders until exhaustion finally takes the younger man into dreams. Once Christian is softly snoring, Matthieu finally speaks.

“You have younger siblings don’t you?” He whispers.

Odd looks over and nods, suddenly appearing far more tired than Matthieu initially thought.

Matthieu now wonders about the Loupgarou’s European life, about this strange place called Europe in general, and how terrible it must be for so many of its people to willingly leave it. “Did you know his brother?” He has to ask. There’s a part of him that tries to imagine Odd in the Loupgarou’s embrace, but it is gut churning. Matthieu chases the image away and looks down, cheeks burning - what’s wrong with him?

Odd settles down next to Matthieu on the floor and shakes his head. “No, Christian was already looking for him when we met. Or rather, when he met my brother. Those fools had originally planned to come here, just the two of them, without telling anyone. I managed to stop my brother in time and make sure he stayed but I had to come here anyway, with Christian, to make sure he didn’t get himself killed.”

Matthieu looks back at the slumbering young man. “That...must keep you very busy.”

“Yes,” Odd agrees with an exasperated sigh. “It does. Though he’s not without his skills, they’re just completely misplaced. Put that boy in the middle of a thriving city like Amsterdam and he would keep us alive. Here, he has a lot to learn.”

Matthieu could see that. “So that means...who did your brother come here to look for?”

Odd’s face takes on a wistful look, lips turned into a reluctant smile. “An idiot. A ridiculous, self-sacrificing idiot who tries too hard, and if there’s even the smallest chance he’s still alive, I’ll find him. If he’s not, I’ll gather whatever remains and bring him home for a proper burial.”

Matthieu’s stomach calms itself and he finds himself smiling with sadness and admiration. It’s a nice sentiment, but he shakes his head all the same. He can tell just by looking at him that Odd knows what he’s just sworn - a lifetime to this other mysterious idiot who managed to get lost in Matthieu’s home. For heaven’s sake. “You may never find any remains either. Is there really nothing else you’d rather be doing than wandering around my homeland for the rest of your life?”

Odd’s only answer is a scoff. He gives Matthieu and unreadable look then shrugs and lies down on the floor. He’s asleep in no time, and Matthieu wonders about why these two strangers have decided he’s not going to kill or rob them.

Softly, Matthieu knocks his head against the wall. He’s the fucking idiot. A sap. He never learns. Still, he can’t help but stand and silently make his way over to the slumbering young man and drink in his familiar features. Why is he doing this to himself?

It’s torture to see Christian lost in the world of dreams, relaxed from care, just like Leverett had been in those few precious days after learning how to sleep. Matthieu thought time would erase Leverett’s face from his mind, turn it blurry, but even if that had been true, it’s not now. Looking at Christian, Matthieu remembers everything. He remembers enough that he can see where the brothers do not resemble each other, and aches for the familiar even as he detests what he sees.

He reminds himself - Matthieu’s entire world, gone, for this little brother.

---

“Where did you last see him?” The boy asked the moment he realized Matthieu was awake.

Matthieu looks around the room. Odd is not there. With a sigh, Matthieu hauls himself up and stretches. He stands, ignoring Christian for a moment and pours himself a drink, his mouth is feeling dry. To the young man’s credit, he doesn’t push or ask again, waiting as Matthieu walks around the room, loosening the kinks in his neck. Finally, with a sigh, Matthieu realizes he is curious enough to answer some questions, just to see where it leads. He pulls over the lone stool in the room to sit next to the bed. “Christian, the man I saw...that was six years ago. Six. By now there are no remains to be had.” Besides there was one other sibling the Loupgarou had mentioned. Matthieu hoped this sister wasn’t running around here too. “You should go home.”

Christian nods, thinking, and Matthieu is filled with dread. There is no grief in the boy’s eyes, only determination. “Was he alone?”

Matthieu wonders if Christian knew about the curse. “Yes. He was. Look Christian, the man I saw may not even be your brother. For all I know, you all look the same over there.”

Finally, Christian focuses on Matthieu, his eyes searching. It’s mildly disturbing and yet Matthieu can’t really separate himself from staring back. When Christian is calculating something, like he is now, he looks even more  like the man Matthieu knew. Finally, Christian relaxes, “When you saw me, my face, you recognized it. You looked broken, then you looked like you wanted to kill me. You gave me a bed to sleep on instead.”

Well he was certainly just as straightforward as his brother had been. Why is Matthieu here? He may have loved Leverett the Loupgarou, but he knew he hated Daan. This boy sitting on the bed in front of him was part of Daan’s world and acting like who Daan had been - throwing himself into places he had no business being in, spearing through things he didn’t understand. Christian would kill to find Daan, just as his brother had been willing to do the same to give this little brother a different life.

Matthieu stands. “I know what it’s like to lose family. Go home to the rest of yours before you can’t.”

As he’s striding out from the room, Matthieu feels a small sense of satisfaction that he’s just going to pay and leave. This is all the closure he’s going to get - Leverett and Daan dead, his family now knowing about it.

Maybe a different man would seek vengeance on Christian. The thought crosses his mind for a moment and Matthieu angrily dismisses it. It wouldn’t do anything - certainly not bring his family back, just like how a retaliatory raid had not brought back any of Odeserundiye’s mothers. Punishing Christian would not change what Daan did. It would be a waste of energy, time, and peace for nothing.

---

He’s left the confines of the town and is well on his own trail by the river when he senses he’s not alone…he’s also not surprised. Matthieu slows his pace, and Odd matches step with him, as if they were both sharing this journey together all along from the beginning. Maybe they had been. “Why are you so amused?” He stops to ask Odd..

“It’s not amusement.”

“Then?”

“Just trying to complete this puzzle. His brother. You loved him, you hate him, but not enough to really leave Christian behind. You knew we’d follow.”

Matthieu frowns. Is he this easy to read? What was it about Odd that was just so...well, odd? In the distance he can see Christian finally catching up, eyes locked on him in a familiar grim determination. Matthieu looks back to Odd and he voices out his suspicion. “You’re a shaman aren’t you?”

“I promise, other than assessing your intentions when we first met to find out how dangerous you are, and to find out where his brother went, I’ve done nothing else. Your thoughts and decisions are your own.”

Mattheiu thinks he can believe that, other than those first two times, Odd hadn’t touched him. Still, he wasn’t quite sure how to act around this European shaman. He’s partly fascinated by the existence of one - they had struck him as a people so far removed from their earth that he figured they didn’t have any shamans. Not to mention, the Jesuits seemed especially adamant against such practices. Still, there’s difference enough, Odd does not look like any Shaman that Matthieu remembers.

“You walk fast.” Christian pants when he finally reaches them. “And Odd, how could you leave me?”

A slight smile plays at the edge of Odd’s lips as he answers “You were going to be fine. Besides, this is a life you’re going to have to get used to if you insist on going through with this idea of yours.”

Matthieu cannot help but smirk as well. “Dare I ask?”

Christian squares his shoulders and looks directly into Matthieu’s eyes. Matthieu somehow feels like he is about to hear a sales pitch.

“Alright Monsieur Matthieu, you’re right. This land is big. It’s so big it hasn’t even been mapped. Who knows what is out there? I am just one man, I’ll never find my brother, or figure out if he’s still alive, simply by physically looking for him.”

Stubborn boy, but smart at least. “Yet, it sounds like you won’t go home.” Matthieu replies.

Christian frowns. “If he’s alive, I know how to find him, but please Monsieur, I will need your help.”

Curious, Matthieu has to ask. “I’m not agreeing to anything, but what do you propose to do?”

Odd sits down on a nearby rock, indicating that this is going to take a while. Meanwhile, Christian smiles in relief. “It’s a last effort but if I can’t find him this way, I’ll give up the search. I know how my brother’s mind works...strategically. I used to think the world of him, he was never really an affectionate older brother but he did his best by trying to teach me important lessons. You said my brother perished in a winter storm. I know he got on a boat and crossed here in late summer. Either he survived on his own in this strange land for months before running into you and somehow making enough of an impression in that short time, that you now keep looking at me as if you can’t decide whether to cry or to kill me...OR, he stayed with you and traveled with you for months and you cared for him until winter.”

Matthieu frowns and looks at Odd. Odd’s hands are up defensively. “I told you he has different skills.”

Matthieu really wonders how obvious he is, and realizes how lucky he is that his business partners must be fond of him. If he’s this readable he truly must be a terrible businessman. “Fine, I met your brother, we know this. What does this have to do with your plan?”

“My point is, if he stayed with you for months, you know about his curse.”

Matthieu freezes. “I did not mention it because I was unsure if you knew about it.”

“Fair.” Christian shrugs. “And I thought maybe you killed him, except you seemed genuinely sad when you told me that he was lost to a winter storm. So if he survived the storm, and was doing his usual idiocy of running away from the few people he cares about so he doesn’t hurt them, there’s only one way he would have survived!”

Matthieu thinks the answer should be obvious but he honestly doesn’t know it, “How?”

“Change his name and start a trading company of course!” Christian exclaims while jumping in excitement. “I’ve been reading about all the new trading companies that have been exploding in New France in the past five years! It’s easy to hide in one of those! Also, a new territory? Easy to have papers made up for you if you have the right connections and price. My brother wouldn’t disappear into the woods or anything like that, he’s a city man, an entrepreneur. The only place he could hide would be in business! And if he’s hiding in business, I can find him!”

Matthieu shakes his head, thinking of the thousands of trading companies, some so small they only last less than a day. “How could you possibly find him through business?”

Christian grins, “I know how he thinks. Let’s start a company. You’re the local expert, Odd could help us with intelligence gathering behind the scenes, and I’ll handle business. Give me a few years to understand how things work here and I’ll figure out which companies have been around long enough to have possibly been started by my brother - there can’t be that many that have survived for what? Four or five years?. Then I’ll figure out how each of those are run, the history of growth and purchases. I don’t need his name to find him, but trust me, I’ll recognize how he runs a company! He can’t hide that from me!”

This? This is the plan? Matthieu cannot be as enthusiastic as Christian clearly is. He’s also wondering why everyone is after him to form some kind of company lately. “Christian, by some miracle, if you start up a company, and it survives, and you manage to come up with a list of potential companies, and um...all that you said...it’s been six years. Let’s imagine your brother is alive, you may still never find him because people can change a lot in six years.”

The little brother’s grin turns mercenary. “Then I find nothing and I sell you my shares in the company and go home. Then you can sell them and retire and do whatever you want, and not have me bothering you anymore.”

Matthieu groans and looks up at the sky with a frustrated expression. “I was just telling someone yesterday that I don’t want to start a company.”

“Oh great! Who? I sense a new business partner. The more locals the better, most of these places will fail because they won’t have local expertise and networks as its foundation.”

In the end, Matthieu accepted his fate. Which apparently, was to register a trading company. Himself, Odeserundiye, Odd, and Christian were equal partners, with Matthieu and Odeserundiye having the local network and exclusive area knowledge to find resources where most companies didn’t know where to look; Christian handling accounts; and Odd handling...information and intelligence gathering. The deal was, if Christian found his brother, or decided the search was over, he would keep a percentage of his earnings to live comfortably back in Europe, and divide the rest of his shares equally between Matthieu, Odeserundiye, and Odd. As for Odd, as it turned out, the man he was looking for was afflicted with the same curse that Christian’s brother had, so finding one Loupgarou  would hopefully provide a strong lead to the other.

Matthieu for his part, found himself on a new journey that he never expected. Part of his life at first was mostly unchanged. He did the same things he used to do, traveled, built networks, caught beavers; except now he also trained other people to do the same occasionally, and he did all this while...being an owner of a company and having earnings be stored in several banks - Christian took care of those details. The other part that surprised him was that Odeserundiye was right, there was protection to be had under the cover of a company, and as a person with European paperwork, Matthieu did find himself having a little more power than he ever felt before, to protect the parts of his home that he had always seen as under attack. He bought land so that native nations would not be forced to move from it, he used his position to try to warn people of harmful new policies when he learned of them. Of course, Christian would catch wind of it, tsk, shake his head and go straight to the Governor with gifts and flowery words to completely distract him from implementing such boring and unimportant new laws.

Odd’s words from that first day “In a city, he would keep us alive” were truer than ever. Montreal was slowly becoming a city, and it was Christian’s oyster.

Matthieu was no more comfortable as an owner of a well-to-do company than he had ever been before. Change still came too fast, and he wasn’t sure if it was serving his home for the better. He also learned that he would never really be fully accepted among the original nations, even though he was born one of them. It pained him, but he also could not blame them for this prejudice when he obviously gained so many advantages simply for favoring his European father’s looks. And anyway, Matthieu held onto his own prejudices so tightly, even with Christian and Odd as colleagues and eventual friends.

They were a strange group, but they were his group. There’s no time now to imagine he can hear the Loupgarou speaking to him in his head. There’s no time to sit for hours, lost in the memories of the dead, or to listen to the wind howl. He doesn’t know if this is better or worse, but it certainly is different.

The most obvious thing he realizes, is that he’s no longer alone.

[loruleanheart]

The Legend of Hilda, Chapter 30

Rated M

Paring: Yugilda

The Captain looked over his knights in the training yard as they sparred amongst themselves. Morale was higher than the captain had ever envisioned for his men. They all seemed to be preparing for a great battle - and he knew why. From where he stood he could see Ravio and the Princess in the courtyard. Neither of them was smiling, but seemed to be conversing earnestly as Ravio tossed grains to Yuga's prized peacocks; that had gone neglected since his disappearance. The Captain gave a bittersweet smile.

oOo

"I'm glad to see that more and more knights are returning every day. I believe we'll be well prepared should Yuga show himself… Which I fear may come to pass very soon…"

Ravio turned to her, looking apprehensive. "What makes you say that?" Ravio shifted his gaze back to Sheerow who had joined the peacocks, fighting for bits of grain among the larger birds.

Hilda grimaced. "I feel as though I sleep fitfully with harrowing visions I can not recall when I awake." She felt like she was losing her mind. She dared not tell him how she'd found herself in Yuga's chambers among his bedding smelling of incense and her perfume. She'd torn at the sheets and sobbed before swearing to seal his chambers or better yet have everything inside destroyed, although she hadn't quite got around to it yet.

One of the peacocks caught her eye. It moved towards the fountain to dip it's beak in for a drink. Something in Hilda shifted, a memory threatening to resurface. Her expression relaxed, becoming dreamy.

"Were they about Yuga?" Ravio asked, drawing her attention back to him.

For a moment she felt light. Hilda looked at Ravio with nervous intrigue, almost smiling.

"Your Highness… Please don't think me strange for asking, but… what made you go to Yuga's chambers last night to sleep?"

Hilda became visibly flustered, grasping to respond, and then her expression transformed into a look of hate. "I can feel him drawing me in," she said tightly. It was the only conclusion she could reach. Of course, this must be Yuga using some sort of enchantment to sway her trust back to his favor, or perhaps, just to torment her.

Her eyes focused on the bulky gold bracelet on his wrist, which didn't go unnoticed by the young man. He slipped it off over his hand and handed it to her.

"Here, perhaps you'd like to hold onto this," he offered, with a smile.

Hilda hesitated. "But what about you? You are the hero destined to fight the demon king incarnate."

"I'm not afraid…. Not anymore. But I pray it will help assuage any doubts you may be feeling right now and help you regain your hope."

Hilda gave him a confused look, but relented, finally accepting the bracelet. "Thank you, Hero of Lorule." She placed it on her own wrist in an almost self-conscious manner. "You know… It is said he created this bracelet in his first mortal life. I don't exactly feel right wearing it, but knowing it's a gift from you gives me some peace."

Ravio smiled at her warmly. "I can't think of a better reason."

"And know this Ravio... When Yuga shows his painted face in my presence I won't just stand by idly as you meet him in battle. I will do my part as well."

oOo

Yuga moved the ore through murky waters; no easy task on account of the thick, gnarled trees that grew from deep under the water's surface. There wasn't much sunlight able to penetrate their canopy. One could scarcely tell it was nearly noon and not daybreak or dusk. He looked to Fayre who appeared contemplative.

He could no longer hold back questions that had been nagging at him since they'd set off. "Why did you tell me to take this route? Why won't you use your magic to return me to the castle as you brought me to Misery Mire? The matriarchs will surely target Her Grace. They could be at Lorule castle as we speak!"

Fayre's shoulders slumped and she dropped her gaze." I know, Yuga… I'm sorry. I do not have the strength…."

Yuga held back a heavy sigh. Koume's attack must have broken Fayre's spirit and sapped her power. Although she'd been in high spirits when they left, it appeared now as though it was finally sinking in what had transpired.

"So…. What are you going to do? About the princess. You know you won't be able to reverse what has been done." Fayre said, repeating what she'd revealed earlier. Yuga feared that this would soon become the sad refrain of everything Fayre would say from then on.

"Well first, I pray to the goddesses that bunny brat bastard didn't rent out Her Grace in my absence."

Fayre silently regarded him for a long moment, clearly taken aback, but not knowing how to respond. "So... You mean to say you don't have a plan?"

"Precisely…. For once…" Yuga went silent. He looked out over the swamp. "Although I do have a theory… I believe it was their brainwashing which led to Hilda's Triforce of Hope vanishing. That makes her useless to them. I can't imagine how enraged the twins must be…This doesn't bode well. I admit I am… concerned about what the twins will do now." Yuga clenched his jaw, turning his face from Fayre.

I couldn't even mislead two crazy old hags to believe I was committed to their cause. I have unwittingly doomed Hilda.

If only Fayre had been forthright from the beginning, perhaps he could have been better prepared.

"What about the boy? He's a knight and the hero. Surely he will defend the princess if the twins come for her." Fayre offered, hopeful.

Yuga clenched his fist. He was formulating a withering insult against the young merchant when something jostled the canoe violently. Something big.

Fayre gasped and grabbed on the edges of the canoe on either side of her. "The twins! Their servants come in many forms! They infest every corner of Lorule. Always watching. They are the matriarch's hands."

Yuga quickly materialized his staff and stood up, preparing to fight whatever it was, a wild octorok perhaps.

He peered over the edge to see a faint shadow passing under the canoe. He opened his mouth to direct Fayre to take the ores, but before he could, the unknown creature slammed into the canoe once more, this time with a force that was tenfold. They were thrown into the air and the last thing Yuga saw was the water's murky surface rushing toward him.

oOo

The sensation of moss under his fingers and the sound of birds chirping roused him. Yuga lifted his head to see an imposing statue of the goddess, Lorelle. Not a very flattering depiction of her, Yuga thought, still in a haze.

He realized he was still underwater from the waist down and recalling the shape of the creature he'd seen passing under the canoe, he scrambled out of the murk, coughing to rid himself of the taste of swamp water.

Whatever it was, it had been no mere octorok, Yuga thought. Worse, his staff was missing. He was certain he'd been holding it just before he fell into the swamp. He gave an aggravated huff. There was no way he'd find it out there, probably tangled up at the deepest most remote point of the mire with leeches, snapping turtles, and goddess knows what else. No one would ever find it. Maybe Hilda was just as lost to him. Just as Fayre said.

He looked around, seeing her nowhere.

Mother….

"Fayre!" He shouted into the swamp. The birds got spooked and flew away. And then silence….

"Where are you? You vowed you'd help me fix what you did to Hilda!" Yuga unleashed a primal scream; his frustration, rage, and despair manifest.

Hilda turning against him... Fayre's unknown but probable horrific fate... His prized staff at the bottom of the swamp…Everything had gone so fantastically awry… Perhaps even the goddess herself, watching from the edges of time, was corrupted just like her mortal incarnation.

He wasn't sure how long he was there, sitting in silence, but at last, he stood and passed the spring with the goddess statue. The water within appeared much too clean to be in the middle of a swamp as if purified by Lorelle herself. Lily pads floated on the surface. A small oasis in that miserable swamp. He could almost picture Hilda rising out of the waters in her pure white dress and smiling at him as she had so many thousands of years ago when he'd led her to the springs to reawaken the soul of the goddess within.

He turned away knowing he had no time to waste. Hilda was very well in harm's way. He divined the direction of the castle and made his way out of the swamp.

oOo

He cut through town, thankful to be in an area he was somewhat familiar with. He wasn't that far from Lorule castle now. His clothes and hair had dried, although he was sure he still smelled of the Mire; like the late queen used to say. The taste of swamp water lingered in his mouth.

He soon neared the milk bar; A place he'd heard much about, but had never imagined he'd be so tempted to enter because of intense thirst. If there was any former castle staff present, he just didn't care.

Stepping inside, the few bar patrons turned to look, but none of them gave the impression they knew who he was, but taking in his tunic bearing the crest of the royal family they seemed curious, or perhaps even put off. After a beat, they returned to their conversations.

A young woman with a pleasant face came to greet him. She wore a long skirt with an apron over it. Over her linen blouse, she wore a scarf that was held together with a strange broach. "Hi there. You're looking quite parched, Sir. What can I get for you? Name's Airalon." She was studying him, perhaps trying to figure out who he was.

Yuga gave a small curse. "Of course, I don't have any rupees when I need them most!" Yuga realized aloud, turning to excuse himself.

"Think nothing of it. I'll get you some water." Airalon said, reassuringly.

Yuga was speechless, not expecting such kindness from the average Lorulean. Surely, she'd treat him poorly if she knew who he was.

"Airalon. Don't give that liar anything without pay! He clearly serves the royal family." The skinny mustached man behind the bar huffed.

"Oh hush, Uncle Ingo. You never know who might become a steady customer if you'd just show some human decency."

Ingo grumbled, and Airalon went behind the bar to fetch the water herself.

In any other circumstance Yuga would loudly proclaim his connection to Her Grace and mock the bar owner's sloppy appearance, but instead, Yuga remained silent. As he waited he took in the bar's atmosphere. Towards the back of the bar was the biggest bird Yuga had ever seen; seven or eight feet tall perhaps, sitting on a stool and playing an accordion. The bird musician started to sing.

"Hero of Lorule, the hero of Reason.

Came to warn the turbulent princess of her advisor's treason.

He perceived the leech came to pervert the hopes of the goddess, Lorelle reborn.

And couldn't bear to see her forlorn.

For how could the golden three ever gift a leech the golden power of Beauty?

That man's intentions were not pure, knew we.

And by the hero's words, the Princess's eyes were opened.

Now that Reason guides Hope, a new era of prosperity for this land can be woven."

Yuga felt a dark shadow descend upon him. He rolled up his sleeves and swiftly made his way to the back of the bar without anyone noticing, not even the Rito minstrel who was so wrapped up in his song.

But then everyone in the bar snapped to attention when they heard the accordion come to an abrupt and shrill, off-key wail. Yuga jerked back his curled fist and released a swift punch to the oversized bird's beak. The Rito fell to the floor, looking at his attacker aghast. Yuga took several shallow breaths before picking up the fallen accordion and tossing it over his shoulder, causing it to give another short burst of a compressing tune, and then he continued his assault on the bird musician. Some of the patrons started to cheer while others shouted for help.

After a few tense moments and a simultaneously horrified and entertained onlooking crowd, Yuga stepped back. He covertly wiped the moisture from his eyes and sniffed.

"Who… Who are you?" The Rito managed, shaken.

"The leech." Yuga huffed. He took a few steps back and noticed the entire bar was staring at him. He took in their expressions. Some looked at him with contempt, others with awe.

"I hate birds…." Yuga said simply.

"Yeah, I don't trust anything that shits all over the place while it's in the air either!" A man with a bag over his head chimed in.

Yuga looked over his shoulder slowly, giving the strange man with his odd outburst a pitying look, wrinkling his nose. But it was no use, as the man with the bag on his head wasn't even looking in his direction, probably too drunk to notice or care.

"What in the name of Lorule is this commotion?" A knight came strolling into the bar, and upon seeing Yuga and the scene before him, his expression completely changed. He called for more knights just outside and drew his sword coming towards Yuga.

"Hold it!" Another knight called. "Are you forgetting what he did before?"

"No, look! He is powerless without his staff, and he can't fight all of us. We'll take him back to the castle. Let Her Highness decide his fate. Finally, she has come around. It only took everyone walking out on her."

Yuga didn't resist, smiling inside. Fools. This is exactly what I need.

In seconds the knights descended upon him.

"Wipe that smirk off your face!" Said one of the knights as he delivered a swift knee to Yuga's ribs, causing the sorcerer to cry out and double over in pain. And with that, he was forcefully led out.

"Her Highness will be pleased." One of the knights scoffed.

"Not as pleased as me." Said another. "But oh Goddesses... He stinks."

oOo

Fayre stirred at the sound of muffled footsteps. She breathed in the mossy scent of the deep swamp and sensed a shadowy figure hovering over her. Praying to the goddesses it was Yuga, she opened her eyes, only to be severely disappointed.

It was an older looking man with greying hair and an unkempt beard. He squinted at Fayre, as if not believing his eyes or perhaps appraising her.

Fayre's heart jumped into her throat. Where was Yuga? She stood up fast, which she instantly regretted as the ground beneath her was now spinning. She started to scream Yuga's name into the swamp. She didn't care if she looked like a complete lunatic to the man studying her.

He didn't drown or get eaten, Fayre repeated to herself again and again. The creature that attacked us was surely some vile servant of the twins. They sent it out to capture him, not to kill him…. I'm alive, so he has to be alive, too….

"Fayre…." the man behind her said, sending a chill through her. "Still searching for your son in vain after all these years?" The man laughed.

Fayre turned slowly, recognizing the man's voice, although it had a gruff intonation to it now. His lustrous orange hair she'd once admired had dulled and turned grey with age. No wonder she hadn't recognized him.

"Killian," She spat. "What are you doing here?"

"I was searching for the fabled spring of the goddess. Thought I'd try to salvage something to sell at a high price in town. But instead, I find you…. You're still as beautiful as back then." He said as his eyes moved over her. "And that staff…It looks quite valuable."

Fayre followed Killian's gaze to see Yuga's staff lying not far from where she'd washed up. She huffed, grabbing up the staff in an instant.

"That son of yours wasn't worth very much. Little old ladies don't have a lot of money to give for apprentices, but you on the other hand… You could make me a lot of rupees…" He said, leering.

"I'm not interested!"

"I wasn't offering you a business opportunity."

A simultaneous look of fear and disgust crossed Fayre's features. She held out the staff and without wasting a moment gave it a swing as she'd seen Yuga do in visions, but nothing happened.

"No… no…"

Killian laughed at her. "What are you trying to do?" He came at her quickly, ripping the staff out of her grip.

"I won't let you take that! It belongs to the royal family." She said, grabbing for the staff, but Killian held his grip on it.

"An heirloom of the royal family, you say? I really can't miss the opportunity to turn a profit off it then."

"The princess herself gifted Yuga that staff. There's nothing you could do to me. I'd sooner die than let you take it!"

"Die? Oh, certainly not! Not when you're going to make me a fortune." He lifted her into his arms before Fayre could protest and held her mock bridal style. "I'm not sure what will be worth more… You or that staff…." He said gleefully, spinning around as he held her. Fayre struggled but found she couldn't get out of his grip. She was weak, yet she resolved to protect the staff no matter the cost. She glared up at Killian, beginning to grow dizzy. He was beginning to hum in a giddy way and she was reeling with hate, but they somehow managed to see her at the same time... The statuesque woman stepping out from behind a tree and setting her sights on them.

Twinrova.

Killian dropped Fayre in fear, knocking the breath from the white-haired sorceress as she hit the ground. Fayre, seeing the flash of bloodlust in Twinrova's gaze, gasped and used what little strength she had to dive out of the way as Killian was turned to ice.

[kootenaygoon]

“To see the ordinary with eyes of marvel may be a gift or it may be there is no ordinary and wonder is the true vision.”

-Ploughman of the Moon, Robert Service

We were six days past Fort Simpson on the SS Mackenzie River when a grizzled man erupted hooting from the treeline and came hobbling along the riverbank waving his arms. He brought news of trouble in a nearby trapper’s cabin—two men dead at the mouth of Salt River. We had an inspector aboard, a regal gentleman from the Royal North West Mounted Police named Murphy, and when he asked me if I would accompany him to investigate, I agreed. Of course there’s little use for a poet at a murder scene, but I was there to observe this frontier life and who can say, exactly, when inspiration will prance into your life like a man on fire? 

I left Edmonton months ago and each day has proved a marvel as we’ve made our way from Athabasca Landing through to Grand Rapids, on to Fort McMurray and Great Slave Lake. I’ve transferred from canoe to raft and finally to a scow brigade with the Hudson’s Bay Company, all the while surrounded by a bevy of entertaining characters yearning for literary immortality. Some critics say I exaggerate my stories. Others claim I have no respect for the truth. Clearly this isn’t the case. I simply believe that truth is not reliant on facts, and sometimes the best stories are those that spring from our imagination fully formed.

Inspector Murphy led the expedition to the trapper’s cabin, with three souls trailing in an obedient line. I struggled to keep up with their purposeful pace. Quite often, surrounded as I was by men who seemed closer related to the wildlife than their own species, I felt like a fraudulent explorer—a phony. I was no use with a paddle and seemingly allergic to the menial labour required for our continued survival during this passage. The men treated me with a bewildered respect, as if I were a shaman or a conjurer. Many of them couldn’t even read the words I’d been scribbling in my notebook, but all of them had heard of Sam McGee and Dan McGrew, and every night they pestered me to recount their stories. 

When the liquor began to flow in the late evenings, and as the vast northern wilderness disappeared into the flickering darkness beyond our beach fire, I stood and recited my poems to the cheers and wolf calls of these beautiful, barbarous men. They howled out suggestions, begging to hear about the Good Time Girls of Dawson City, about the criminal exploits and early death of Soapy Smith in Skagway, and about the gold that speckles the creekbeds of the Yukon like divine dust.

“Tread carefully, gentlemen,” Murphy said, once we reached the trapper’s cabin. It was a stone’s throw from Salt River, ill-constructed and with a distinct lean. “Try not to disturb anything.”

Once we huddled inside, with rows of furs dangling overhead, I was assaulted by perhaps the most appalling stench I’ve ever experienced. A boy no older than twenty was prostrate across the dirt, his blue fingers clawed into the ground. We found a soup bowl-shaped shard of skull a few feet away, crusted with long-dried blood and ghastly pale in the afternoon light. The second man was sitting upright on a soiled cot a few feet away. His eye sockets gaped, a rifle slung across his lap as if in warning. As I stood awestruck by the carnage engorged flies crawled out of the drooping holes. Shoulder-length white hair swept down his shoulders, framing his bloodless face. His expression was maniacal, his head tilted back as if he were about to sneeze.

“Sweet bleeding Christ,” Murphy said. “These two must’ve been here for months.”

I have had many opportunities to contemplate death during my brief and tumultuous life, whether in the solitude of a desert trek or in the dark refuge of a northern roadhouse. Only a few weeks before coming upon that scene I’d gone for a chilly dip in Slave River, disregarding shouted warnings from the men onshore. They told me later of a priest who had been  an overwhelmed by an undercurrent. The river sucked him sputtering below the surface, ignoring his prayers and screams for help as it dashed him carelessly against the rocks. Eventually they found him floating facedown in a downstream eddy.

I’m not sure what exactly inspired me to disregard their warnings—perhaps the same impulse which has compelled me onwards from the banal life of a city bank teller to that of an internationally recognized literary figure—but within a few moments it was clear that I too was being overwhelmed by forces beyond my control. I struggled feebly to keep myself afloat and shrieked dame-like for rescue. A riverboat captain named McTosh, a stout fellow Scot who happened to be relieving himself into the current, ran to the edge and hurled his body overtop an overhanging sweeper. He pulled me panicked and shivering from the torrent.

I asked myself at the time, and I’ve yet to find a sensible answer as to why God chose to spare me while leaving his servant, the priest, to his meaningless fate. While I was recovering back in camp, McTosh joked about an imagined headline in the papers back home: Yukon Bard Meets Watery Doom.

None of the men in our expedition were able to spend any length of time in the trapper’s cabin without retreating to retch and swear. Murphy eventually plucked an empty vial from the bedside table and held it pinched between two fingers. He ascertained that the previous contents had been carbolic acid. It appeared the older man had consumed it after murdering his young companion. The circumstances that led this pair to such a fateful standoff would remain a mystery, but I saw their final moments play out in the dreamscape of my mind. I witnessed the terrible instant the boy recognized the shotgun barrel being swung in his direction, heard his final, punctuated cry as he turned to retreat. Globs of his blood wriggled in midair. The boy’s soul shrieked into the night sky like embers from a campfire and dispersed amongst the glimmering infinity of the stars.

“Never seen a dead man before, Service?” Murphy asked. He seemed pleased with himself.

“I’ve seen plenty,” I lied.

“And what do you reckon happened here?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Would make for a fine poem, you ask me.”

I forced a smile.

“We found a suicide note,” he told me, lifting out a tattered leaf of paper. The pencilled scrawl was barely legible.

May 1911

Cruel treatment drove me to kill Peat. Have been sick a long time I am not Crasey, but sutnly goded to death he thot I had more money than I had and has been trying to find it. I tried to get him to go after medison but Cod not he wanted me to die first so good by. I have just killed the man that was killing me so good bye and may God bless you all I am ofle weak bin down since the last of March so there hant no Death for me.

I studied the older man’s missive for so long Murphy eventually wandered off. The men leaned into their shovels, spearing at the earth and swearing as they dug the graves. It took a few hours for them to bury the bodies. While Murphy was busily documenting the evidence and barking thunderous orders I wandered off into the woods to write in my notebook. I’ve never belonged amidst the grime and gore of reality. I couldn’t feign indifference, couldn’t mask my sissy repulsion, try as I might.

Once we made the hike back to our camp, the gravediggers were happy to divulge explicit details of their experience to those left behind, embellishing as they went along. I was in a hellishly black mood by this point, and feeling decidedly anti-social, so I set out to find Captain McTosh. He’d been following our flotilla ever since my near-drowning and was camped downstream with his wife and a sour-looking fellow named Jake. For some reason he never felt comfortable to share with me, McTosh hated the Hudson’s Bay Company. He routinely kept himself a comfortable distance from the men in their employ.  I pondered whether perhaps he was in trouble with the law, but pitied any man charged with the task of apprehending him, built as he was like an Arctic walrus. When he saw me emerge from the shadows he staggered to his feet, well into his whiskey, and embraced me.

His breath smelled reeked like salt-cured pork.

“The legendary poet joins us,” he slurred. “You’re still with us, laddy?”

“Aye.”

“Robby, my boy, you strike me as a fella who could use a drink,” he said, pushing a flask into my hand. “Take a swallow.”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “Gave it up,” I said. “Years ago.”

“Gave up the drink? Now what would inspire you to do a thing like that? Sobriety is a terrible curse, my friend. A terrible, terrible curse.”

McTosh’s thick brogue conjured visions of my childhood, the lilting cadence of his voice providing me with a measure of comfort. I liked the cool weight of the flask in my palm. I decided, on a whim, that I would drink to the memory of the Salt River Trapper and his young companion Pete. The first swig ignited my chest cavity, doubling me over, but McTosh’s wife gave a hoot of encouragement and I downed a second fire-slug down the gullet before sinking down to stare bleary-eyed at the flames. A slow-roasted goose sizzled on the spit.

“Killed ‘em with a sling shoot,” Jake said, spitting through cracked teeth. “You ask proper n’ I might see fit to gi’ you a taste or two.”

“Ignore the boy,” McTosh’s wife warned. “This one’s an attention seeker, he is.”

“Why don’cha shut yer trap? Don’ see you helpin’ none.”

McTosh cuffed Jake on the ear. He sat glumly rubbing his skull.

“We heard the commotion,” McTosh said.

“We heard the commotion,” McTosh said, nodding his head in the direction of the HBC camp. “Trouble?” 

“We found a dead trapper.” 

“You don’t say.” 

“Downriver about half an hour. There was a kid too.” 

“Dead?” 

“Both of them.”

McTosh took off his hat for a moment. “That’s a damned shame, innit? The cold get ‘em?” 

“Looks like the trapper shot the kid, then poisoned himself.” 

McTosh’s wife spat into the fire and crossed herself. She didn’t say a word. Jake looked like he was about to ask a question, but one look at McTosh’s solemn countenance was enough to keep him quiet. The four of us sat in silence and sullenly passed the jug around the campfire. I looked out at their scow, which was moored diagonally against the riverbank as the black current licked and jostled it. Crudely painted on her side in red paint was the name Ophelia. I knew that McTosh carried a leather-bound volume of sonnets buried deep in his layered clothing and pressed tightly to his heart, and more than once I’d heard him recite Shakespeare’s immortal words from memory. I considered asking whether it was wise to name his boat after a tragically drowned woman, but the words never quite reached my lips. 

It was nearing midnight, but the sun was still high above us. We feasted on morsels of goose meat and licked our grease-slicked lips. At one point Jake reached for a large strip, and McTosh slapped his hand out of the way and gobbled it back before he could complain. Twenty minutes later his wife retired to her tent and then Jake retired as well, crawling into a nearby sleeping roll. McTosh and I batted the black flies and mosquitoes out of our faces, but the smoke mostly kept them at bay. The roar of the fire slowly abated and left us with the comfortable glow of embers and a delicious fragrance of campfire that singed my nostrils and irritated my eyes. I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. When I blinked my eyes open again McTosh had disappeared, and sitting across from me was the Salt River Trapper. 

“What’re you doing here?” I asked.

“I left my home in Utah to try my luck with fur,” he said. “Some want gold and some want fame, but for me it was fur, for sure.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“See? You’re not the only poet around,” he said. 

“Apparently not.”

The Salt River Trapper was lean from months alone in the wild. He looked like a half-starved animal and his white hair shimmered around his face in ratty curtains. He wore suspenders over a filthy plaid shirt that was patched at the elbows and his belt was cinched tightly around his concave stomach. I noticed he wasn’t wearing any boots and his hairy feet were covered in oozing blisters. The Salt River Trapper grinned at me and scratched the side of his face. A strip of flesh peeled away with his fingernail and dangled from his cheek as he gnawed on the remaining goose meat.

“You save any for me?” a boy asked, appearing at the edge of the clearing. He jogged over to our campfire and plunked down beside the trapper with a large fur coat wrapped around his shoulders. I could see paws dangling.

“Who said you get any, Pete?”

“You’re always hoarding all the good stuff for yourself. It ain’t fair. I’m starving over here and you’re stuffing your face. Is that fair?”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you tried to kill me.” “You did kill me. You killed me. Look at me. I’m dead.”

Pete reached up and palmed a jagged chunk of his skull. He lifted it in the air like he was removing a hat, revealing a pulpy mass of purple brain underneath, then replaced it.

“Only because you tried to kill me first.” “Give me some of that.”

“Mind your manners.”

“Please?”

I watched, bemused, as these dead men argued over the plucked carcass, which consisted of little more than slimed bones. Once they were both satisfied that there was nothing left, the Salt River Trapper tossed the skeleton on the fire and let out a mighty belch. Pete giggled and followed suit. The men grinned and began to echo one another, matching each nauseating burp with one of equal force. The game ended when Pete dislodged one of his eyeballs. I watched it bounce down his chest and then roll off his lap. He tossed himself to the ground searching for it on his hands and knees.

“Did you see where it rolled? Where did it roll? Did you see my eyeball?” Pete pleaded.

“Leave it, you daft moron,” said the trapper. “I’m missing both me eyes and you don’t hear me whining like a lass.”

The trapper turned his attention to me. He passed McTosh’s jug and I took a long pull. “You call that a beard?” he said.

I ran my hands along the soft scruff that had accumulated on my face. It had been weeks since I shaved, but there was little more than blond fuzz adorning my cheeks. “You might consider me a touch soft, compared to some of your other companions.”

“You a pansy, then?”

“I suppose I aspire to a life of the mind, really.”

“Them’s pretty words. Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“I’m self-taught, mostly. I do a fair amount of reading.”

The trapper snorted. “I look at you n’ I see nothing but a cheechako. You ever heard that word? Means tenderfoot. Means you don’t know your ass from your elbow.”

“Okay.”

“Them pretty words won’t help you come winter. Come winter and you’re going to wish you could grow a proper beard. Pete over there? When we were out on the line he’d come in from the cold with cheeks the colour of fish scales. There were days when his lips would crack and bleed until his whole chin was red, like he was eating strawberries for breakfast. But out here, there’s no strawberries. I can’t remember the last time I tasted a strawberry.”

“Fellas, I found it,” announced Pete, from ten feet away. He held up his glistening eyeball, which was half-covered in dirt. His optic nerve swung limply. “You reckon I can poke it back in there?”

The Salt River Trapper stood.

“Well, boy. Let’s get started then.”

“Started with what?” I asked.

“I have a story to tell you before I move on from this world. I want you to write down this story for future generations. I want people to know that once there was a man named Graham Douglas and this is where he died.”

“Graham Douglas?”

“That’s me name.”

“But nothing rhymes with Douglas. Can’t you think of something better?” 

The trapper stroked his chin in deep thought. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“How about Paddy McCready? Something like this: If you ever met Paddy McCready, on the river or in the saloon, you’d know that McCready was often quite greedy, but he couldn’t carry a tune.”

“A tune? What’s that part have to do with it?”

“I can edit and revise later. What do you think about the name? Paddy McCready?”

“Short for Patrick?”

I nodded.

“That’ll do. It’s got a ring to it.”

The trapper led me down to McTosh’s scow. Beyond the trees the sky was a magnificent purple that glowed across the horizon. I was struck by the way the world can transform from a dull reality into a shimmering, magical dreamscape in only a matter of moments. I followed the Salt River Trapper as he unmoored Ophelia. I climbed on the raft, and watched as the he kicked us into the current with his bare foot. Pete was already crouched shivering at the stern. The trapper dove into the water and paddled over to us, nearly capsizing the scow as he lugged himself aboard. 

“Where are you taking me?” I asked the trapper.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

I didn’t have to wait long. Around the next bend the riverbank opened up into a lush expanse of farmland and I could see a woman wearing a bonnet and collecting flowers with a lazy beagle sunning itself beside her. In the distance was a farmhouse, sagging with age but still defiantly upright.

“This is my beloved,” said the trapper. “Her name was Sarah.”

“Who was she?”

“We courted as teenagers. I worked on her father’s farm and she used to sneak me love letters. Lots of pretty words like you aim to write. I found them notes tucked under a bale of hay. God, I loved her.”

Sarah glanced up and noticed us. She smiled. I looked over at the Salt River Trapper, but he refused to look in her direction. His long white hair hung over his ghoulish face as we drifted, and before long she was behind us.

“I asked her father for her hand, but he refused. He said I didn’t have a large enough bankroll. I left in the summer of ’98, up to Skagway for the Gold Rush. But by the time I reached my destination winter had already set in. Spent that first season holed up in a roadhouse, wishing I were dead. I’ll never forget that cold. I survived until summer, though, and then I set out to stake my claim. But as it happened, I was too late. All the land was bought up, and getting caught gold panning on somebody else’s land was a good way to find yerself on the wrong side of a revolver. After that I went into the fur trade, and I been doin’ it ever since.”

Pete whimpered from his spot, curled up at our feet. He tossed over and nuzzled against his fur.

“I hired this one two years ago. An orphan, he was.”

The trapper grimaced. He lodged the pole against the riverbed and pushed us out into the faster current. The trees seemed like they were moving around us while the raft remained still. I scribbled in my notebook as quickly as I could. As the trapper spoke images began to drift across the sky. I saw a small Alaskan town. The trapper tromped through the mud with his thumbs looped through the straps of his pack. He looked young and eager, his hair still brown and his skin a sun-freckled pink. Pots and pans clanged noisily behind him while he climbed the steps to a hotel and asked if there were any vacancies.

“What happened to Sarah?” I asked.

“She cried when I left and that was nice of her. She wrote me letters at first with all them pretty words but I didn’t send none back. I never was much for the education, and I didn’t want her to see me childish handwriting. I thought if I returned to Utah with a sack of gold under me arm, then perhaps we could wed. Her father would see that he’d been wrong. I needed two, three years at most. Alas...”

“Alas?”

Another bend in the river and Sarah appeared again. This time she was sitting on a blanket with a toddler. Her dress fanned out around her like a garden. Behind her I could see a strapping man. He looked like a fellow accustomed to an easy, leisurely life. He pounced on Sarah and kissed her neck. Together they rolled in the grass in a languid embrace. The trapper was silent for a long time.

“He was elected mayor the year after they married,” he said. 

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to apologize for, poet.”

“It’s a sad story.”

“Those are the best ones,” he said. “But this one isn’t quite finished.”

Again the sky lit up with the trapper’s story, and this time I watched as Sarah screamed and pushed. Encouraging women in white smocks surrounded her, wiping her sweaty hair out of her face and cooing encouragement. I saw her husband delivering a speech from a church pulpit, his head hung while a polished oak coffin rested silently behind him submerged in flowers. Sarah was lowered into the ground while her family sobbed, and in the front row her husband sat despondent. Nearby a maid had one daughter in a basket, while the other sat in the grass with a doll.

“A few years after Sarah died, her husband was killed in a botched robbery. Some men came guns blazing out of the bank and a stray bullet got him in the ribcage while he was walking down the street. Nobody even saw him die. After the commotion they found him lying there in the dirt.”

“And the daughters?”

“An orphanage. There was nobody else by then. Everyone had passed on. A friend wrote to tell me about their fate. He knew how much I loved their mother. So I traveled down to Utah to visit them last season. It took me nearly four months to make the trip, but those girls, I swear, they were the spitting image of their Ma. When I looked at them, I saw her. My Sarah was still alive. I told them that I would get them out of that orphanage. I promised them. But the government wouldn’t let me adopt the girls, not with me bankroll. Again, I didn’t have enough money. I was forced to come north to continue my search for a fortune.”

I saw the girls cowering under a bed while a nun came crashing through the room, swinging at children as they ran for cover. The older daughter clasped her hand to her sister’s mouth to stifle the sobs.

“Two months ago I realized I finally had enough to buy those girls’ freedom,” the trapper said. “Once this here river melted I was going to head home to Utah. I was working with Pete and we agreed we would split the loot down the middle. Even. But then I took to bed with an illness. It felt like I was burning up on the inside. I was in a sorry condition there.”

Pete yawned. The trapper frowned.

“I asked Pete to go for help. I asked him to find medicine. But he sat waiting, waiting, waiting. Well, I showed him.”

“And the girls?”

“Those girls are as doomed as my Sarah. There’s nobody to help them now.”

The trapper sighed. Behind him a brothel appeared in the distance. Women draped themselves across the front porch, wearing dresses hitched up to show off their legs. They waved their arms and grinned with cunning lupine eyes. I saw lace and feathers and flesh on proud display, ready to be purchased at a moment’s notice. And in the center stood Sarah’s older daughter. Her hair hung around her face in perfect curls and her lips were the color of blood. As we drifted closer to the brothel I floated up the porch steps and into the vast building. Down the hallway, beyond a steaming kitchen filled with busy chefs, past a room full of drunken politicians, I saw a dank room. A naked man stood in the corner cracking his knuckles while Sarah’s younger daughter lay splayed on the bed. Her wrists and ankles were fastened to the bedposts, and her mouth was stuffed with a tightly fastened gag. I could see sweat shimmering on her exposed skin. Her eyes pleaded for mercy, but she wouldn’t receive any.

I looked away in shame. “Is there nothing to be done?” I asked.

“It hasn’t even happened yet, poet.”

“But we could tell someone. We could steal them away from there.”

“Afraid’s not possible. Also, what would that accomplish? Kidnap two hustlers and they’ll replace them the next day. You can’t save anybody in this life but yerself. You should know that.”

The sky was going dark around us, and the trapper’s empty eye sockets cast long shadows down his face. I felt the breeze tug at my clothes. The trapper tossed his pole into the river and I watched it disappear behind us. He sauntered over and kicked Pete in the ribs to wake him up. Then he handed me the shotgun.

“What’s this for?”

“What do you think? You’re going to shoot Pete.”

“What? Why?”

“You want to be alive, don’t you? Well, one of you has to go. So you’re going to shoot Pete before he can shoot you. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

Pete staggered to his feet and giggled nervously. “What’re you doing, Graham?”

“It’s Paddy,” he said. “Paddy McCready.”

“You’ve already killed me once. Isn’t that enough?”

“I would kill you a hundred times if I could. But I’m trying to teach our friend a lesson here.”

“A lesson? That’s rich. Don’t believe a word he says, Mr. Service. That whole story he told you was made up,” Pete said, his voice pitching up an octave or two. “There was no Sarah. He made the whole thing up.”

“Shut your mouth, boy.”

“It’s true. I didn’t know it when he hired me, and by the time we trekked out to the bush it was too late. He was a drinker. Every night he would work himself into a state and then he would climb into my bunk and force himself on me. Honest. He laughed when I cried. When I begged him to stop. I couldn’t fight him. He hurt me, Mr. Service. It’s him that deserves to die, not me.”

The trapper snarled. He pawed my shoulder and drew me close enough to smell his insides decaying. He grinned and only a few jagged, cracked teeth remained in his blackened gums. “Don’t you want to live, poet? What makes you think yer special? You say you want to live, then prove it. Make a choice. Prove it to me right here and now. Shoot Pete.”

“But why?”

“There is no why, poet. You either choose to live or you choose to die. Which will it be?”

The gun was heavy in my hands. I turned it towards Pete, and he shielded his face. “Please, Mr. Service. Don’t do it.”

“Do it,” said the trapper. “End him.”

I thought of the grave that awaited me one day. What difference did it make whether I ended up there in fifty years or in two minutes? The result was always going to be the same. But I was afraid. I had yet to visit Scotland as a grown man. I thought of my family back in Edmonton, and the way they mourned when I told them I would be returning to the Yukon indefinitely. I thought of my father’s grave, a lonely pillar in an Albertan cemetery.

The first time I saw it, I was startled to see my own name. Robert Service, it said, died January 24, 1909. There was no way I would succumb that night to the seductive oblivion of death. I wanted to live.

Once I’d made my decision, it only took a split second to act. The Salt River Trapper was yelling in my face as I swung the shotgun and fired a round into his throat. The blast nearly decapitated him. He surged towards me with hands outstretched but I ducked from his path and he hit the water with a mighty flop. For a few moments he crashed on the surface, his head gaping back and looking at the sky. Black blood spurted from his open neck. And then his fingers dipped below the surface and he was gone.

“Golly,” said Pete.

Not long after that I awoke beside the campfire. Several feet away I could see Jake squatting in the woods. He strained and swore as he shat. When I sat up, McTosh’s wife was stirring a pot of coffee on the fire while her husband was down at the riverbank, fastening a new log to their raft. There are countless visions that are lost in those first moments of consciousness, when the dream world recedes and we’re brought back to the tedious routine of everyday life, but somehow I knew this story would stay with me. I brushed the palm of my hand gently against the stalks of grass and watched them spring back into place. I could hear the busy noise of the earth humming to life. I was suspended for a moment between realities, and I could still feel the Salt River Trapper’s cruel breath against my cheek. I felt death lurking like a lynx beyond the trees, watching me struggle to my feet and yawn. I knew I had to head back to the HBC camp. Pretty soon we would be setting off again, and once more I would find myself among the company of living beings, but first I needed some time to write. I reached into waistcoat to retrieve my notebook. With a pencil I wrote the words “The Grisly Demise of the Salt River Trapper”. Below that, I continued: “I left my home in Utah to try my luck with fur. Some want gold and some want fame, but for me it was fur, for sure.”

“Wha’ choo writing ‘ere?” Jake said, fastening his pants and returning to the clearing. 

I glanced up at him. “Do you want to hear a story?”