Belly of the Beast	The Due South Fiction Archive Entry	Home

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      	  Belly of the Beast 
 by Mary  

 

 Benton Fraser sat in the passenger seat of the 1971 Riviera, staring at
the rifle that lay on his lap as if it were a newly-discovered and
mysterious body part that he didn't yet possess the confidence to use. 

 "What is it, Benny?" Ray Vecchio asked as he drove, and then quickly
clarified his question. "I mean, besides the wolf, something else is
bugging you, ain't it?"

 "It's not important."

 "You sure? 'Cause, let me tell you, the way you're sitting there, staring
at that gun like that, you look...I don't know...like a man on the edge.
Like you're about to do something desperate."

 Ben finally looked up at Ray. "I am."

 "Even more desperate than shooting Dief, I mean." 

 "Like what?"

 "You tell me, Fraser." Ray drove on, never taking his eyes off the road,
until Ben worked up the courage to speak. 

 "I was twelve years old the last time I fired this gun."

 Ray Vecchio glanced at the rifle and then at his friend. "You sure it
still works? You might blow your head off."

 "Oh, no, no, it works fine."

 "Look, Benny, I know you Canadians don't believe in things that go boom
and spray ammunition when you've got a mouth that can do the job just as
good, so take it from an experienced American gun-slinger: if that rifle
hasn't been fired in over twenty years, there's a very good chance it'll
explode in that clean-cut face of yours."

 Ben wrapped his fingers gently around either end of the rifle. "I meant I
haven't fired it at a living target."

 "Ahh. A living target."

 "I, um, discharge it regularly and clean it. It's in perfect working
order, I assure you."

 "Yeah, well, just the same, Fraser, you won't mind if I kind of keep my
distance when the time comes, just in case, right?"

 Ben smiled at Ray's joke, which he understood was meant to try to relax
him. "I vowed I'd never again use this rifle to take a life."

 "Listen, Benny, you don't have to do-Wait, hold it a second. You nearly
took my life with that gun!"

 "What? When?"

 "Last year, up at your cabin. You know, when I got out of my death bed
just to follow a complete stranger-and strange is the operative word
here-up to the Canadian wilderness to help him hunt down a mob of bad guys
dressed in white snowsuits. You opened the door and almost blew me away!"

 "No, Ray, I most certainly did not."

 "Liar! I was staring down that barrel and saw my whole life flash before
me-which, I've come to find out, is something that happens an awful lot
when you're around."

 "I'll admit, I pointed a rifle at you, Ray, but you were in no danger. I
never shoot until I've identified the target."

 "Oh, that's great, Benny. Very reassuring now, but back then, in the
moment..." Ray shook his head in disbelief.

 "Besides, it wasn't this rifle."

 "Huh?"

 "That was my grandfather's gun. This is my dad's," Ben pointed out,
lifting it momentarily from his lap.

 "And that makes a difference, I suppose?"

 "Yes, it makes all the difference. You see, this is the gun I vowed never
to use again with intent to kill. My dad's gun."

 "You never killed with your dad's gun?"

 "No, I did...once."

 "Oh, right. So, what happened? You were, what'd you say, twelve?"

 "Yes."

 "A hunting accident? Something like that?"

 "Yes, I was hunting, but no, it wasn't an accident. It was, um, a
mistake." Ben turned his head away from Ray's view and gripped the gun so
hard his knuckles went white.

 "Look, if you'd rather not talk about it..." Ray offered, although there
was clear concern in his voice.

 Ben stretched back against the seat, looking for a moment as if he felt
crowded. Then he relaxed, cleared his throat and looked at Ray. "Maybe
it's time I did. If you're sure..."

 "Sure I'm sure. Hell, why not? You talk and I'll listen...and drive. I
can do those two things at once, you know," he said with a wink, which
momentarily made Ben feel as though he were a child again, seeking advice
from his grandfather.

 "Okay, um, well, I was twelve."

 "Right, right. Twelve. Got it."

 "And, um, my dad had given me his rifle, this rifle, for my birthday. It
was probably the best birthday present I'd ever received, and I'm sure he
knew that. He knew I'd had my eye on this gun ever since the day he first
showed me the basics of how to handle it. Of course, I wasn't allowed to
touch it without supervision when I was little, so when that day came when
he told me it was mine, I was, well, I was elated. I was a man...or I
thought I was, anyway. And I figured my dad thought so, too. I couldn't
wait to show the whole world that I was a man with a gun."

 "Sounds pretty fairy-tale so far," Ray remarked.

 "Did you ever really read fairy tales, Ray?"

 "Huh?"

 "A lot of them are quite dark. Studies have shown that a significant
percentage of children who hear fairy tales at bedtime suffer from
horrible phobias and nightmares."

 Ray looked at Ben with fear in his eyes. "Is that your polite way of
telling me I'm gonna have nightmares after hearing your story, Fraser?"

 "I don't know. It's possible, I suppose."

 "No problem," he said, adopting a tough exterior. "Go ahead and hit me
with it. I can take it. So, you're twelve, a man with a gun..."

 "Well, not quite. I was a man with a gun who was forbidden to hunt until
he was thirteen years old."

 "Aw, man! You kidding me? That's just cruel. Why would your dad give you
a gun and not let you use it for a whole year?"

 "He didn't. He gave me the gun, yes, but it was my grandparents who
wouldn't allow me to hunt with it for another year."

 "And your dad let 'em do that? He was your father, for chrissakes. He
could've overruled your grandparents, couldn't he?"

 "Maybe. I don't know. But he wasn't around to overrule anything. He, uh,
delivered the gun to me for my birthday. He wasn't actually there. So, um,
as usual, my grandparents set the rules."

 "Hey, hold on, back up. Didn't you say you were twelve when you killed
with your dad's gun?"

 "Yes, I'm getting to that."

 "Oh, sorry. I'm kinda new at this."

 "At what?"

 "Listening to stories. In fact, until you, no one's ever really told me a
story before."

 "Surely your parents read you stories when you were little? Bedtime
stories? Stories to cheer you up when you were sad or lonely or sick?"

 "Nah, we weren't really that kinda family."

 "What kind were you?"

 Ray chuckled ironically and shook his head. "Tell you what, Benny. Let's
save that fairy tale for another time. You go ahead and tell yours."

 "Very well. Um, where was I?"

 "Waiting for your thirteenth birthday."

 "Ah, right. Well, after several weeks of nothing but target practice, I
became restless. Other boys my age were already hunting, including my best
friend, Innusiq, who could bag a caribou as expertly as any man twice his
age, and so I felt I was, um, being left behind. Finally, one day I
decided to, er, be my own man. So, I packed a knapsack, took my rifle from
the cabinet, and left the house in the middle of the night as my
grandparents slept."

 "Wow, you disobeyed your grandparents? I didn't know you did that kind of
thing."

 "Well, of course, Ray. I was a kid once, just like you." 

 "Somehow I doubt we were all that alike, Benny, even as kids."

 "Perhaps, but regardless, yes, I defied them, and lived to regret it." 

 "What'd they do, send you to your igloo without supper?" Ray smirked. 

 "No. I didn't have an igloo, Ray. Although, if I had, I suppose they
might have."

 "So...what? They beat you?"

 "Uh, no. No, as I recall, I nearly got my britches warmed, but, since I'd
been forthcoming about my disobedience, to the point of leaving a note
beforehand, my grandmother settled on-"

 "A note? You left a note?"

 "Well, of course, Ray. I didn't want them to worry needlessly, and if I
just disappeared without the slightest explanation-"

 "Yeah, all right, all right. Figures Mister Courteous couldn't even run
away without asking permission."

 "I didn't have permission. I simply left a note saying, Gone hunting.
Sorry."

 "Sorry?!" Ray snorted. "That's priceless, Benny!"

 "Unfortunately, my grandparents didn't think it was so funny. I got extra
chores for a month."

 "Extra chores?"

 "My grandfather usually fed the chickens in the morning. But for that
month, I had to get up early and do the feeding and clean out the coop
before breakfast."

 "Ah, hard labor."

 "Well, I don't know if I'd go that far. In fact, it turned out I enjoyed
it, so I took over that duty on a permanent basis."

 "You enjoyed your punishment? Fraser, that is not normal. A kid does not
like his punishment. And even if, by some miracle of God, he does like it,
he doesn't act like he does, you know?"

 Fraser nodded in agreement. "It was just the one time, Ray. I swear. A
fluke, if you will. I'm sure my grandparents didn't expect me to like it."

 "Yeah, sure. You know what my dad would've done?"

 "No," Ben replied, not at all sure he wanted to know the answer.

 "He woulda taken that rifle and clobbered me black and blue with it. And
then he woulda locked it away from me forever and gone off to the pool
hall to commiserate with his cronies about the rotten kids they'd been
saddled with." It was obvious this was no mere conjecture.

 Fraser stared at Ray, at a loss to accept such a reality. "I'm sorry,
Ray."

 "Yeah, forget it. No sense in both of us having nightmares."

 "No, no, I guess you're right." As much as Ben had wanted to tell his
story for his own good, he suddenly realized it might also provide just
the kind of distraction Ray needed at the moment. "You know, Ray, some
people aren't very good at expressing love."

 "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

 "Take my father, for instance. I was never sure whether he cared or even
knew I was alive. Especially after my mother died, I often felt he'd
prefer I never existed."

 The ghost of Robert Fraser appeared in the back seat of the car, fumbling
for something to say, but failing. Ben sensed him and stiffened in his
seat, cleared his throat nervously, and brushed his thumb across his
eyebrow.

 Ray was quiet for a moment and then a small smile crept over his face.
"He gave you that gun. That musta meant something."

 "He's right, son," the ghost finally spoke, relaxing Ben a bit and
bringing a sad smile to his face.

 "Yes," Ben admitted. "I suppose it must have."

 "I don't get it," Ray said. "You liked doing the extra chores, right?"

 "Well..."

 "...and you didn't get whacked..."

 "No."

 "...so what was so horrible about it?"

 

 I'll never forget it. The moment my bullet struck the caribou was the
most exhilarating moment of my life. But then, seconds after that blinding
flash of the shotgun, the animal that had been frolicking with such grace
and majesty, dropped to the ground, and I felt a paralyzing shock course
through my body until I thought I would be stuck in that spot forever,
staring at the equally immobile -- dead -- caribou.

 "Fine job," Quinn said as he walked up behind me. 

 Quinn was a skilled native hunter and trapper. We'd crossed paths once or
twice when I was little, although he didn't appear to remember me on this
particular day. From then on, however, he's been an important mentor,
always showing up at those times when I need guidance of some kind. I'll
admit, I was somewhat annoyed by his presence as I endeavoured to track my
first caribou, but, as much as I wanted to have that adventure all on my
own, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to absorb some of Quinn's
expertise. So I begrudgingly allowed him to tag along. Truth be told, I
wasn't as sure of myself as I liked to pretend.

 "Clean shot, killed instantly. You handle that rifle well, young Benton
Fraser."

 I felt a tear run slowly down my cheek, across my lips, and then leap off
my chin. It was the only clear sign that I was still alive and not as dead
as my caribou.

 "Come," he said as he walked past me toward the animal. When I failed to
follow his lead, he turned to me and commanded once more, "Come! There's
much work to do yet."

 My paralysis abated at his order and I ran after him, not knowing what
else I could do.

 "You have rope?" he asked after we'd reached the caribou and Quinn had
checked to make sure it was well and truly dead.

 "Uh huh," I replied and then scrounged through my knapsack and pulled out
a fairly long length of good rope.

 "Good. Knot one end around the animal, like so," he instructed, taking
the rope and crouching to tie the knot.

 "I can do it," I asserted, grabbing the rope from him and tying the
strongest knot I knew how.

 Quinn tested the knot and nodded. "Good. Now the other end, likewise
around your waist." He stood up and I followed, doing as he'd directed.
"Good." He gave a quick nod, then turned and started walking.

 "Hey, where are you going?" I called after him.

 "Our work here is finished," he answered as he walked.

 I trudged laboriously after him, the weight of the dead animal putting
great strain on my small body with each step. Quinn never slowed and it
took every ounce of strength I had to eventually catch up to him. I wanted
to say something to him, but there was such a jumble of thoughts and
emotions colliding within me that I was unable to articulate any of them.
More than anything, I felt anger toward Quinn building stronger and
stronger; but instead of expressing the anger, I decided to expend the
energy it produced in the physical effort of dragging myself and my kill
towards home.

 

 "Well, that's my house," I announced as we crested a hill and the small
cabin appeared in the distance. Although it was the middle of the night,
the first hints of daylight had already dawned on the northern late summer
morning. I slipped out of the noose tied around my waist and offered my
hand to Quinn. "Good-bye." 

 "Don't forget your kill," he said as he took my hand firmly and nodded
toward the abandoned end of rope.

 I frowned and glared at the dead caribou I had tried to leave behind.
"Could you take it?" I asked.

 "It's yours."

 "I know, but, um...maybe you could give it to someone who needs it."

 "This is your kill. You must see it through."

 "What do you mean?"

 "Take it home, skin it, clean it, prepare it. Then take it where it is
needed."

 "Why do I have to do it?" I whined.

 "So as not to break the cycle."

 "What cycle?"

 "The cycle of life."

 I looked down at the caribou, confused and frustrated. "But it's dead."

 

 I took the caribou to the shed, then went to the house to gather the
tools needed to prepare the animal. My grandparents were sleeping, so I
was careful not to make any noise that might disturb their slumber. I
would deal with them after I had dealt with my caribou.

 Back in the shed, I lit three lanterns and placed them on the table where
I had laid the carcass. Its opened eyes reflected the lamplight as they
stared at me, echoing the question of the ages: Why? I momentarily lost my
breath at the sound of its plea then turned my head, loath to face it with
my inability to answer. I could have cried; I was about to, in fact. But
then I thought, what right do I have to cry? How dare I cry in the
presence of this 'sacrificial lamb'?

 I took the knife and approached the animal from behind, out of its sight.
Suddenly, although the caribou was already well dead, it seemed to me that
the act of cutting the lifeless skin was the point of no return, and I
panicked. Stepping back, I let the knife-yielding hand fall to my side.

 "And on the third day, he rose from the dead." My grandfather's unusually
stern voice sounded out of the silence, startling me into dropping the
knife to the ground.

 I turned slowly and faced my grandfather, forcing myself to look him in
the eyes, despite my deep shame. "Huh?"

 Grandpa approached and had a look at the animal and then at me. "You
dropped your knife."

 I nodded and bent down to retrieve the knife, taking it firmly into both
hands as I faced my grandpa again.

 "I guess congratulations are in order, eh?" he asked soberly.

 "No, sir," I sheepishly replied.

 "Oh? Why on Earth not?" He paused to await an answer, but I couldn't
bring myself to give one. Scowling in disapproval of my silence, he
continued his ironic scolding. "Despite any reservations your grandmother
and I may have expressed -- quite strongly, at that -- you insisted you
were old enough to hunt, took off all on your own, and a mere three days
later brought back this very fine caribou." He took a few steps toward me.
"It would appear you proved me and your grandma wrong for denying you
permission to hunt."

 "No, I didn't," I contradicted him a second time in a soft whisper.

 "Well, now, I'm confused, Ben. You hunted this caribou, did you not?"

 "Yeah, but, um, I shouldn't have."

 "Why do you say that?"

 "Lots of reasons."

 "Give me one, for example. Other than that you were told not to."

 "Um, well..." I gulped back my mounting emotion. "I don't think I can
talk about it right now. I'm, um...sorry..." I sighed to repress a sob and
lowered my head in shame and sorrow.

 "Can't talk or won't?"

 "Um...can't, sir."

 "You mean to tell me you don't feel good about your, er, accomplishment?"

 I remained quiet for several seconds, then realized I had to answer
him...no, I wanted to answer him. "Yes, sir. That's what I mean to tell
you."

 "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, boy?"

 "No, sir."

 "You're not simply telling me what you think I want to hear?"

 "No, sir."

 "Because you've already bought yourself a whole peck of trouble, and if
there's anything that'll make matters worse, it's dishonesty."

 "I know."

 "You think I'm angry now, tell me a lie and you'll see real anger."

 "I'm telling you the truth," I insisted, brushing my sleeve across my
damp face. "I made a terrible mistake, and I deserve anything you wanna do
to punish me."

 "Yes," he concurred with a firm nod. Then, squinting his eyes, he studied
me intently for a moment. "All right, then, let's go to the house and wake
your grandma so the three of us can have a chat."

 "Please, can it wait for a little later?"

 "I see no point in putting it off. You're obviously hurting, so the
sooner we work things out, the better."

 "I'm not putting it off, sir. It's just that I have to, um, dress the
animal and take it to someone who needs it."

 "And who would that be?"

 "I don't know yet. I have to look for them. It's part of the, uh, the
cycle of life."

 "The cycle of life?"

 "Life leading to death and death leading back to life...and on and on,
forever and ever."

 "Somebody explained all that to you, I take it?"

 "Yes, sir. Quinn. He, um, walked me home."

 "Quinn, the tracker?"

 "Uh huh."

 "Good. No one better to help you out in the wilds, eh?"

 "He should've stopped me," I accused angrily.

 "From killing the caribou?"

 "He was there, and he, um, just let me shoot it. He didn't even try to
stop me."

 "Hmm, perhaps he felt it was more important to let you go through with
it."

 I shook my head vehemently and refused tears as I tried to restrain my
anger. "How could it be? I killed it just to prove I could." My voice had
grown louder as my tension mounted, and I fairly yelled the ultimate
question. "How can that be more important than saving the caribou's life?"

 "I don't know, buddy," Grandpa calmly answered. "That's something only
you can answer."

 I took a breath and steadied my voice. "No, I can't answer that." I
glanced at the dead caribou and sighed, unsure whether I was angrier at
myself for killing it or at Quinn for allowing me to do it.

 "Then perhaps you weren't as ready to hunt as you'd thought, eh?"

 I blushed with forced humility, and then my anger got the better of me
once more. "But if Quinn was punishing me by letting me kill the caribou,
that just doesn't seem fair. It wasn't the animal's fault. He didn't
deserve to die."

 "Everything dies eventually, whether it deserves it or not."

 "I know but..." I took another deep breath to settle myself. "It still
wasn't fair, and I don't think I can ever forgive him for this."

 "Give it time. You might discover Quinn isn't the one who needs
forgiving."

 I felt the heat of unbearable shame consume me, and I had to run my
tongue along my mouth to relieve the dryness before I could speak again.
"It wasn't Quinn's fault, I guess. I mean, I was the one who wanted to
kill it. He told me I could change my mind, but I said no. It was me,
Grandpa. I did it. All by myself." I hung my head and repented, "I'm so
ashamed."

 "Well, then, looks like you and I will have to work on forgiving you,
eh?" he said with a sober wink after lifting my downcast face. When I
nodded in response, he reached out and laid a hand on my shoulder.
"Meanwhile, I'll, uh, give you a hand with the animal."

 "No, sir...I mean, it's my responsibility. I should do it by myself."

 "Is that what Quinn told you?"

 "No. I just feel like I owe it to him...somehow."

 "To the caribou, you mean?"

 "Yeah. I guess that sounds pretty dumb."

 "No, no, if that's what your conscience is telling you, it'd behoove you
to listen."

 "Thank you, sir."

 "Sure you know what you're doing? You don't want to make a holy mess of
it. You can do a clean job, can you?"

 "Yes, I think so. I've helped you and Dad lots of times and watched
everything you did."

 "You won't drop your knife again, will you?"

 "No, sir."

 "Very well. I guess I'll go back to bed then."

 "Okay. Good night."

 "Good night, son. I'll, uh, let your grandma know what's happened...and
that you're home."

 I silently watched him make his way to the door, then called out to stop
him. "Sir?" 

 "Yes, Ben?" he replied, turning to face me.

 "Um...don't worry, I know I've gotta be punished for disobeying you." I'm
not exactly sure why I said that, but I suspect I was afraid Grandpa was
going to smooth things over with Grandma -- or attempt to, anyway. Grandma
certainly wasn't the easiest person to smooth things over with, but I did
get the feeling now and then that sparing my hide may not have been her
first inclination. And, in this case, I didn't believe I deserved to be
spared.

 Grandpa was quiet for a moment, scratching his stubbly face as he eyed
me. "You'd better get busy, there. You've got a ton of work ahead of you.
Dawn'll be breaking soon, and you'll have other chores waiting on you as
well."

 "Yes, sir." 

 

 By full daybreak, I had the caribou all prepared and packed. My stomach
was growling with hunger and I considered going to the house for a quick
breakfast before continuing my task, but decided against it for a couple
of reasons. For one thing, working with all that raw meat kind of put me
off the idea of eating. Additionally, going into the house would've surely
meant meeting up with my grandmother, and I really felt I had to complete
one onerous duty before facing another. So, with the heavy sack flung over
my shoulders, I left the shed and headed out. Where, I wasn't sure. 

 My wandering led me to an Inuit village upriver from town. Upon realizing
where I was, I almost hurried away. This was the very village where I
often visited my friend, Innusiq, who, even at his tender age, happened to
be an expert hunter. I suppose it was typical that my youthful vanity
perceived my best friend's strength as a personal challenge, but on this
occasion I believed it also led to my downfall. Therefore, Innusiq was the
last person I wanted to see at that moment.

 In the hope of escaping the outdoors where I might run into Innusiq, I
approached the first hut I came to and knocked on the door. My paranoia
continued to grow as I awaited an answer to my knock, and I obsessively
scanned the surrounding area. Consequently, I was completely unaware that
someone had opened the door until my eyes fell again upon the doorway and
a woman's figure. At first glance, I took her for an old woman, but I soon
realized she was actually quite young, just weathered by life.

 "Oh, hi," I offered feebly, suddenly unsure what to say now that I was
face to face with someone.

 The woman nodded but didn't speak and continued to stare at me with a
look of disinterest on her face-or what struck me as disinterest-and I
became even more unsure of myself. To be honest, I don't know what kept me
from turning tail and running away as fast as my heavily- burdened legs
would take me.

 "Um, may I speak to the head of the family, please," I inquired, taking a
small step toward the hut to hint that I would appreciate being invited
inside. I had always taken pride in physical and emotional strength, but
at that particular moment I felt about as vulnerable as a person can be. I
needed to get inside that hut. I needed the security that those four walls
would provide.

 In an instant, the woman had grabbed the sleeve of my coat and dragged me
into her home and to the far side of the room where the rest of the family
sat before a hearth having their breakfast. An older couple shared a mug
of unappetizing broth while a younger man and three small children picked
at the meager remnants of a fish. The young woman who had invited me in
ladled a measure of the broth from the pot and offered it to me.

 "Oh, um, no thank you," I said. It was obvious they had nothing to spare
on strangers.

 The young man looked up at me as if just noticing my presence and ordered
in a deep, yet serene voice, "Drink."

 Loath to offend their hospitality, I accepted the mug from the woman.
"Thank you, ma'am."

 I was prohibited from drinking as the ancient-looking young woman took
hold of my face, squeezing my cheeks between her thumb and fingers. The
thought that I had somehow offended her crossed my mind but vanished once
it became clear she was merely scrutinizing my features. Why, I don't
know, but as near as I could make out, she proclaimed my bone structure to
be perfect before resuming her seat on the floor beside her husband.
Red-faced with embarrassment and shame, I sipped the weak soup and watched
her take a small loaf of bannock and break it into pieces, serving her
husband first, then the children, herself, and, finally, the old couple.

 "Pardon me," I said, approaching the family cautiously. They failed to
respond, so I cleared my throat and tried again. "Good morning. My name is
Ben. Um, Benton Fraser. I live just outside the town, with my
grandparents, George and Martha Fraser. Maybe you know them? They run the,
um, library."

 As they continued to stare at me, I couldn't ascertain whether my words
were understood. Nevertheless, I was politely allowed to have my say while
they munched their inadequate meal. Nobody showed the slightest fear or
anger when I took a step in their direction, so I smiled and advanced
until I was close enough to offer a handshake, which the younger man
accepted, inexplicably extending his left hand to my proffered right.

 During our clumsy greeting, I was further unnerved to notice why the
young man hadn't offered me his right hand: he had none. His entire right
arm appeared intact and perfectly normal, but the appendage was nothing
but a stump. I can only assume he'd lost his hand in some sort of
accident. "Oh," I uttered without thinking, and then felt at a loss to
proceed without embarrassing one or both of us. I certainly wasn't going
to ask the foremost question on my mind.

 To my relief, fortune stepped in and made the next move. Or, rather, my
new acquaintance did. After retrieving from me his good hand, he used it
to point behind me and spoke. "Ingelrayok."

 "Huh?"

 "Ingelrayok." He again pointed to the bag I carried on my back and then
to me. "Ingelrayok." 

 "Um..." I forced my mind not to panic until it eventually hit upon a
translation that made sense. "Oh, journey? Is that it? Um, yeah, I guess.
I mean, I've been hunting, and I've brought...may I?" I asked, as I began
to lift the knapsack off my back. Answering his nod, I lowered the sack
beside their fire pit and then stepped back, massaging a tense knot at the
back of my neck. "It's a caribou. Freshly killed and dressed. For you," I
signaled to the best of my ability. "If you want it."

 The man didn't hesitate. He summoned his wife to open the sack, which she
did quickly, revealing what must have looked like manna from the heavens
to this destitute family. Soon, they were all crowded around the meat,
exclaiming and praising the good fortune God had bestowed on them.

 Little did they know it wasn't the work of God, but of a regrettably
impatient young boy who'd have given anything to go back in time and not
kill the caribou. At least, he thought he would.

 

 The door to the study was open and the hushed voices of my grandparents
became audible as I approached the room carrying my father's rifle in my
arms. They spied me as I peered in and immediately ceased their
conversation, favouring me with their undivided attention.

 "Well, the prodigal son has come home, eh," my grandmother exclaimed
ironically. "Shall we kill the fatted calf?"

 Dumbstruck with shame, I looked them both in the eyes until mounting
tears forced me to bow my head.

 With an outstretched arm determinedly marking the spot, Grandma
commanded, "Get over here this instant, young man!"

 Springing to attention, I did as ordered and, before they had a chance to
say anything, I lifted my encumbered arms to my grandfather. "Here, sir,"
I whispered, handing my rifle over to him.

 "What's this?" he asked, reluctantly taking it from me.

 "My gun."

 "Yes, I can see that. What do you want me to do with it? Surely you don't
expect me to shoot you," he joked. "True, you've violated our law, but
shooting you's a bit drastic, don't you think?"

 "No, sir, I mean yes, um, I mean...um, I'm giving it to you."

 "I don't recall asking you to give me your gun."

 "You didn't."

 "Then what's this about?"

 "I thought you might like to have it."

 "What for? I already have a perfectly good rifle. This is yours." He held
it out to me but I didn't take it.

 "If you don't want it, maybe you could sell it."

 "You want me to sell your hunting rifle?"

 I shrugged and looked at it with regret. "It's a fine rifle. Dad took
good care of it. Somebody'd probably like to buy it."

 "Just hold your horses, there, buddy. Your father gave you this rifle.
Don't you think he'd be a bit put out if you gave it away?"

 "Um, well, maybe he won't ever find out. We wouldn't have to tell him,
would we, Grandpa?"

 "You're suggesting we deceive your father?" he asked sternly.

 I merely shrugged. I couldn't admit to suggesting deceit, but I also felt
I couldn't possibly keep the gun any longer, so I didn't know what to say.

 "I'm not going to sell your rifle, Ben," Grandpa stated and then offered
it to me again.

 I crossed my hands behind my back and refused to even look at the rifle.
"It's not mine any more."

 "What's that supposed to mean?"

 "I can't be trusted with it. I proved that."

 "Give me your hands," he ordered.

 "But, sir-"

 "Now, Benton, unless you want me to reconsider the firing squad!"

 Of course, there was no real danger of that, but, nevertheless, Grandpa
had made it clear that he meant business. So, I obeyed. Grandpa placed the
rifle onto the palms of my hands, forcibly closing my unwilling fingers
around the weapon. He then looked at me and frowned when he saw the tears
spilling from my eyes. To make matters worse, I couldn't wipe them away as
my hands were otherwise occupied and I dared not move them.

 "For God's sake, are you crying?"

 "I don't want the gun, Grandpa. You were right. I'm not ready for it.
Please don't make me keep it." I blinked my eyes several times, trying
desperately to clear them of the distorting tears.

 "Listen, son, when or whether you use the rifle again is up to you. But
regardless of what you do in the future, you're a hunter now. Nothing can
change that."

 "Even if I never hunt again as long as I live?"

 "Yes. We can't go backwards in life, Ben. We can't erase what's past.
It's impossible. So don't expect me to encourage you in an attempt that'll
only end up causing you more pain than you're already feeling." Rather
brusquely, he added, "I love you too much to allow that."

 "I don't feel very...lovable."

 "I know you don't. But you know something? I don't feel all that lovable,
myself, sometimes." Grandpa rubbed his face nervously, then dropped his
hands to his hips and spoke to me as if he were confessing a grievous sin.
"Like right now, for instance. I know I'm trying to do what's best for
you, but I can't be sure I'm succeeding. And when I fear I've been too
strict or too tough on you, I feel darn unlovable, let me tell you."

 I was speechless. It had never occurred to me that my grandparents might
have doubts about how they were raising me. And I certainly never would've
expected them to admit it to me, if they had. Finally, I averted my face
and mumbled, "I love you, Grandpa," in doubt as to how my statement would
be received, but unable to think of anything more appropriate to say.

 He then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dangled it before me.
"Dry your face. You're a sight!"

 After setting the rifle down so it leaned against my body, I took the
handkerchief and wiped my face. "Thank you, sir," I said, returning his
hanky. "May I put my rifle away now?"

 "Go ahead," he answered with a smirk. "But come right back. Your grandma
hasn't had her say yet."

 "Oh, yeah...I mean, understood."

 

 After taking a deep, fortifying breath, I stepped back into the study
where I found my grandparents sitting side-by-side against the desk.
Grandpa squeezed Grandma's hand reassuringly and then moved away, waving
his arm to beckon me forth, so I set my jaw and marched over to Grandma.

 "Grandma, and you, too, Grandpa," I added with a glance at him,
"...before you say anything, I want to tell you I'm sorry. It was wrong of
me to, um, disobey you, and I owe you both an apology. So, um, I'm sorry,
very sorry, and, um, I'm ready to be punished."

 "Yes, well, thank you, Ben. We appreciate your apology." She removed her
spectacles from her face and folded them to let them hang from the chain
around her neck. In short, she seemed to be settling in either to deliver
a lengthy lecture or to engage me in protracted discussion-neither of
which was appealing, although, given a choice, I most likely would've
opted for the lecture. "I understand you've had quite an adventure these
past few days?" 

 Nope. I wasn't getting off with a lecture. "Yes, ma'am. An awful one."

 "Hmm. You killed your first prey and found it wasn't quite the experience
you expected, eh?"

 "Yes, ma'am."

 "Well, you know, it's hard to know about some things until you try them."

 "That's why I should've listened to you and Grandpa when you forbade me
to go hunting, huh?"

 "That would've been the safe thing to do, yes. So why didn't you?"

 I shrugged and lowered my face in humble repentance, but my grandmother
wasn't about to let me have it that easy.

 "Why was going hunting so important to you?" she questioned.

 "I don't know."

 "Yes, you do."

 I started to squirm. As was often her wont, she was going to make me
explain my actions; but I was so horrified by them that I wanted to push
them completely out of my mind. "If it's okay with you, ma'am, I'd rather
not talk about it."

 "No, I'm afraid it's not okay with me."

 "Please, ma'am," I pleaded with trembling voice. "I did a terrible thing,
and I know I shouldn't have done it, so can't you just ground me forever
or...or whatever you're gonna do without making me talk about it first?"

 "I could do that, but I'm not going to." She paused for what seemed like
an eternity, as I continued to face the floor and shuffle my feet. "I'm
waiting for your answer, Benton," she finally reminded me quite firmly.

 "Yes, ma'am." Shuffle, shuffle, squirm, shrug. "I don't know the answer."

 "I see," she sighed, uncrossed her arms, and stood up. "Then you let me
know as soon as you do know the answer, eh?" With that, she began to make
her way across the room toward the door.

 "What? Where're you going, Grandma?"

 "I've got too much work to do to let you waste my time here," she
explained without delaying her retreat.

 "But...but "

 "But what?" she asked, turning to face me as she stood at the door,
fingers poised to open the latch.

 "Aren't I getting punished?"

 "We haven't got around to that yet."

 "When are we gonna?"

 "As I said, you let me know when you're ready to answer my question." And
she turned and left the room.

 I stood staring at the empty doorway, my mouth agape, my brow furrowed in
confusion. "What happened, Grandpa?" I asked after running my tongue along
my dry mouth to lubricate it.

 "Not very much...yet." My grandfather now stood in the doorway and was
about to shut me inside the room all alone until I interfered.

 "Did I do something wrong, sir?"

 "You'll never be much of a man 'til you can face up to your actions."

 "But I am facing up to my actions, aren't I?"

 "Not if you can't answer your grandmother's very simple question."

 "Is she gonna make me stand here alone until I do?"

 "Quite possibly."

 I heaved a deep sigh as I passed my grandfather on my way out of the room
then turned back suddenly and met his quizzical gaze. "Oh dear," I
lamented.

 "What's the problem?"

 "I've forgotten the question."

 

 My grandmother's hands were buried in a mound of bread dough when I found
her in the kitchen. I cleared my throat to announce myself but got no
response so, urged on by a nudge from Grandpa, I approached her and
cleared my throat again.

 "Something on your mind?" she inquired.

 "Yes, ma'am. Too much."

 "Hmm, have you come to unload some of it?" She continued her kneading
without even a single, quick, glance at me.

 "Um, what was your question again, ma'am?" I asked.

 "I said, have you come to unload some of what's on your mind?"

 "No, Grandma, not that. I meant your other question...you
know...before..."

 She abandoned her work and turned to me, tossing me a sly wink as she
wiped her hands with her apron, and we both relaxed and smiled at her
joke. "So, you've decided to cooperate with me, have you?"

 "I didn't mean to be, um, obstinate, ma'am. It's just...um...some things
are hard to talk about...sometimes."

 "And sometimes the hard things are the very things that must be talked
about."

 "To be grown up, a man?"

 "Yes, precisely."

 "Okay. I'll try to answer your question now, ma'am. What was it again?"

 Grandma chuckled, then sat back against the counter, crossing her arms in
front of her as she enjoyed the joke that eluded me.

 "What's so funny, Grandma?"

 She reached out and tugged my ear then brought her hand around to grip my
chin as she replied, "You've already answered my question, honey."

 "Huh? When?"

 "Just now, when you said to be a man. That's why you wanted to hunt so
badly, isn't it?"

 "Yes, ma'am. I guess so. I mean, I thought so."

 "Then this has been quite a few days for you, eh? Growing from boy to
man."

 "It's not that simple."

 "No, I dare say it's not the least bit simple. Growing up is full of hard
lessons, and you'd better be prepared, Mister, because as long as you want
to keep growing, you're going to have to risk making some mistakes along
the way."

 "I don't understand, ma'am. It sounds like you're saying I had to disobey
you if I wanted to grow up." I tried my darndest not to sound snotty.

 "Don't misunderstand. I'm not giving you licence to disobey any time it
suits you."

 "No, ma'am, I was pretty sure you wouldn't do that."

 "Smart boy. No, what I'm suggesting is that on this particular occasion
you had something to learn, and you weren't going to learn it by obeying
the rules."

 "You mean I did the right thing?" I asked, incredulous.

 "I don't know about right or wrong, but you did what needed doing. You
felt ready to hunt and our rule was holding you back. You needed to prove
to yourself that you were ready."

 "But, um...I was wrong. I wasn't ready."

 "Perhaps not, but apparently you were ready for the lessons you learned."

 "You mean I got what I deserved?"

 "You got what you needed to grow."

 "This is what it feels like to grow up?"

 "Yes."

 "Gosh. I'd rather stay little forever."

 Grandma's face grew instantly angry. "Don't you ever say such a thing
again, you hear me?"

 "Yes, ma'am, but-"

 "I expect better from you, and I believe you expect better of yourself."

 "Yeah, but I tried to grow up and look what happened. I disobeyed you,
did something really bad, and made you angry."

 "Yes, you did, and, believe me, I've half a mind to give you the tanning
of your life," she declared with a stern glare.

 "Yes, ma'am," I gulped in acknowledgment. "But that'd be nothing compared
to what I did to the caribou."

 "You killed it. That's what hunters do. Surely you knew that when you
took off with your rifle."

 "I guess."

 Grandma's expression softened somewhat and she hesitated before speaking
again. "Listen, Ben, yes, you misbehaved and we'll deal with that, but I
also want you to understand that what you did was a normal rite of
passage. You needn't dwell on it excessively."

 "You don't think I'm a...terrible person?"

 Grandma scowled, and I immediately knew I had said the wrong thing. Darn!
The last thing I needed was one more action to regret.

 "I've had it with that self-loathing talk!" she warned.

 "But-"

 "You don't need me telling you what kind of person you are. You have a
mind of your own, and if you'd use it, you'd have your answer."

 "Yes, ma'am," I replied, merely to satisfy her, but remaining unsatisfied
myself.

 "And while we're on the subject," she added with renewed severity, "I'd
better never hear words such as unlovable coming from your mouth ever
again! Is that clear?"

 "Yes, ma'am."

 "I won't stand for you insinuating we've raised an unlovable boy."

 "I didn't mean to insinuate that, ma'am, honestly."

 "I'm sure you didn't, but that's not the point. You have every right to
take as much pride in yourself as your grandpa and I take in you."

 "But I disobeyed you. How can you be proud of me?"

 "Can't you think of anything you did right in all this?" she challenged
me.

 Shaking my head sadly, I replied, "No, ma'am."

 "Ah, well, I can. But, then, I don't have a guilty conscience clouding my
perception."

 She was going to leave it at that, I'm sure. She might very well have
sent me to my room to think over the whole matter until I identified at
least one thing I had done right. I wasn't in the mood for such mental
exercises, however. I needed an answer, then and there. And I needed it to
come from my grandparents. I still had faith in them, whereas I had none
in myself.

 "What, Grandma," I asked. "What did I do right?"

 "Well, for starters, you left us a note before you took off."

 "Just so you wouldn't worry."

 "Isn't that a good reason?"

 "Yeah, I guess..."

 "Anyway, it was more than that, wasn't it?"

 "It was?"

 "Think about it. You could have lied and told us you had, for example,
gone to a friend's house. That would have served your purpose if all you
wanted was to keep us from worrying."

 "Gosh, I never thought to do that."

 "Doesn't that tell you something?"

 I thought for a moment then allowed a shy smile to grace my face as I
joked, "I'm pretty stupid?"

 My grandmother sensed the anxiety behind my remark and reassured me with
a wry smile and a swat to my backside. "Yes, smarty-pants, I suppose that
could be it, but there's another possible explanation which I much
prefer." She paused and looked at me and it was clear she hoped I would
venture to answer.

 "Um, maybe I wanted to tell you the truth?"

 "Exactly. Telling the truth is in your nature, Ben. Lying is not. Surely,
you've noticed that."

 I nodded. It was common knowledge that I was the worst liar in the world.
Nothing mystified me more than the fact that there were people who could,
and would, prevaricate at will with the greatest of ease. I always told
myself such dishonesty was wrong and I should be glad it went against my
grain; however, there was something about the whole idea that fascinated
me. On the odd occasion, I couldn't help but fantasize about being an
accomplished liar who would tell the wildest stories simply for the fun of
it or swear to lie after lie to get my own way or avoid trouble. But
fantasy was as far as that ever got.

 "Now," my grandmother continued, "...if you'll think back, you'll see
that you haven't tried to deny responsibility for your actions. You
haven't made excuses and you haven't tried to lie your way out of trouble.
That shows a certain level of maturity, don't you think?"

 "Yes, ma'am," I agreed reticently. 

 "You don't sound very certain."

 "Because I still killed a caribou. Nothing can change that."

 "Yes, that's very true. So, now you know what it's all about, eh? You
were eager to be a hunter, and now you are one. You've learned a lesson
only experience can teach. It may not be the lesson you had expected, but
that's the way the ball bounces."

 "Yes, ma'am. Um, does that mean...um, may I go now, or...am I still in
trouble?" I asked tentatively, oddly hopeful yet burdened at the
possibility that I might not be disciplined.

 "I won't sugar-coat this for you, Benton. I think you know that's not my
way."

 "Yes, ma'am. I reckoned I'd be punished. It's just that it sounded like
you were saying...I don't know...that maybe I already learned my lesson."

 "No doubt you've learned a good many lessons. That's your own business.
But it's simply a fact of life that the buck doesn't always stop there, so
don't expect me to paint you a rose-coloured picture."

 "Oh...er, no, I mean, yes, ma'am, I won't...I don't." 

 Grandma pulled me closer and draped her arms over my shoulders, striking
a posture which accentuated the fact that I was almost as tall as she. "Do
you recall the young schoolboy who insisted he could continually throw a
blackboard eraser at a glass window and it would always bounce right back
at him?"

 "Uh, yeah...I think so." My cheeks became so hot I thought they would
melt away.

 "He didn't believe my warnings about the fragility of the glass any more
than you believed my opinion that you weren't ready to hunt."

 "So, um, he had to try it?" I asked timidly. 

 "Yes, he did. And he learned a useful lesson about glass."

 "Yeah, but he wished he hadn't done it, anyway."

 "Uh huh."

 I paused before adding, "And even though he learned a lesson, he still
got in trouble."

 She nodded.

 I gulped in empathy with the child. "Grandma?"

 "Yes?"

 "Learning stuff can be a real pain in the neck, huh?"

 She smirked, despite herself. "Yes, it can. That's why it's important to
use discretion in our behaviour."

 "You mean think before we act, huh?"

 "That's right."

 "I did. Honest."

 "And now that you've thought and acted, it's up to you to decide whether
what you gained was worth suffering the penalty."

 "I didn't gain anything, ma'am."

 "Don't be so sure. Some day you may see things differently. Life isn't
all black and white."

 "It sure isn't." I looked her in the eyes, prepared to receive her
judgment, but, instead, I was forced to withstand the annoying snags as
her fingers roughly threaded their way through the snarls in my hair. If
there was a rebel buried within me, surely he resided in my unruly hair
because that was the one part of me that consistently resisted bending to
my grandmother's rule...try as she might to tame it.

 "You need a good hair cut," she proclaimed after settling for a temporary
compromise. "That'll take care of these wayward curls."

 "Oh, Grandma, it's already short enough," I whined.

 "I'll be the judge of that."

 "But it's my hair!"

 "Bring me the scissors after you've cleaned yourself up and I'll give you
a trim."

 "Aw, heck!"

 "I beg your pardon, young man?"

 "Um, I mean I don't need my hair cut yet, ma'am. It's not too long."

 "Perhaps it's not long, but it's out of control. You'll look much nicer
after a little grooming."

 "I think I look okay."

 "And I think there's room for improvement."

 "Do I have to?"

 "Yes."

 "Gee whiz, you might as well just shave my head if you're gonna cut my
hair any shorter."

 She took firm hold of my left ear, pulled my head slightly from side to
side as she perused me, and then nodded in assent. "Very well, if that's
what you'd prefer, you can bring me your grandpa's razor."

 "Huh? No...no, I was kidding! You're not really gonna shave my head, are
you, Grandma?"

 "I'll leave that to you, honey. Bring me the scissors, and I'll trim your
hair. Bring me the razor, and I'll shave it. All right?"

 Boy, she was good! 

 

 As usual in times of distress, talking things over with my grandparents
helped. I wouldn't say I felt better right away, as I did continue to
brood over my spotted soul despite my grandmother's entreaty to avoid such
indulgence. But eventually I was assured of my humanity. 

 I don't know that I've ever finally decided whether the lessons of the
hunting incident were worth the consequences of disobedience. One thing I
do know is that as devastating as it had been to be the instrument of
death to that caribou, it had been satisfying to see the expressions of
joy, relief, and thanks as I presented the spoils to the suffering Inuit
family. But let's not forget the long arm of Grandma's law, which
distinctly reminded me of the risks involved in venturing beyond
childhood. Trouble was, Grandpa was right: I couldn't go back.

 

 "Geez, Benny," Ray exclaimed.

 "What's wrong, Ray?"

 "Your grandmother."

 "What about her?"

 "Well, geez, what kind of crap is that to tell a kid?"

 "What do you mean?"

 "Listen, kid, sometimes you're gonna have to disobey me to learn a
lesson, but you're gonna get punished for it, anyhow. That kind of crap.
Where'd she come up with that?"

 "I don't know. She read a lot."

 "No wonder you're so..."

 "No wonder I'm so what?"

 "Confused, Fraser, you're confused."

 "I am?"

 "Yes, you are."

 "About what?"

 "About everything!"

 "Hah, sorry. I didn't realize."

 "Uh huh, you see!"

 Ben sat back in his seat and thought back on his grandmother's words. "I
don't know, Ray. I think there's a certain logic to what she said."

 "You think so when you were twelve?"

 "Um, well, no, not at all. As I remember, I was just wishing to get the
whole thing over with."

 "Right, and you know damn well she knew that, so she was just making up
all that crap to torture you. You know, prolonging the agony. At least
with my dad it was quick. One good swipe at me and it was over."

 "I don't know, Ray. I'll admit, facing my grandmother when I'd done
something wrong was no picnic, but to suggest that she intentionally
tortured me is just...uh...well, it's horse hockey!" Ben attempted to
swear.

 "Horse hockey? What the hell is horse hockey?"

 Ben cocked his head nervously and steeled himself to emit another
profanity. "Crap, Ray," he whispered.

 Ray cackled loudly. "I bet your grandmother taught you that one, too,
huh?"

 "Oh, dear, no. In fact, it's a safe bet I'd be sitting here with a bar of
soap in my mouth if she'd heard me just now." Ben tugged at his ear
anxiously, as if he'd just survived a close call. 

 "For horse hockey? God, how cute!" Ray guffawed.

 "Believe me, Ray, a mouth-soaping is far from cute. You'd have seen - or,
rather, tasted - for yourself if my grandmother had been here. Your
language leaves a little to be desired, too, you know."

 "Yeah, your grandma sure coulda taught me a thing or two," Ray continued
to laugh.

 "Yes, I dare say."

 "Ahh," Ray sighed, composing himself. "Now your grandpa, he sounds like a
cool guy. I wouldn't have minded him for a dad, myself."

 Ben smiled a nostalgic smile and unconsciously let his fingers caress the
gun in his lap. "Yeah," he agreed softly.

 "I mean, I know, technically, he was your grandfather, but it sounds like
he was kind of a second dad, huh?"

 "Uh huh. He was great. Although, he could be just as tough as my
grandmother in his own way."

 "Sure, Benny, sure," Ray replied. "And, don't worry, you didn't turn out
all that bad."

 "I didn't?"

 "Nah."

 "I know I can sometimes, er, make you wish you never met me."

 "Just every minute of every day, but who's counting?" Ray smiled as he
continued to look at the road ahead of them.

 "Thanks, Ray," Ben offered after a pause.

 "For what?"

 Ben hesitated, then replied, "Nothing. Just this, you know...being here."

 "Hey, don't thank me. Me being here is a pure accident of God. You know,
like you bringing that meat to the starving Inuits."

 "Hmm, yeah," Ben agreed. "Like fate, huh?" 

 "Yeah, right. Fate." Ray glanced at Ben's lap and took note of the soft
strokes his friend was applying to the gun's barrel. With a sudden jerk of
his head, he turned his attention back to the road. "If you really want me
to do something for you, Fraser, the offer still stands. You just say the
word, and I'll take care of this for you."

 "I appreciate that, Ray." But they both knew this was Ben's predicament
and could only be settled by him. Ben turned his head to look out the
window and, as Ray drove on, they sat in silence, each half wishing they'd
fail to find the runaway wolf that had been sentenced to extermination.

 "Hey Fraser?" Ray spoke a few minutes later.

 "Yes?"

 "What kind of a dumbbell kid tries to bounce an eraser off a glass
window?"

 "Oh, Ray, I wouldn't say he was a, um, dumbbell, exactly." Ben tried to
hide his blush by brushing his thumb across his eyebrow. "Just curious and
spirited."

 "And a stubborn little pain in the-"

 "At times, yes."

 "Was he a friend of yours or something?"

 "Not exactly, no."

 "Ha! Sounds just like you."

 "Me?"

 "Yeah, sticking up for the dumbbell kid. You've always gotta give the guy
the benefit of the doubt, no matter what idiotic thing he does."  
  

End Belly of the Beast by Mary 

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