3.
No matter what time he set his alarm for, Guy Fleurry woke up ten minutes before it went off. This particular morning his alarm was set for six, so the clock showed five-fifty when he flicked the switch to off. He disliked the EE-EE-EE-EE sound so much that his subconscious worked to stop him from hearing it even when it meant jumping out of bed at ten to six. He crept past his parent’s bedroom on the way to the bathroom. His dad spent all of yesterday in the air and would be zonked out until the early afternoon, but his mom woke up at the sound of a cotton ball rubbed against a swatch of felt from forty paces. Guy was well-versed in the art of sneaking around.
After quick brushings of teeth and frizzy hair, Guy got dressed for the trip to school. He threw a black toque over his frizzy hair and rummaged through a pile of black band T-shirts until he found the band he felt like wearing that day. He put on his pre-distressed black denim jacket with the flannel inner lining over the Anthrax T with Judge Dredd on it, and zipped his black puffy parka up to the neck. Then he put on a pair of black bum gloves, the kind made out of stretchy fabric that come five for a dollar at the co-op, over the pair of bum gloves with the fingers cut off that he always wore. Another pair of padded gloves went over those.
He grabbed the keys to his dad’s snowmobile instead of his mom’s; the MXZ-700cc ran smoother and quieter than the boat of a Ski-Doo his mom owned. He wore a full-head helmet, a precaution he took since the time he hit a weird bump out by the dockyards last year and nearly flipped over. He looked behind him at his house one last time to make sure his parent’s bedroom light was still off. His silent getaway had been successful, so he leaned over the handlebars and flew out the driveway, leaving a thick puff of diesel exhaust hanging in the chilly air like laundry drying on the line.
He needed the headlights to navigate the empty road at predawn. The regular working day people wouldn’t start for another hour or two, but Guy’s job, like most part-time jobs for high school students, had terrible hours. This was frustrating, but a lot of things frustrated Guy. Most of this frustration was legitimate, since an Arctic life was full of hardships not normally expected by a seventeen-year old Anglophone French-Canadian, even in a place as all-accommodating at Makpigat. He was quite frustrated, for example, at the new guy being brought in to make his job obsolete. He wanted to be able to play more shows with his band like any other aspiring heavy metal drummer, but going on tour was expressly prohibited. It had been a bad year for young Guy Fleurry, ever since the break-up, and he figured it was only going to get worse.
Guy was born on the day before Hallowe’en in the autumn of 1985, part of the town’s first baby boom caused by the town’s first really bad snowstorm that occurred the previous winter. There were twelve people currently in his grade twelve class, and ten of them celebrated their birthdays between the second week of September and the beginning of November. His friends Zach and DC were born down in the provinces and only moved in the 1993 expansion, but Tag was born three days after Guy on the same bed in Doctor Chang’s office. Tag even shares his birthday with Doctor Chang’s daughter Penny, whom Guy had been dating up until exactly a month ago and avoiding since the split. All their parents still compare the Snowstorm of ‘85 to every snowstorm since, none of which have returned quite as high a yield of babies.
The high school was silent as a funeral home at night. None of the teachers at the high school were awake, let alone at work, when Guy let himself in through the door Bob the custodian kept unlocked for him. Guy found silence uncomfortable, like the blue plastic chairs in the science lab with the shape of nobody’s ass in particular stamped into the seat. He headed straight to the library, hopped over the counter and used the circuit box to turn on the lights and the row of Apple computers. There was another row of IBM-and-compatible desktops with a lower median age, since Macs got fixed when they broke and PCs just got replaced, but Guy needed to recharge his iPod. He plunked himself down at the last PowerMac in the Apple aisle arranged from oldest to newest by the possibly obsessive-compulsive librarian. It looked like an Evolution of the Species poster for twentieth century robot designs, starting with primordial grey boxes moving into more streamlined and organic design work, more like what the robots would choose to look like, if they ever took over. The new iMacs were translucent glowing orbs of various tropical colours and the PowerMac Guy used was just a giant monitor that bobbed and weaved on a stalk.
He logged onto his user profile and pulled a spindle of writeable discs and his list of requests from his bookbag while the music player synced. He used his USB wireless card to grab the school’s signal and opened up his peer-to-peer file sharing programs. As soon as the music player came up Guy chose Shuffle and Play, then skipped the first six songs until he found one he wanted. He turned the speakers up and got to work.
Everything on the request list was easy to find on the first try, all he had to do was wait for them to finish. While he waited he checked out rumours for the new iPod and was disappointed with the new design with the row of buttons, a serious step down from his second-gen and an argument against Apple’s aesthetic evolution, but at least it would be finally be compatible with PCs and stop making that clicking sound all the time. As far as searching for music went, Guy felt like he had already listened to a fair amount of everything he was interested in; radically different types of heavy metal from old-school thrash to nü-industrial. Now his sights were set on World Cinema, or at least every possible movie guaranteed to have at least a handful of cool murders in it. This mega-genre included black- or kungsploitation films from the seventies, sloppy Italian private school gore-and-tit parades, the technophobic Little Asian Ghost Girl Movies from Asia (not the weak American remakes), those not-really-real violent death clip-reels strung together without a plot for their own argued entertainment value, the endlessly-numeraled American horror sequels where the iconic murderer goes through the same co-ed killing motions but this time in space, and those even weirder Asian Non-Ghost horror movies where the DVD cover art was a girl holding a bunch of syringes, or a guy with safety pins stuck in his hands, or a bare foot about to step on a floor covered in thumbtacks.
His only difficulty was coming from the complete concert film of Metallica’s first visit to Russia, which was a personal selection. It had been on the go for what felt like forever, but only because he started downloading it the day before Penny Chang broke up with him. The file was at 17% when the speed dropped to 0.1kb/s for two weeks. It shot up to 46% when he wasn’t looking one morning, but now there were zero seeders sharing the file, and no download speed at all. The column where time counted down changed from ten weeks to the sideways-eight symbol for infinity, and has been at that ever since. He decided to give it another week.
Guy was the premier bootlegger in Makpigat. Students stopped him in the halls during school hours, told him what they were looking for, and he could usually deliver by the next day. Adults got their requests in when Guy went to his dad’s hockey league games, and he took a bit more time and overcharged them a little, but they paid it since it was still cheaper and faster than waiting on a hard copy to arrive. Guy still cut a small profit that mostly went towards his drum kit and metal band T-shirts.
He had fallen into the business when he burned a couple of compilations of obscure heavy metal he found back when he used the original Napster for all his downloading needs. Guy burned some albums with the CDs he had leftover, and kids bought them off him for five bucks a pop. His methods were still the same, only now he charged eight-fifty and alternated between three different P2P programs to keep up with the demand. It was still all free for him minus the cost of blank CDs, only now he came into school early on most days to use all the bandwidth he can on getting videos, as well as albums and discographies that came pre-foldered, an improvement over the days when Napster never failed to find eleven out of twelve songs from any given album. These were still the good old days, before Napster was sued into bankruptcy, then bought up by the same music companies that lobbied against it, then gambled on a subscription-based service that must have cornered the rich idiot market.
The catalogue available to him now was comprehensive, with less dead links and corrupted files, but by no means was it complete; availability was basically proportional to how many other people in the world own a hard copy over the odds that one of them has digital transfer equipment. It was easy enough to find major-label acts, but some obscure folk artist’s obscure country duets album with another obscure blues artist recorded in Obscurity, Texas was going to take more time and energy. Guy recognized this extra effort with different pricing packages, like charging more for new releases and rarities, and making all rates subject to change without notice.
Guy knew he would only find fake files and viruses when he searched for the new Metallica album, since all the rumour sites still said it was under wraps, but he tried it anyway, not just because he could charge more either. His love of metal began and ended with Metallica: Guy owned at least a dozen of their T-shirts, most of which had cost him a lot more money than the suggested retail price of their tossed-off album of cover songs. When the whole Napster fiasco happened, he had to try creative misspellings like mettalica or metallika to get results before he gave up on the program altogether. Guy took a small amount of comfort in knowing that it didn’t work perfectly for Metallica either, since he could still find their entire discography, lyrics, guitar tabs, and music videos online for free somewhere, if he didn’t already have it all on his computer and iPod and on CDs both purchased and burned. Only things missing were the upcoming album and the Russian concert that wouldn’t be done downloading when the universe eventually collapses in on itself.
Guy stared at the screen and watched all the download progress bars change from white to blue. He was operating on five hours of sleep and no coffee. He put his head down on his desk and closed his eyes. Even with Sepultura yelling in his ear, he had no trouble knocking out a power nap.
—-
A week before Gordon landed in Makpigat, Guy Fleurry flew to Iqaluit for a new snare drum. He recently stabbed clean through the skin of his old snare drum with the pointy end of a broken drumstick the week before, but he had wanted a new one for ages and if he ordered one from the south it would take a million years to get to him. He convinced his dad to get him out of school that day in exchange for another one of his flying lessons that only frustrated them both and educated neither.
Guy appreciated the privilege of a flight out of town, so he took Ronald up on the deal. Getting to visit Iqaluit was like a day at that place in the wizard books where all the wizard kids went to buy candy and fireworks and generally fuck off on their one day to forget about the constantly-looming threat of danger. Not everybody got to leave Makpigat whenever they wanted, and those that could if they wanted to rarely found reason to. His dad had it in his mind that Guy would take over the family business whenever he felt like retiring; flying lessons had taken place with some regularity over the last year with little enthusiasm. Ronald let him run through the take-off checklist and switch it to autopilot when they were up in the air, but didn’t trust him to try landing the plane just yet. Guy would rather be a passenger anyway.
He promised his dad he would make a quick visit to the music shop, in and out before he was ready for take-off. Ronald had to stick around the hanger to fill out paperwork as a customs official inspected the delivery. Most of Makpigat’s budget is generously handed to them, but the town contributes to the local economy by producing barrels of Authentic Inuit Art sculptures for sale in souvenir shops in Iqaluit and all over the world. There’s a machine housed in the warehouse that makes the pieces of Authentic Inuit Art at a rate of seven-point-three an hour. A bucket of limestone gets dumped into one end of the machine and lasers analyze each piece for imperfections to determine the best piece of Authentic Inuit Art to carve based on the dimensions. Then another more powerful laser cuts and polishes the stones until they resemble beluga whales, or sunbathing walruses, or a polar bear eating a seal, depending on the shape of the rock. The federal government ruled it could be called Authentic as long as the piece is made with a real Nunavutian rock. The amount of Authentic Inuit Art in the world is disproportionately huge in comparison to the number of Authentic Inuit Artists, but nobody ever questions the supply and demand remains constant. Since the forgeries were carried out with the best of entrepreneurial intentions, made for people who really didn’t care one way or another where their art came from as long as it went with the coffee table, it was a victimless crime.
He strained to open the door to the music store against a sudden gust of wind in the opposite direction of the hinges. The wind chimes hanging above the cash register clanged with more resonance than appeared possible. After knocking the snow out of his boots on the snow room floor he ran past the rows of hanging guitars and amplifiers towards the drum section. The store was mostly full of traditional, Inuit-designed stuff but Guy knew there were some Peavey kits hiding in the back corner. He resisted the urge to do a wicked-cool solo on the display kit, a gorgeous twenty-piece setup with eight cymbals and a pair of cowbells, but he knew he would just fuck up on the double kick-pedal at some point and give up after a descent into off-beat noise. He picked out a snare and paid in cash, strict orders from his dad following stricter orders from Mayor Tom, and zipped up before heading back outside and down the stairs into the basement, the Northernmost subterranean counterculture shop in the world, to pick up those clear rolling papers made out of corn for Zach.
He was headed straight back the airport when his ears picked up at the beat of drums in the air, a steady thump-thump that mingled with the noise of a crowd, even though there was nothing in the briefing about a gathering going on that day. He followed the sounds to the town’s main drag, where there stood the gigantic Legislative Assembly Building built after territorial confederation in 1999. It still had a big poster up along one side of the building to advertise the Queen’s appearance there on her cross-Canadian tour from a couple of months ago. Guy had seen it on the CBC; Her Majesty smiled the whole time but clearly was freezing Her Royal Ass off, wondering what her inbreeding ancestors ever saw in this frozen wasteland in the first place. Most of the colour from her picture had drained from half a winter’s wind and sun and snow; it looked less like a photograph than a Warhol print. The banner was ripped across one of her eyes so she winked in the breeze. By any account it should have been taken down ages ago, but the Queen’s visit was the most memorable event to have happened there since the first new line was drawn on the map of Canada in half a century, the anniversary of which was similarly being celebrated with smaller banners hanging from the streetlights. If it weren’t for the Legislative Assembly, Iqaluit would have been just like any other of the territory’s twenty-two communities, cold and partially accessible. Instead it is cold and mostly accessible, by air and sea, nearly all year long. In the colder months, Iqaluit was accessible by land as well.
There was a drum circle all right, a few dozen Inuit in their ceremonial parkas tapping and dancing with handmade caribou-skin qiluat, giving the crowd a shared pulse with which to vent their collected rage. One-tenth of the entire population of the town must have showed up for the event, and they all appeared to be waiting for someone to occupy the space behind the podium already set up at the top of the stairs at the front entrance. It was the same haphazard collection of unfocused left-wing anti-war types that Guy had seen all on TV from all around the world, the kind with all the sound and fury of a riot with none of the catharsis or property damage. Protestors demanding change mingled with homeless people who only requested some. Picket signs were in an almost one-to-one ratio with interviewers sticking a microphone into the face of anyone who had a face. About as many signs as expected were scrawled with anti-war slogans, but there were a fair share of anti-oil-specific slogans, anti-government slogans, website addresses, and demands for elected representatives to vote one way or another on some recently introduced and completely unrelated bill in the House of Commons. It’s not that Guy didn’t care, but he doubted the effectiveness of any of it. You can’t do anything right in this world without pissing somebody off, and although the situation has regrettably never occurred Guy still highly doubted that watching an effigy of himself burned by strangers on television would affect his decision-making one way or another.
It wasn’t long before a padded microphone was shoved in Guy’s fac. A man with an impeccably trimmed chinstrap line-beard and a trenchcoat too thin and too long for the stiff breeze, clearly off the plane from Toronto, shouted questions at him. “Are you here in support or opposition to Simon Attiak and the Nunamiut?”
“Who? What?” Guy had only vaguely heard of the Nunamiut through thirty second news-bites and what Mayor Tom had told them in grade ten Civics class, and neither review was positive. He had written a couple of books, animal fable stories that Guy didn’t have any interest in reading. The Nunamiut were a weird political fringe group sprung from his philosophies, mostly hippie stuff like being nice to the environment and caring about other people.
Or as his interviewer put it, “Simon Attiak is the influential cultural commentator who’s making a secret announcement today. The Nunamiut embrace his views for an alternative spiritual and ecological framework.”
“So it’s a cult,” Guy said, speaking directly into the microphone.
“He encourages spirituality of all kinds, but he also shuns big oil, big fishing and big mining in favour of a more harmonious view of man’s relationship with the natural world.”
“That sounds like a cult to me. It’s Amish-lite with a quirky Canadian spin, awe-shucks with a bit of new-wave pseudo-Scientology thrown in after a while for good measure? Look, you tell this basket-weaving stress-blasting psyche-viking that the natural world is asking for it. If people are here to do anything, it’s to go around being real loud and burning shit and tearing this fucking earth up because that’s what we’re good at, and that’s all we’re good for, too. So Fuck the Earth. I mean, if you lived in a place like this, you’d do anything to warm it up too. Heavy metal rules! Let’s actually get out there and do some real fucking damage instead of pissing out your face all over the television, huh?”
Guy was struggling to retain control of the microphone long after the interviewer decided to cut the interview short. He would have kept going, but out of the corner of his eye he caught an Inuit girl giving him the once-over from up near the front. She must have been a part of the Nunamiut, because she was about sixty years younger than the normal age of people wearing a traditional parka made out of caribou skin instead of something more wind resistant, like a Canada Goose down-stuffed jacket or at least a black North Face. It reminded Guy of the times he had to wear his retarded Cub Scout uniform outside the confines of Wednesday nights in the school gymnasium.
Guy hopped over the chains connecting two demonstrators dressed as Guantanamo Bay prisoners and ran into the fray to find the girl attached to the cocked eyebrow of amorous interest. The chinstrapped reporter rewound the digital tape in his camera and went to try his luck with the guy dressed inexplicably in an orange Guantanamo jumpsuit and a Bill Clinton mask, or one of the many dreadlocked white kids who smelled like magic mushrooms.
Guy kept a wide berth and tried to circle around her just in case she wasn’t interested. He kept looking for openings in case he had to dart away in the opposite direction. She found him first though, spotted him right as he emerged into the clearing on the opposite side of the drum circle. She sat down and gestured with her hand, join me over here.
Guy did a thing with his arms that said, who, me? She nodded, yea you, and even mimed carrying the drum under one arm.
He cut through the circle and sat down next to her. “Guy,” he said, like ghee, not like guy.
“Iyaroak,” she said.
Guy garbled the pronunciation. “Ee-yah-row-ack.”
“No,” she said, “Ee-yahr-oh-ack.”
“Iyaroak,” he said. He was still getting it wrong.
She didn’t seem to mind. “You play the drum?”
“Yea, multiple drums,” Guy said. Simon Attiak walked out the front door of the Legislative Assembly to mostly wild applause, and a drowned-out rumble of booing heard from a healthy portion of dissenters. He had to shout in her ear for her to hear. “So you’re one of the Nunamuit? What’s this guy’s beef?”
She shushed him. The drums stopped and the leader of the Nunamiut appealed for the crowd to bring it down. He cleared his throat away from the microphone and took a long, serious look at his notes as he waited for the last of the shouting to die.
“Before I begin,” he began, “I would like to address some rumours that the southern provincial media have been alluding to and perpetuating for some time. The idea that my writings are the work of some committee, and that the perceived lack of sole authorship somehow legitimizes vindictive personal attacks on my own authenticity and sincerity, is simply a blatant falsehood. The texts of the Nunamiut are my own intellectual property, the distillation of my own experiences and my education, both spiritual and academic. I implore my critics to look at my actions as well as my words. I never said that these books contained the secrets of the universe, nor did I ever imply that my teachings were in contrast with any other religious text. I cannot fathom the ignorance and close-mindedness of such a statement. My books are stories; rich in parable, but stories all the same. I can only teach a lesson if a reader is willing to learn one. So to my attackers, I implore them to seek out whatever religious text they feel speaks to them, if it isn’t any of mine, and adhere to it the way they see fit, just like the Nunamiut are free to interact with my works with some degree of personal interpretation. All I ask is that they think for themselves, and not stir the pot of controversy just because they can’t understand how my writings have helped people ever since the first Book of the Owl was first printed eight years ago. All of which, conveniently enough, are available for purchase over to the side of the stage. And don’t forget to pre-order your copies of the Book of the Wolf, too. Free shipping before April tenth.”
That earned mild chuckles from the audience, and even Simon had to raise a hand to his mouth to hide his smile. His ability to cross-promote amused even him. “This brings me to the topic at hand. I’d like to open with a quick prayer. Please listen well.”
Guy did not listen well. He watched Iyaroak watch Simon Attiak. Her parka was heavy and shapeless and left too much to Guy’s imagination. Picturing a girl naked was hardwired into every Quebecer’s genetic code, but Nunavut was like everywhere else in the country when wintertime rolled around, and everyone ran around looking like giant bean bags. He looked at her face in profile instead, rode his eyeballs down her forehead like the first dip of a rollercoaster, curved around the gentle bridge of her nose, rolled up and felt weightless at the apex of the philtrum only to drag across the dual speed bumps of her tightly-pressed lips at speeds that made his teeth mash together. No, reading her profile was not as good as picturing her naked, but Guy was still intrigued by her shapelessness. She was probably a little brainwashed, and that was fine with him, everyone was a little crazy. He would ask her to accompany him on a walk to the merchandise table, he’d buy a book, and she’d believe he was the second coming.
“Land and sea,
Sky and rain,
Thanks again,
Seriously.
What I want,
you provide,
what I don’t need,
you withhold.
to all the animals,
who I have forgotten,
owl and rabbit,
wolf and walrus,
moose and squirrel,
I am very, very,
sorry.”
Guy rolled his eyes and made sure Iyaroak didn’t catch him doing it. Simon shuffled his notes while waiting again for the crowd to stop. This time he didn’t settle them with feigned modesty.
“I’m honoured to be speaking to you today on the steps of the Nunavut Legislative Building. This temple of glass and steel represents all the hard work and struggle of generations of Inuit, your ancestors and mine. It was a battle that occurred for a place to call home, a land we had a connection to, that we deserved. The battle occurred not on a field soaked in blood but on paper, and you know what, it’s not bad. We finally took back the land that was taken from our ancestors. But now, we’ve got to work on taking back our souls.”
“This land has come into our hands, and our own country vowed to protect our interests, just in time to watch the whole world contribute to the destruction of our way of life through global warming, water pollution, and mishandling our resources in a wasteful manner. We have lost our connection with nature. It’s one of the reasons I created the Nunamiut, which has grown to include chapters in all ten provinces and three territories, not to mention our international members as far away as Northern Russia. They come from all walks of life and their causes are many. The official governments of both this territory and country continue to deny the Nunamiut people the same courtesies and exemptions afforded to other religions, religion being a word defined by the same people who thought exploiting the ways of our ancestors in exchange for economic enslavement was a fair trade. This building proves that change is not only possible, but that embracing new values and ideas can be in harmony with everyone’s best interests. It is a combination of the old with the new, like how we built this sleek, modern government building to uphold centuries of traditional values. It looks like a basketball stadium more than a Legislative Assembly, really super design job. So today, on these historic and attractive steps, I would like to announce my latest project.
“I am going on a walk. And not just any walk, although I do not intend to undermine the pleasures of walking for the sake of walking. I will be examining the state of the Canadian Arctic, reconnecting with my nomadic tendencies, and promoting moderate physical activity to combat the obesity epidemic. This journey is also a symbol, everyone is free to attach their own reasons, and live our successes as their own. The environment, the Western world’s dependence on oil, our government’s involvement with the continuing unplanned and underfunded war in Afghanistan, human injustice of all kinds in developing world, hungry children in the first world, and battered women in both; cancers of various body parts and other diseases, both mental and physical, deadly to mildly debilitating, and any one of a hundred more causes have all used walking to promote public awareness. We will walk clear across the Canadian Arctic, for all these reasons, and because it is there. There will not be another press conference until my team and I reach Whitehorse, Yukon. I will take one question.”
Over the cacophony, he picked one and answered it into the microphone without recapping the question. “We will leave in the morning with the packs on our backs and a handful of dogsleds to carry provisions, mostly first aid and safety supplies as per my lawyer’s wishes and for the sake of my insurers. And just because I heard it shouted somewhere from the back, yes we may occasionally break into a jog, and maybe even sprint briefly, for the vast majority of the time we will be walking. If you have any more questions, please refer to the press release. Before I leave, I’d like to end with one more prayer for the journey.”
The audience had bowed their heads again and Simon requested that everyone briefly remove their hats, like they would for the national anthem at a hockey game. Unlike when the anthem was sung at a hockey game, however, Simon recited his closing prayer entirely in English.
“Spirits of the sky,
where everything begins,
stay clear, and stay clean,
so we may see the obstacles
of the path ahead of us.”
Guy was annoyed that he had both began and ended with a prayer, and thought about making a joke, something about how spring was just around the corner and they better hope they can walk on water at this rate, because all the ice will have melted by the time they start. Guy could not effectively arrange those words for maximum humour, so he kept quiet instead of starting a fight. He imagined it was a phrase that sounded better in French, he just didn’t know how to say it.
“Spirits of the land,
where everything is,
stay fertile and stay fallow
provide us with what we need
and neglect us of the things we need not.”
Iyaroak pulled Guy’s toque off and stuffed it into the pocket of his parka for him. She left her hand in there, and Guy wriggled his own hand in there, and found her hand under his toque. English was Guy’s first language, and French was a distant second. His parents both spoke Quebecois French fluently, his dad with a patios that marks him as an obvious West-North-Western Quebecer, but they only slipped into it when they were angry with him, so he wouldn’t understand what they were saying. Since his parents worked with mostly unilingual English-Canadians and the school only had two accredited teachers and they both only spoke English, they picked up the habit of using English at home before Guy said his first word. He took French classes in school starting in grade four, since Makpigat is controlled by Ottawa, which defers education to the provincial government. He dropped it after grade nine when it stopped being mandatory, since the provincial government of Ontario thought just as highly of the language as a fourteen year-old who was forced for six years to learn a language that reminded him of all the times his folks was yelled at him. Inside his coat pocket, his hand was getting sweaty.
“Spirits of the sea,
where everything returns,
stay murky and stay mysterious.
We will tread lightly upon winter’s bridge
and we will definitely stop killing the whales.
We swear this time.”
Guy was never taught anything useful for conversing in French the entire time, just the nouns of different carnival rides and types of shirts and the present tenses of etre and avoir rammed into his head so he would always be able to list exactly who he was and what he had. Guy took an elective half-credit of basic Inuktitut in grade ten, but he forgot most of the syntax rules right after the final exam and, like most of his class, only remembered a handful of useful terms, all types of snow.
“Spirit of the snow,
blanket our faults and mistakes
with uqalurait and ice shelves
so that we may forget our burdens.
Bring it on, spirit of the snow,
we can shovel as much as you can dish out.”
Simon said, “See you later,” and disappeared into the building to applause from the crowd and drums from the Nunamiut.
Guy had not been paying attention again. He realized he was now very late for take-off, and he didn’t want to get left behind like that time the two of them accidentally left him in Alert when he was five. “Some speech,” he said. “Want to take a walk to the merch table?”
She nodded, and they weaved around the retreating supporters. Only the anti-Nunamiut protestors were still shouting, but they were a minority. Guy chose The Book of The Owl, first in the series, since he should pretend to have at least as much respect for this book series as he had for the Lord of the Rings trilogy. If he never made it more than halfway through the first one (like The Fellowship of the Ring) at least he wouldn’t have to spring for the other ones, only this one book cost almost as much as getting the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy. Iyaroak smiled at him, and stuck her hand into his pocket again. She put his toque back on his head. “Call me later?” she said. “I’ve gotta get going before my dad wonders where I am.”
“I was going to say the same thing,” Guy said. “But, umm, I kind of got into a fight with my phone company, and they’ve cut off my phone. Can I give you my e-mail address instead?”
“That’s not the same as the phone,” she said.
Guy could not explain the real circumstances behind having no phone number. “You’re right, and I’ll fix it for sure. But for now, here’s my e-mail, write me whenever and I’ll write you right back. I promise, as soon as I get the message. If I’m on the computer when you’re on the computer, it’ll be just like talking to me on the phone.” He was lucky she didn’t ask him where he lived.
She promised to e-mail him as soon as possible, and he made her a double promise on a prompt reply. For that, and the rest of his efforts that day, Guy received a peck on the cheek and stood there, dumbstruck, holding a drum under one arm and a forty dollar paperback in the other, as he watched Iyaroak disappear into the dispersing crowd. He ran all the way back to the airport and tried to pass it off as a long line-up at the music store checkout. His dad clearly didn’t buy but didn’t want to waste time arguing about it. The flight home was mostly quiet and Guy did not get another flying lesson, which suited both of them just fine.
Guy was all smiles when he went to band practice that night but the guys chalked it up to the new snare. He wasn’t about to tell them about his good fortune, or they might jinx the whole thing with their bad advice. But now an entire week had gone by and he was still waiting for her e-mail, and he knew that usually wasn’t a good sign.
—-
Tag Mason exploded through the door of the library. “Bear Alarm!”
He jumped the entrance turnstile and found Guy asleep under the blue glow of the giant PowerMac screen. “Guy Fleurry, this is your bear alarm. Get up, before you are killed by a bear.”
“What time is it?”
“Nine oh-five. No first period today, there’s a bear in the school. Let’s go!”
Guy’s head stayed down on the desk. “Bullshit.”
“It’s the Zebra Bear.”
That got him up. “You for real?”
“Okay, that’s bullshit, it’s a regular polar bear but it’s tearing apart the chemistry lab. They’re evacuating the school silently so she doesn’t freak out, but the alarms would scare it even more. And DC and Zach are already out there. Are you coming or what?”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“You’re always here, you’ve been in front of that computer for like a week. You might as well take it home.”
“You know I can’t do that Tag,” Guy said. He got up from his chair and stretched out the arm he was sleeping on. “No Internet at home yet.” Guy ejected his iPod, closed his browser windows, packed up and signed out. He missed the e-mail by five minutes.
