FROM: Noah Thorpe
[puckU94@quikweb.ca]
TO: Mom
SUBJECT: Re: What In God’s Name Was Your Father Thinking?
Okay, Mom, relax. Calm down. Chill. I’m fine. 100% fine. I don’t even have a scratch. Like I said, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Better than fine, if you really want to know the truth.
Listen, please don’t go blaming Dad for sending me on the winter camping trip. I wanted to go. Really, I did.
You know, Mom, in a way, YOU helped Etua and me chase away the bear. Dad said he told you how we threw stones at the bear’s paws—apparently polar bears have really sensitive feet—well, the reason Etua and I even had stones was because we were collecting them for YOU29 I told him about your inukshuk. Anyway, I’m writing to tell you please don’t freak out. I’m at the computer in Dad’s apartment. Tarksalik is doing way better. We bring her outside now to do her business.
I guess I’m kind of getting used to life up here. Dad says to tell you he’s really sorry and if you insist, he won’t allow me to go winter camping again. But Mom, I hope you won’t feel that way. Winter camping is pretty, well, amazing. And like I said, I’m fine. Better than fine, even. Hope you are too.
P.S. I don’t want you to think it’s a bribe or anything, but I bought you this little souvenir made by a guy named Elijah. You’re really gonna like it, and when I’m back in Montreal, it’ll always remind me of George River.
Love, Noah
FROM: Noah Thorpe
[puckU94@quikweb.ca]
TO: Chris L’Ecuyer
SUBJECT: Re: Hey dude!
You won’t believe what happened to me this weekend. I nearly got eaten alive by a polar bear. Swear to god. It came over to our tent while the others were sleeping. Dude, that thing was huge. At first, I thought it was a mountain. Anyway, we tried shooting into the air to scare him off. But polar bears are fearless. In the end, we had to use rocks and guns to chase him away.
Everyone in George River is talking about us. We’re big news on the fm station.
Could you do me a favor and tell Roland Ipkins about what happened? And Tammy Akerman too?
Hey, you know that guy I told you about—Lenny? Turns out he’s not really a Roland Ipkins type. Actually Lenny’s all right now that I’ve gotten to know him.
You’ll probably think I’m certifiable, but I’m planning to go winter camping again soon. Not this weekend, but the one after. Sure wish I’d taken a picture of that bear—but I was too busy trying to save my skin. Maybe next time.
Talk to ya soon, dude. When you write back, tell me what’s up in Montreal. Guess the only polar bears you’re gonna run into are on a poster—or at the Biodome!
Noah
I’m working on a composition about the polar bear. Because I’ve told the story so many times, it’s pretty easy to write.
Tarksalik is lying under my desk. She walks with a limp now, but she can get around okay. Mathilde thinks by spring Tarksalik should be running again. “But only if you push her! The two of you coddle that dog too much. This is George River, not some health spa!”
Mathilde has a point. Things are different in George River. For one thing, dogs can come to school.
Dad’s making us peer-edit our work. Geraldine is my partner. Her story’s a fantasy. It’s about a spirit girl who goes to seek this spirit boy. But there are all sorts of obstacles along the way: high mountains, deep rivers and an evil sorcerer.
“I sent in my application,” Geraldine tells me after we’ve finished reading each other’s stories, “for nursing school in Montreal. I’ve been talking about…well, you know… stuff…with the guidance counselor. She thinks I can do it.”
“That’s amazing.”
Geraldine smiles her Geraldine
smile. “I know,” she says.
When I get home from school, Mathilde is at Dad’s. She’s buzzing around the apartment, tossing a jar of pickles from the fridge into the garbage (“How can a man keep gray pickles in his refrigerator?”), straightening up a pile of newspapers near Dad’s chair (“Does the word order mean anything to you two?”), and pulling on Tarksalik’s bad leg (“What a beautiful girl!”).
Mathilde’s got her own key to Dad’s place. I guess they didn’t want me to know at first, but it doesn’t bother me at all. Even if she’s a bit of a drill sergeant, Mathilde’s heart is in the right place. Besides, I’m glad Dad has company. Who knows? Maybe by the time I get back to Montreal, Mom’ll have found herself some company too.
“I’ve been waiting for you!” Mathilde tells me. “Jakopie’s mother has gone into labor. It’s her seventh child, so it’ll probably come quickly and there isn’t time to get her to Kuujjuaq. I’m heading right over. And we need your help, Noah.”
“What do you want me to do?” For a second, I’m afraid she wants me to help her deliver the baby.
“It’s Jakopie’s dog team. Because of the high winds earlier this week he hasn’t exercised his dogs in a couple of days. I said you’d take them out for him tonight.”
“You said what?”
Mathilde puts her hands on her hips. It’s her sign that there’s no arguing with her.
“I haven’t done much mushing…”
The only answer I get is a gust of cold air from the front door. Mathilde is already on her way.
Dad wants to come along for the ride. It’s pitch dark by the time we’ve harnessed up the dogs. I’m a little nervous about taking over from Jakopie, but his dogs are so excited to be going out for a run, they don’t seem to notice who’s mushing.
“Oyt!” I shout, and the team takes off along the same route we took when we went winter camping.
“Oyt!” Dad shouts from behind me.
I need to keep my eyes on the team, but I can tell, without turning around, that Dad’s enjoying himself.
Maybe it’s because the dogs are still young, but they pull like crazy at first, and then, by the time we reach the bend where the road narrows, they’re panting. Maybe I shouldn’t have let them tear out of town the way they did.
Dad must notice too, because he calls out, “What do you say we stop and take a little break?”
The snow angels are Dad’s idea. We’re sitting out on the snow, when he bends backward and stretches his arms up behind him. Because it looks like fun, I do the same thing. I can’t remember ever making snow angels with Dad when I was a kid.
We’re lying on our backs when we both notice a faint pink glow at the bottom of the horizon.
“Aurora borealis,” Dad says. “Just a little one though. You don’t get the big ones this time of year—the ones that light up the sky like fireworks. They’re produced by the collision of charged molecules from Earth’s magnetosph—”
I put my hand on Dad’s arm.
“You’re right,” Dad says. “I’ll shut up.”
The pink glow gets brighter and pinker. Then there are more lights—still pink—and they’re not just at the bottom of the horizon anymore. They’re swirling across the whole sky, like paint on a dark canvas. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And for the first time, I’m enjoying the quiet. Except for the lights in the sky, the world feels perfectly still.
“The Inuit say it’s the spirits playing in the sky,” Dad whispers.
I can see that. For a brief moment, I can even see Kajutaijug’s stumpy legs, but then, with the next flash of pink, they are gone.
“The Inuit say you can make the lights dance by whistling loudly.”
And so, lying on our backs in the snow, our arms spread out like wings, Dad and I try whistling. The cold air comes shooting down our lungs on the inhale, but the whistles come out okay.
If anyone saw us, they’d definitely think we were crazy. But no one sees us. And the funny thing is, the lights really do dance when we whistle.