Inuit Girls	    M/M, M/F, M' hmm, Rated R 
 

  This is for Jane, whose Due South novel, "Heaven and Hell," contains a
passage that reawakened a long-dormant Desire on my Part (ahem!) to write
a story with this title. 

  

 It's the summer after graduation from high school and young Benton Fraser
is living among the Tsimshian until college starts in the fall. With
Grandpa Fraser in the hospital in Vancouver, Grandma spending all her time
there with him, and Fraser Sr. away as usual, Ben has only hunting and
fishing on his mind--until an older, wiser family friend decides it's time
for Ben to find out about... 

  Inuit Girls by  Rupert Rouge	

  

 British Columbia, along the Fraser River near Prince George, July 1979
 

 All that day they'd worked at building the sweat lodge. The two of them
began early in the morning, after a breakfast of fish cooked over an open
fire and a mug of bark tea. 

 "But I thought we were supposed to fast before a sweat," Ben said. 

 He looked a question at his companion, Eric, the Tsimshian hunter he'd
known all his life. 

 "That is so," Eric said. "But the lodge won't be ready until evening, and
we'll be too busy for lunch. So we'll be in the right frame of mind for
the sweat when it's time." 

 Ben drained the last tea from his mug and looked at his bark plate to see
if there were any remnants of the fish, caught just an hour and a half ago
from the river on whose banks they were camping. Eric had picked wild
herbs to lay on the fish fillets as they cooked and the result was
delicious. "I'm glad we didn't have to skip breakfast. Being out in the
woods like this always gives me an appetite." 

 Eric glanced at him as he set aside his mug and bark-plate. "You're a
growing boy. How old are you now?" 

 "I had my eighteenth birthday on July first. I'm a man, Eric," Ben
protested, with a smile. 

 Eric's expression relaxed into an answering smile. "Of course you are.
Now let's get to work." 

 Ben went off to search for the volcanic lava rocks they would need for
the sweat lodge. By the time he returned, dragging a travois full of
stones behind him, Eric had dug the fire pit and started the fire. Ben
emptied the stones from the travois so that Eric could choose the best of
them. 

 "Twenty-eight rocks," Eric said. "One for each rib of the caribou, whose
meat sustains us in the winter. And for the twenty-eight days of a woman's
moon cycle. Have you had a woman yet, Fraser? 

 Even here in a forest in British Columbia, far from the indifferent gaze
of his school mates, far from the censorious gaze of his father and
grandparents, Ben Fraser could still blush up to his eyes. 

 "No," he managed to choke out. "I haven't." 

 Eric smiled faintly. "Then you are not a man. Yet." 

 Ben watched as Eric put the rocks into the fire pit to heat, then dug a
second pit a little distance away. This pit, which would be the center of
the lodge, would receive the hot rocks. While Eric dug, Ben cut vines to
use as twine. Then he and Eric cut twenty-eight branches of red willow,
bending them to form the dome shape of the lodge. Expertly, Eric wove the
vines around the bent branches to hold them together. 

 By mid-afternoon the lodge had begun to take on its final covering. Eric
wove mats from the grasses by the river and after he hung them over the
lodge frame, Ben followed with handfuls of river mud, plastering grasses
and branches together into walls. 

 Now it was late afternoon and they were waiting for the stones to finish
heating. Ben looked around him, at the clearing in the middle of the
forest, at the clean, swift-running river, and took a breath of sheer
delight. How fortunate he was to be spending his summer like this, with
his Tsimshian friends. Grandma Fraser had originally had quite different
plans for him following his graduation from Samuel Hearne High School in
Inuvik. His grandmother in fact had been beside herself when she'd learned
that Grandpa would have to go into a nursing home in Vancouver for several
months. "I have to be with him, Ben," she said, looking more distracted
than he'd ever seen her. "And I'd so hoped to be guiding you through your
reading this summer, before you go to college in September." 

 "That's all right, Grandma," he assured her. "Eric has invited me to
spend the summer with the Raven Clan, at their hunting and fishing camps.
I'll be fine." 

 She looked doubtful. Ben knew she regarded the Tsimshian as uncivilized
("The dear Lord knows what you might learn from their heathenish ways,
Ben"), but in the end his arguments won her over. "Grandma, if I go with
the Raven Clan, my keep will cost you nothing--I'll earn my own way by
tracking and fishing. And you can rent out our house in Inuvik until
Grandpa gets better." 

 For once in his life, Ben got his own way, and this was his reward--this
blissful summer, freed of the constraints of the so-called civilized
world. Here in the forest there were no clocks, no interminable Sunday
church services, no endless admonitions to Duty, Thrift, and
Obedience--just the wild music of the wind in the trees and the song of
the river as it rippled through the days. 

 He came back to the present, as Eric waved his hand before Ben's eyes.
"Where are you, Fraser? We're almost ready. I just need to weave one more
mat for the doorway. Would you gather some branches to sit on while I do
that? Red cedar is traditional." 

 By evening, the lodge was finished. Eric mounded the displaced earth
outside the entrance--the only opening into the sweat lodge--to use as an
altar. 

 "Let's drink and fill our buckets now, and then we'll wash off in the
river before we begin." 

 The light lingered late on a summer evening in this northern climate. Ben
and Eric stripped off the bark garments they wore--something between a
thong bathing suit and a wraparound apron--and plunged into the river to
get clean. A few minutes were enough. 

 "You're as brown as me," Eric said, as they emerged dripping from the
invigorating freshness of the water, and walked back up the riverbank. 

 Ben looked at himself. Two weeks of traveling in the summer warmth with
his Tsimshian friends had darkened him from his winter-white to a shade
that was the color of strong tea mixed with milk, but even so it looked
nothing like Eric's gleaming, coppery skin. 

 They shook the water off themselves as they approached the fire pit.
"We've filled our water buckets," Eric said, checking each one as Ben
carried the buckets over to the lodge entrance. "We have the sage and the
sweetgrass. Now we'll do a chant before we go in." 

 "How many rounds are we going to do tonight?" Ben asked, with a slight
feeling of guilt. A sweat was an intense spiritual experience, but it was
also time-consuming, and he was uncomfortably aware that it had been a
long time since breakfast. 

 "Four," Eric said. "We'll do all four rounds. Too bad the others aren't
joining us until tomorrow. But they can hold their own sweat lodge
tomorrow night." 

 Eric picked up his drum, a hide stretched tightly over a round frame made
of red cedar. The image of a raven, inked into the drumskin, signified
Eric's membership in the Raven Clan. Ben picked up the rattle, a hollow
ball carved of wood and filled with dry seeds, from which protruded a
wooden handle. The two faced east and began to chant as Ben shook the
rattle and Eric drummed. 

 The Earth is our Mother 
 We must take care of her 
 The Earth is our Mother 
 We must take care of her 
 Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya 
 Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya 
 

 Her sacred ground we walk upon 
 With every step we take 
 Her sacred ground we walk upon 
 With every step we take 
 Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya 
 Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya
 

 The Earth is our Mother 
 She will take care of us... 
 

 By the time they finished the third stanza, Ben was slipping into the
familiar, welcome state he thought of as Other-Worldliness. Eric thrust
the shovel into the fire pit, took seven of the rocks, and dropped to his
knees to pass the shovel through the doorway and deposit the stones into
the rock pit inside the lodge. "Hand me the grasses, please, Fraser," Eric
said. "Thanks." 

 Ben admired his companion's lithe form as he crawled into the lodge.
Eric, he knew, was thirty, but the agility of his movements, the raven
blackness of the hair that fell past his shoulders and down his back, made
him seem as if he were Ben's own age. 

 Following Eric's example, he dropped to his knees, kissed the earth, then
crawled through the doorway. As always, when he entered a sweat lodge, he
felt amazed that such a small dark room could seem as big as the universe
and as holy as the most ancient site in the Old World: funny, that,
considering that the lodge was only shoulder-height, and had been built by
human hands. 

 Eric let down the mat over the doorway, closing them inside. He threw the
sage and sweetgrass on the hot rocks, following the herbs with water from
the pail next to the door. Steam rose immediately. 

 Ben felt his mind drifting as his body became hotter and hotter. First,
the sweat appeared on the skin, as the outer layer warmed up. Then the
intense heat penetrated all his organs, so that he felt roasted, so hot
that his sense of balance began to go. He'd never been so hot. Never. He
almost couldn't breathe. 

 "Earth Mother, I pray that you remove my resentments," Eric's quiet voice
began. "There are things I resent that I should work to change. Help me
please, Mother." 

 Because it was too dark to see Eric's face or for Eric to see his, Ben
felt comfortable as he took his turn. "Earth Mother, help me overcome my
fear of abandonment. Ever since my father left me alone in the woods that
time when I was six, and my mother died afterwards, I've felt abandoned.
And I've been afraid." 

 It was true. His child's mind had perceived the test of character devised
by his father-- being left alone in the woods at night--as rejection, and
his mother's death a short time later as more rejection. The six-year-old
Ben had reasoned that he must be very unlovable if his parents were so
ready to leave him alone. Since that time he had grown an emotional shield
between himself and the rest of the world. For the six-year-old that still
lived inside him somewhere thought that if he didn't allow anyone to get
close in the first place, there could be no possibility that they'd leave.


 The fragrant steam swirled around him in wisps and shreds, and he felt
himself getting dizzy. "Water, please, Eric." 

 Eric passed him a mug of water, then opened the door and crawled out to
get more hot rocks. Ben stretched out full length on the earth floor,
putting his nose near the door to get some air. Mother Earth felt soft and
yielding beneath him, blessedly cool against his hot skin. After Eric
returned and poured more water on the new rocks, he replaced the door
covering and they began the second round. 

 This time, Eric asked for good health for his family, friends, and clan,
and Ben echoed the request, for his own family as well as Eric's. 

 In the third round, Eric asked for skill in negotiating. "I would like to
join the ranks of tribal elders in a few years. And then I will have to
settle disputes and pass judgments, so I need to know how to negotiate to
the satisfaction of all parties." 

 Ben breathed in some of the steam. In the darkness he could hear the
cedar boughs on the floor crackle as Eric shifted position. 

 "Your turn to ask the Mother for something for yourself, Fraser." 

 Ben took a deep breath. "Earth Mother, please send me...love." 

 Again he drank deeply from the bucket when Eric opened the door of the
lodge and crawled out to retrieve the final shovelful of seven rocks. 

 In the fourth round, Eric asked for good hunting and fishing for the four
clans of the Tsimshian tribe--the Raven, the Wolf, the Eagle, and the
Killer Whale--during the summer. 

 Ben asked for the environment to be safe and unpolluted. "The earth, the
water, the air, Mother. Let them be clean for all those who live on them
and in them." 

 "So," Eric said, adding more water to the rocks. "Now we journey." 

 And then silence reigned as each of them breathed in the vapors. 

 Ben felt his mind drift and his consciousness take flight outside his
body: although he knew his earthly frame was sitting in the lodge with
bowed head, his spirit ranged over the world. Gradually, he became aware
of snow-covered peaks surrounding a valley. The dazzling whiteness that
covered the valley floor, the blue glint of ice, told him it was a scene
in deep winter. A pale blue sky arched over the mountain peaks. It seemed
to him that he was in the body of his father, Robert Fraser, looking at
the world from a middle-aged man's eyes. 

 A peaceful enough scene, and one familiar to him since earliest
childhood. Why then, was he conscious of a nameless, faceless dread? Over
what unimaginable horror did that innocent-looking blue sky preside? 

 Dread filled him to the point that he almost forgot to breathe. His eyes
widened in terror, his heart began to race. Something unknown was waiting
to take him away. 

 The cold white and blue of the scene enveloped him, chilling him to the
very soul. Blood stained the snow that covered the valley, and Death was
coming for him. Closer and closer it moved toward him and he was
transfixed, unable to move, unable to scream: he could only wait
helplessly as Death hovered over him and then swooped low, ready to enfold
him in its wings. A horrible feeling of finality consumed him. Death was
coming to carry him away and there was nothing, nothing at all he could
do. 

 Ben screamed. 

 * * * * * * * 

 When he came to, he was lying outside the lodge in Eric's arms, not far
from the fire pit. It was still light, although the long Northern day was
beginning to fade: the sound of the wind sighing through the pines and
cedars, spruces and firs, brought him back to consciousness like someone
whispering in his ear. 

 "Fraser, are you back?" 

 The words penetrated his mind and he looked up into Eric's worried face.
Unable to speak for the moment, he managed to nod. 

 Eric looked grave. "Can you tell me what you saw?" 

 "I thought I was in my father's body, and I saw Death. Death was coming
for me. Eric, I'm so scared!" 

 "Don't be scared, I'm here with you. It was only a vision, Fraser, not
reality." 

 Ben shuddered, and tightened his arms around his friend. How could he
tell Eric of the pervasive dread that had filled him, of the terror
engendered by the knowledge of his own helplessness? "Snow...I saw snow.
And mountains. And Death was waiting there to take me, Eric." 

 Eric lifted one hand to smooth Ben's hair away from his face. The touch
of a human hand was so comforting that Ben, wanting more, acted before he
thought. Some uncontrollable impulse seized him and before he could stop
to think he'd wrapped one arm around Eric's neck and kissed him full on
the lips. 

 Eric's mouth was firm, and warm, and he returned Ben's kiss with a
gentle, answering pressure. Then he pulled back. 

 "Fraser...is this what you want?" 

 Ben looked into Eric's eyes and answered honestly. "I-I'm not sure what I
want." 

 "This?" 

 Eric bent his head to touch his lips to Ben's: a tress of his hair
brushed softly against Ben's cheek, and this time it was Ben who responded
to the pressure of Eric's mouth. 

 "Yes, Eric." His voice sounded breathless to his own ears. 

 "This?" 

 And Eric's strong hands, calloused with daily wear and tear, hands that
could build a sweat lodge, or guide a kayak, or skin a caribou, and yet
remain sensitive enough to weave a mat of wild grass or soothe a crying
child, caressed the smooth skin of Ben's back, from his shoulders down to
his buttocks. 

 "Yes. Oh, yes, Eric." 

 "This?" 

 The skin-to-skin contact was having an unlooked-for effect. Ben felt
himself growing hard and realized, in an agony of embarrassment, that Eric
who was holding him close, would be able to feel it too. 

 And then Eric took Ben's hard shaft in his hand, rubbing one broad thumb
against the foreskin, which retracted; as he continued to gently massage
the head, pre-ejac fluid began to appear. Soon Ben's cock was moist and
slippery as Eric's strokes began to increase in intensity. 

 Ben moaned and began to push against that experienced touch. Eric
fastened his mouth to Ben's, wrapping one hand around Ben's cock firmly
enough that Ben had something to push into. In a few minutes, Ben's moans
and thrustings reached a hot, shattering climax, and he cried
out--"Aaaah!" 

 Eric still held him against his chest, dropping soft kisses on Ben's hot
face, on his hair, on his mouth. 

 "Aaah, ah, Eric...." 

 Gradually Ben became aware that Eric was humming a tuneless song: he
could feel the vibrations of it from the broad chest against which he
rested. Then Eric's humming mixed with the whispering of the wind through
the trees and Ben knew no more. 

  * * * * * * * * *  

 The sound of voices woke him the next morning. As Ben opened his eyes he
realized that he was in the tent he and Eric shared. He had no memory at
all of going to sleep in the tent last night: had Eric dragged him into
it? He turned his head to see whether Eric was awake yet, but his
companion's space was empty. 

 Oh, God, how embarrassing.As the memory of last night's events trickled
back into his consciousness, he squirmed. Oh, how could he have given way
to terror like that? He'd acted just like a baby, frightened by a bedtime
fairy tale--after insisting to Eric, a few hours earlier, that he was a
man! What must Eric think of him now? 

 But it *was* a terrifying vision,some part of his mind insisted. Anyone
would have recoiled in horror from it. Looking at that innocent scene--at
that snow-covered valley on a clear winter's day, knowing that horror
lurked just beyond the edge--had been the most unnerving experience of his
entire life. 

 And afterwards...oh, God. Ben groaned and rolled over onto his stomach,
as if by covering his face he could blot out the memory of what had
happened in Eric's arms last night. No wonder Eric had risen early and
left the tent before Ben woke up. He didn't want to be in the same
vicinity as his former friend--Fraser, the Teenaged Pervert. 

 Better to face him and get it over with. He'd apologize abjectly and then
hope that Eric would never refer to the incident again. Ben rolled off the
sleeping mat and crawled on his hands and knees to the tent's opening.
Through the mosquito-proof netting he could see various members of the
Raven Clan walking back and forth and talking to each other. The smoke of
a fire drifted to his nostrils, and he realized that someone was cooking
bannock. His stomach grumbled that it had not been fed for twenty-four
hours: definitely, it was time to eat. 

 His barkcloth garment was lying near the entrance. Eric must have put it
there. Swiftly Ben tied it on and left the tent. 

 Outside, Victoria and Albert, the newlyweds, were preparing breakfast.
Ben crouched beside them as Victoria turned the bannock over in the heavy
iron frying pan and Albert sprinkled sugar over a basket of mixed berries.


 "Good morning, Fraser," Victoria said. "Did you sleep well? Are you ready
for breakfast?" 

 "Very ready," Ben said, eying the bannock, which was turning a rich
golden brown. Its savory aroma made him feel even more hollow. "Have you
seen Eric?" 

 "We passed him on our way here," Albert said. He scooped some berries
into a small carved wooden bowl and handed it to Ben. "You'll have to eat
with your fingers, I don't think we brought any spoons. Eric was heading
north to the village of the Wolf Clan." 

 So Eric hadn't simply left the tent, he'd left the camp site. "Did Eric
give you a message for me?" 

 "No," Victoria said. She lifted the frying pan out of the hot ashes of
the cooking fire, set it on a flat stone, and cut a wedge of the hot
scone. "Here's a piece of bannock for you, Fraser. I'm sorry there's no
butter for it." 

 Steam rose from the plate she handed him. He broke off a bite, tasted,
chewed. "Thank you, it's delicious." The rich corn flavor and moist
texture of the hot bannock were so satisfying it was all Ben could do not
to weep tears of gratitude. 

 Obviously, Eric had left because of his outrageous behavior the night
before; therefore, his first priority must be to find his Tsimshian friend
and apologize to him. He'd set out right after breakfast. 

  * * * * * *  

 By mid-afternoon he had reached a village, and long before he could hear
voices he could smell the smoke of cooking fires. Ben's flagging spirits
revived: he was tired and hungry. He'd been able to follow Eric's tracks
quite easily, even though the man was walking barefoot, and the tracks had
led him here. 

 He had followed the course of the river: now, as he approached the
village, he saw someone on the river bank, busy doing something with the
birch trees that grew not far from the water. 

 As he came closer, he saw that the someone was a girl. A woman, he
corrected himself. Young, and--his heart fluttered inside him--beautiful.
She was tall for a Tsimshian, with long, shining hair that lay sleekly
against her head and moved like a black waterfall when she moved. She
appeared to be stripping bark from a stand of birch trees. 

 The young woman looked at him with some surprise as he walked toward her.
"æ'umksiwa," she said. "A European!" 

 "Good afternoon," he said in Sm'algyàx, which was the Tsimshian word for
their own language. Literally, it meant "real talk." "My name is Fraser.
What is yours?" 

 "In the city, I call myself Amy Ashoona. But here I use my real name,
Amoudla. What brings you here?" 

 Noticing that she had sat down on the riverbank and was beginning to
fashion a basket out of the bark that lay in a pile beside her, he sat
down too. 

 "I'm looking for Eric, hunter of the Raven Clan. Have you seen him by any
chance? His trail led here." 

 "Eric...Eric's away. He went hunting for caribou. He'll be back tomorrow
night, with meat for the potlatch." 

 "There's a potlatch tomorrow night?" This was exciting news: a potlatch
was a major event among the Tsimshian. Sometimes as many as a thousand
people attended. It involved gift-giving, storytelling, dancing, and a
great deal of feasting. 

 "Yes." Amoudla looked at him and smiled. "We of the Wolf Clan are giving
it. I'm raising a totem pole tomorrow night in honor of my grandparents." 

 "Really," Ben said, impressed. "Did you carve it yourself or did someone
else?" 

 "I did," Amoudla said. "In the city I'm affiliated with a design studio,
and I spend most of the year working there. But I've been coming back here
in the summers. My totem pole--" she laughed, throwing her head back and
exposing a long, lovely line of throat to his gaze--"has taken me five
summers to carve. I started while I was still in college." 

 "I suppose you were at 'Ksan?" he asked. The famous Indian School of Art
and Carving in 'Ksan had trained numerous Inuit sculptors, painters, and
designers. 

 Amoudla nodded. "Unfortunately, my grandparents died before I finished
the carving. I wish they were still here...I miss them so much. My
grandmother was Chieftainess of the Nishga Tribe, and she told me all the
old stories and legends of our people." 

 "Tell me about her," Ben suggested. Although he was hungry and would have
liked to make his way to the village, Amoudla intrigued him. She was
beautiful; moreover, she created beauty with her hands, and she seemed to
be casting a spell over him. He simply did not want to leave her vicinity.


 All through high school he'd observed Inuit girls. He found many of them
attractive, with their strong, well-made bodies and flashing dark eyes. He
noticed how they cultivated qualities that would attract the boys they
would one day marry: the sharpness of their teeth, so necessary to
preparing hides for clothing; their attention to the smallest details of
their environment, because such attention to detail could mean the
difference between life and death; the pride they took in their physical
strength--the strength that would give them the ability to walk miles in
driving snow, help build an iglu an hour, and carry the day's catch home
from an ice-fishing expedition. Their self-confidence intimidated Ben,
always the outsider, not only in upbringing but in appearance. His blue
eyes and brown hair posed a contrast to his dark-haired classmates that
was almost painful. 

 Although he'd been captain of the school ice hockey team, which in theory
made him a desirable catch for any girl, he never asked one of his
classmates out for an evening. After all, what could he offer any of the
Inuit girls? They would marry men of their own kind soon after graduation
from high school, but early marriage was not in his future. For as long as
he could remember, he'd wanted to be a Mountie, like his father, and as
far as Ben Fraser was concerned, everything else in life was subordinate
to that one goal. 

 Watching Amoudla now, he admired the way she was making the basket. He'd
always taken pleasure in watching an expert perform a task, whatever the
field of expertise: she used her hands with economy and precision, wasting
no motions. The artist in him admired the necklace of polished wolf claws
she wore, and the wolf design etched into her barkcloth tunic. 

 "I'd love to tell you about Grandmother, but how about making yourself
useful while I talk? I've promised to make baskets to give away at the
potlatch. You could gather the bark for me, while I start sewing the
baskets together." 

 "Very well." 

 "You have to thank the tree, first," Amoudla said. "Then you say, 'Please
let me have some bark to make my baskets. I'll only take what I need.' And
be sure to cut the strip only from the east side of the tree, the side
that faces the sun when it rises in the morning. And cut only one strip
from each tree, so the tree will heal up and keep on living." 

 "Right," Ben said, thinking that for all this young woman's breathtaking
prettiness, she was certainly bossy. 

 So as he stripped bark for her, Amoudla sewed the baskets with spruce
root and told him about her grandmother. "She was the one who made all the
decisions in the village. If she announced one day that the tribe had
caught enough seal to meet its seal oil and dried meat needs for the
winter, then that was that. There could be no more seal hunting until
autumn. Grandmother knew the bogs where all the sweetest, juiciest berries
grew and she'd stay in the boat, directing people while they filled basket
after basket. If she thought someone in the tribe needed dried fish or
seal meat or ptarmigan, she'd share some of our family's food with that
person. She and the other women knew everything that was going on in the
village, and how much we had to eat or trade." 

 "She sounds like a strong, wise woman," Ben said. He knew that clan
membership passed from mother to child among the Tsimshian. "My
grandmother is very strong, too, and makes all the decisions in our house.
She and my grandfather brought me up. My mother died when I was six and my
father is a Mountie. He's away most of the time." 

 "And does your grandmother tell you all the legends of your people, as
mine told me?" Amoudla asked. "My grandmother told me how Raven stole the
sun from the Spirit of the Sky World and gave light to the earth. And
about Raven's magic canoe that could shrink to the same size as a pine
needle or grow as big as the universe." 

 Fraser thought of his grandmother, her strict adherence to such
old-fashioned Scots Presbyterian virtues as thrift, devotion to duty,
unfailing politeness, and humility. And her constant harping on the
subject of sin, filtered through the perspective of her previous vocation
as a missionary in China before the second world war. "Oh, yes, she told
me all the legends of our people. I like yours better, though." 

 Amoudla flashed a smile at him and tossed her long hair over one
shoulder. The look she gave him seemed to say, "And what else do you
like?" 

 But Ben, tongue-tied in the presence of such a self-assured beauty, had
nothing to say. 

  * * * * * 

 The potlatch ritual attracted clans from all over the area. Ben couldn't
remember ever seeing so many people in one place before. They laughed,
sang old hunting songs, told jokes and stories, ate prodigiously, and
drank. At supper time the drums began and their soft, insistent throbbing
penetrated his consciousness so that he felt poised for some as-
yet-unknown excitement. The drums were calling him, but he only
half-understood their song: his body seemed to understand better than his
mind did, because his feet tapped the earth in time to the drum rhythm,
and his heartbeat quickened. While he and the others waited for the
raising of Amoudla's totem pole, he scanned the crowd for a sight of Eric,
without success. So many people were constantly shifting and moving among
the shadows cast by the huge cooking fire in the center of the village
that he could barely make out a face before it was gone again. 

 Ben watched fascinated as Amoudla uncovered her totem pole after the men
raised it, and the faces of her grandparents, carved out of the red cedar
tree trunk, stared out at the people assembled in front of the long house.
There were speeches, but he could never remember afterward what was said:
he was too busy looking at Amoudla. 

 He thought she eyed him, too, and his theory was proven correct when she
came over to him, carrying two cups of the sparkling white wine, made from
the fermented juice of crowberries, that everyone was drinking. "'M'mm,
it's good," he said, draining the cup. "Crowberries--your people call them
Nishca-Minnick, the gray gooseberry, because crowberries are the favorite
food of the gray goose." 

 Amoudla laughed, her white teeth flashing in her dark face. "Forget the
lecture, we're not in school tonight. Or, at least," she said, giving him
a flirtatious look, "not that kind of school. Are you a fast learner,
Fraser?" 

 "Yes," he said. He grinned happily at her, aware that he felt
extraordinarily good. Light- hearted, in fact. "Let's dance," he said. He
searched her face, hoping she would accept. To his delight, she nodded
acquiescence. 

 "Come," she said, taking his hand. He squeezed her hand a little--such a
small, strong, capable, yet soft hand. 

 The dancing at the potlatch was not at all like the dancing he'd seen in
old movies. It more nearly resembled the kind of dancing everyone did
nowadays--not cheek to cheek, but separated by at least a foot of air, a
matter of moving one's shoulders in the opposite direction from one's
hips, not touching each other at all. He regretted that. He wondered what
Amoudla would feel like in his arms. 

 At last, after a particularly energetic dance, they went in search of
more wine. After they filled their cups, Ben looked around for somewhere
to sit, but Amoudla shook her head. "Come with me, Fraser," she said,
pulling him along after her. The torchlight gave enough light for them to
make their way past the row of wooden houses until they reached the little
hut where Amoudla lived. 

 "T'seen," she said, pushing the door open with one shoulder. "Come in." 

 Inside, after Amoudla lit a paraffin lantern, they sat side by side on
the wooden bench that flanked a table--a plain but elegant affair also
fashioned from red cedar. Ben noticed the grain of the wood and thought of
the hours Amoudla must have spent sanding it smooth. A fragrant bundle of
branches of amabilis fir, that the Tsimshian called Cabsapt, hung from the
ceiling to freshen the air. 

 "This wine is...berry delicious," Ben said. He giggled. 

 "Ha ha, Fraser, I think you're a little bit tiddley. Let's see if you
are." 

 Amoudla brought her face close to his: in the dim light cast by the
lantern he could see the shine of her dark eyes, the sheen of her bronze
skin, the enticing red of her lips. "Only a little bit," she said. "You're
not completely snockered, good. Here." 

 She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He wrapped his arms
around her, responding to the pressure of her soft lips with every fibre
of his being. She felt wonderful against him--slim and firm, but with
certain lush and pillowy places. Tentatively, he rested his hand on the
curve of her left breast, and she did not draw away. 

 "Oh, you're beautiful," he breathed into her ear, and she kissed him
again. 

 When the kiss ended, they looked at each other. 

 "You're a sweet boy, Fraser," Amoudla said. "Pretty, too." 

 "Not as pretty as you. And anyway, I'm a man, not a boy." 

 A gust of soft laughter floated toward him. "Are you really a man,
Fraser? Man enough for me?" 

 "Yes," he said, enchantment sweeping through him, "I am. I am, Amoudla." 

 Amoudla stood up, pulled her barkcloth tunic over her head, and revealed
herself. In the lamplight her bronze skin seemed to glow, and he noticed
with fascination that she still wore the wolf-claw necklace nestled
between her perfect breasts. He'd never before seen a woman without her
clothes and the sight seemed to him so glorious that he was almost moved
to tears. 

 He stood up then, slipping off his own barkcloth garment, and they moved
together into an embrace that ended only when they were lying down on
Amoudla's bed. 

 And while they kissed and caressed and explored, the drums still throbbed
softly in the square, and he was ready, so ready to finally prove his
manhood by burying himself inside her, until... 

 "Is there anything I can do to help you resurrect your own personal totem
pole? It seems to have collapsed," Amoudla said. 

 She sounded sympathetic, but he rolled away from her, onto his back and
looked at the ceiling. "It's no use, Amoudla. I'd like to make love to
you, but my grandmother told me it would be wrong." 

 "What? Have you been in touch with her, then? How?" 

 "No, no. I mean, my grandmother said it was wrong to--to have sexual
relations with a woman unless you're married to her. And I can't marry
you, Amoudla. I've just won a four-year scholarship to college, and after
that I'm going to the RCMP Academy in Regina. I'm going to be a Mountie
like my father. It's always been the dream of my life." 

 Amoudla rolled over on her side to look at him. "Fraser--leaving aside
the fact that if a person married everyone she slept with, she'd never
have time to do any work, she'd be so busy applying for marriage
licenses--what makes you think I'd marry you if you asked me?" 

 Ben felt himself blushing, even though he knew the light wasn't strong
enough for her to see it. "I--I don't know. I just assumed--" 

 "You assumed wrong. I won a scholarship too, my friend, and it took a lot
of hard, hard work. I worked like a sled dog all through college to learn
everything they could teach me about carving and design. Now I'm
associated with a studio in Victoria, and I plan to have a studio of my
own one day. I certainly have no intention of giving up all my plans for a
tiny house somewhere, with wailing kids and a husband who barely notices
me except when he's horny." 

 "I see," Ben murmured. He felt chastened. Why should he have thought this
proud beauty would marry him, even if he'd wanted to propose to her--which
he didn't? Amoudla was as determined to be an artist as he was to become a
Mountie. He berated himself for thinking that his work was more important
than hers: never again would he assume that women's ambitions would always
be subordinate to those of men. 

 "That's all right." She stroked his hair. "You're very young, and I can
see your grandmother has a lot of influence over you. Did you have a
girlfriend in high school?" 

 "No," he said, painfully honest as always. "I had to work hard too, for
my scholarship. It's the only way I can go to college, so I couldn't
afford to fail. I had to make sure that I earned straight A's, and got a
place on the school hockey team, and did community service so the
university committee would think I was well-rounded. I didn't have time to
go out with girls." 

 "That's a shame. Well--" she yawned. "--you'll meet the right girl
eventually. I'm sorry, I've got to get some sleep, it's been a long day.
You're welcome to stay the night here." 

 "Thanks, but I think I'd better go," Ben said. He slid out of the bed,
found his garment, and tied it on. "Good night, Amoudla. Sleep well." 

 But she was already asleep, and did not wake up when he opened the door
and very quietly let himself out. 

  * * * * * * *  

 "Eric?" The old woman looked up from the frying pan she was holding over
the fire. "Yes, I've seen him. He's in the visitor's hut on the other side
of the long house. You can't miss it. It's got a pair of caribou antlers
outside the front door." 

 "Thank you, mother," Ben said, giving the old woman the courtesy title. 

 It was just after sunrise, but despite the wine he'd drunk the night
before he felt wide awake--if for no other reason than that the floor of
the long house had been very uncomfortable, and the noises emitted by his
bunkmates, most of whom had consumed far more liquor than he had, had
conspired to shorten his sleep. 

 So he yawned as he set off in search of the hut with the antlers, and
then took several breaths of the fresh, cool air. 

 The door of the hut was slightly ajar: he knocked once, lightly. 

 "T'seen," Eric's voice said. 

 Ben pushed the door open and entered the room. Eric glanced up, briefly,
then resumed his packing. Around him were all the implements and supplies
necessary for a hunting expedition. 

 "I was wondering when you'd show up, Fraser." 

 "I came to apologize, Eric. I'm sorry about what happened the other night
at the fishing camp." 

 Eric raised his head, looked Ben straight in the eye. "Don't be." 

 "But I was so out of line, I--" 

 "You were hungry. I gave you what you needed." 

 Ben stared. Something in his face evidently made an impression, because
Eric, abandoning his habitual reserve, proceeded to explain. 

 "After your mother died when you were six years old, you were never held
and kissed as much as you should have been." Eric's voice was gentle, but
he hesitated, appearing to choose his words carefully. "Your grandparents
and your father are good people, but their ways are not ours. We know that
children must be held close and touched often. Otherwise, they die." 

 Ben tore his gaze away from Eric, looked at the wall. "But I shouldn't
have done what I did. I shouldn't have put you in such an awkward
situation." 

 "Don't think of it that way. Think of it as one human being reaching out
to another for comfort. Nothing to be ashamed of--we all need comfort from
time to time." 

 This time it was Ben who looked his friend in the eye. "Thank you." 

 "Now," Eric said, turning to pick up his rifle, "why don't we go hunt
some caribou?" 

 "Sounds good to me," Ben said. He bent to lift one of the bundles from
the floor of the hut. 

 "Did you see Amoudla?" 

 Ben straightened up immediately, searching his friend's face. "You sent
her, then. I wondered." 

 "Yes. Well?" Eric smiled. "Did she make a man of you?" 

 "She tried. I couldn't, Eric. At the crucial moment, I thought of my
grandmother, and what she said about saving myself for marriage, and... I
just couldn't." 

 "Oh. Well... let's go, then." 

 "Eric--" 

 "Yes?" 

 "I'm hungry still." 

 The hunter opened his arms and Ben walked straight into them. As he felt
Eric's arms go around him, Ben heard his voice in his ear. "One day you'll
meet someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with, and you
won't need this from me. But for now... as long as you need me, I'll be
here." 

  The End  

  

 "The Earth is Our Mother" Native American chant from A Circle is Cast by
Libana, Spinning Records, 1986. Copyright July 1997 by Rupert Rouge on all
original story content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by
Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for due South.
Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use
without written consent of the author. Comments welcome at
RupertR@hotmail.com. 

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