December 1996
This little idea came to me while watching the weather channel. I've taken some liberties, but, Hey, I'm allowed. This is dedicated to my two partners in crime, Leslie and Cat, who, without their support and influence I would probably not write anything, so if you don't like this story blame them, not me!! Normal disclaimer belongs here. If these were my own characters, you can rest assured that I would not share them with anyone!!!

SIX ABOVE AND SIX BELOW
by Otterlady
e-mail ottrlady@direct.ca

Rain. It was still raining.

For the last week all it had done was mist, drizzle, drip, and just plain rain. And he was more than tried of it. He hated the way it dribbled down his back, working its cold, wet way down inside his collar, squished inside his boots and made the heavy wool material of his tunic smell like old dead sheep. On top of this persistent wet, it was also cold. Oh, no, not cold enough to snow, just cold enough to make it miserable and every room he entered seem like a damp, musty cave.

All day he had stood exposed to the weather. Sentry duty at the best of times was a boring, almost torturous affair, but today it had been totally intolerable. Coming home all he could think about was shedding his soaking uniform and getting into his dry, warm jeans and flannel shirt.

It wasn't that he didn't like rain. Normally he enjoyed all kinds of weather. Quick spring showers that made the grass green and flowers bloom. Or the intense summer storms that built thunderclouds up on the horizons and made the very air electric. Or even the autumn rains that brought the leaves down from the trees and made the earth smell loamy and the air sharp with the scent of woodfires. Those he could handle. But not this persistent drip, drip, drip. For goodness sake, it was the end of December and the thermometer had not fallen below six degrees Celsius all month. Up north it was snowing. He loved snow; the clean, cold way it smelled. The way sounds carried on the icy air. The way it crunched underfoot. Sunlight glinting off the snow encrusted trees. Being able to see for miles across the frozen tundra. The way one's breath hung around your head and created your own little fog bank wherever you went.

He shook himself, dispersing the lovely daydreams of home. This was silly. If he had wanted to live in a continual mist he would have put in a transfer to Vancouver not insisted on staying in Chicago. If he had to live in a big city, at least this place had a climate he could tolerate 90% of the year. (And ironically, this year, Vancouver was enjoying its first white Christmas in years, while the outlook for northern Illinois was for a snow free holiday. It was enough to turn him into a Scrooge!!)

He had to do something. Although he knew that this warmer weather was not bothering some, like Ray, it threatened to drive him crazy. He had no choice. It was time for drastic action!

Growing up in the far northern villages with only Inuit children to play with and the company of the elders of the tribes who had more time for a scrawny little white kid than did his parents or later his grandparents, he had learned many things. How to follow tracks almost invisible to the naked eye. To identify the species, age and gender of what he was trailing by the scent (and taste) left in it's tracks. What different sounds meant, simply by holding still and listening. But the most secret of all the things he had learned from these people was magic. Oh, not the slight of hand that stage magicians used or even the spell-casting of the Wiccans, but environmental magic as used for thousands upon thousands of years by the Shamans of the native peoples of the Americas. Magic that allowed one to pass unnoticed through the caribou herds and pick out the ones that would keep the village alive through the coming winter without frightening away the rest. Magic that allowed one to lay beside a stream and catch bare handed a plumb salmon to dry over a smoking fire. Magic that allowed one to manipulate the weather.

Although it was not often used as it went against the earth's desires, sometimes it was necessary to employ a little magic to bring on the spring thaw so that the rivers ran free or to encourage the sun to shine warmly to bring on the berries for harvest. The Inuit were not afraid of the snow and cold of the subarctic winters. Rather, they welcomed them, as it was easier to hunt when the snow revealed the tracks of the caribou and slowed down the rabbits and foxes. Sometimes it became necessary to call upon the forces of nature to bring about these conditions and he, Benton Fraser, had been taught well.

He had only used this particular magic once and then under the intent scrutiny of the Shaman of the village. He had been able to bring the clouds that had gathered along the far northern horizon closer to the village and created a snowfall of modest proportions. He was confident that with a little time and patience he could duplicate that feat and encourage the storm front that hovered over the southern portion of Ontario to continue a little further south and bring welcome winter back to Chicago.

Preparation was important. He must not be interrupted. Barring the door with a kitchen chair (he really had to get a new lock for that door) he turned and surveyed the apartment. Opening all the windows that he could, he gained access to the spirits of the air. Lighting some candles he welcomed the spirits of fire. Filling a wooden bowl with water and placing it in the circle of candles, he welcomed the forces of both water and earth. Taking the flint and the small piece of jade that he kept in his footlocker, he placed them beside the bowl. This completed the gathering of the living forces of earth. Folding his legs, he sat down on the floor facing the window with his little ring of fire between. He beckoned Dief over to lie beside him to lend his animal magic to the mix. Wolves had a very powerful spirit and were held in great esteem by the native peoples. It had only seemed proper to the Shaman of his last village that Dief had chosen to befriend Fraser as he would need his guidance in his quest to master his magic. The pair closed their eyes and reached deep inside to gather up the power resting within. Fraser began the low hum that would focus the magic and built in his mind's eye the picture of Chicago blanketed by a gentle covering of white, fluffy snow.

(Here we must leave them, as the processes of this form of magic cannot be revealed to those without the training to control it.) Many hours passed. The man and wolf slowly brought their thoughts back up to the here and now from wherever it was that magic is made. The candles had burned down to darkened stubs. The air in the room was definitely colder than the evening before. Muted sunlight lapped at the open windows that let in a drift of pure white snow. He had done it!

Rising stiffly to his feet, he stumbled to the window and beheld a wondrous sight. The streets of the city had been transformed from the soggy, wet state of the night before to a veritable winter postcard. The sidewalks were covered in white; little pillows of snow had softened the trash cans and street lamps. It was beautiful! A loud banging tore him from the sight before him. Hurrying to the door he opened it to behold his friend, Ray, covered in snow.

"Can you believe this weather, Benny? It went from 40 above to 6 below in less than 8 hours. The streets are a mess; traffic's come to a virtual standstill all over the city. I was working the night shift last night and couldn't even get home because of the snow so I came over here to see if I could crash here today. You'd think it was magic or something the way the weather changed like that. Boy, your place is cold! Hey, how come your windows are all open? And what's this stuff on the floor?" Ray rambled on, not noticing the stunned expression on Fraser's face.

Fraser looked down at Dief. Seemingly, he had down just a little to well in his work.

"Oh, dear."

The end?