White Spruce

We walked for the whole next day. We might have covered 15 km, or possibly 20. I would learn later that she was taking it easy on me; she was easily capable of going 30 km a day, if not more.

She taught me quite a bit as we walked. Perhaps the most important lesson was that she didn't want me talking to her while we were moving. A quick question or an observation (if pertinent) was alright, but she didn't want me trying to start a conversation.

- "Wait until we stop for a break, or for the evening." she said. "We have to stay alert when we're moving. We need to be aware of every sound, of every stick that's out of place. If you're talking, we're both distracted, and that makes us vulnerable."

- "Sorry. But aren't we in friendly country?"

- "Yes, but we could still run into Indies, or bounty hunters."

- "Bounty hunters? Is that... that's a real thing?"

- "Very real, Mike. They're not as dangerous as soldiers, for a community, but they can show up at any time of year, almost anywhere. They prefer to hit isolated dwellings, but if we stumble across their path, chatting as we walk..."

- "Understood. I just... I didn't know that there really was a bounty. Who pays it?"

- "The nearest golf course. Or a provincial official in one of the larger towns."

- "How much do they pay?"

- "A thousand dollars for a kill. Man, woman, or child. They just have to bring proof. A pair of hands, or ears."

- "That's not a lot of money, is it?"

- "Find an Indie couple with four children, and it certainly covers their expenses." said Sylvie. "You don't need a licence to hunt humans. It's open season all year round. For most of these hunters, though, it's not about the money. They could go after polar bears, wolves, elk or caribou. But..."

- "But?"

- "But you can't rape a polar bear. Not while it's alive, anyway. But you can rape any human female you capture alive - regardless of their age."

There was something about her tone, something flat and emotionless, that chilled me.

- "You... you've seen...?"

- "Yes."

She was silent for quite a while. I couldn't think of a single thing to say that didn't sound trite, or stupid. Eventually, she spoke again.

"Maybe it was a good thing, in the long run. There were benefits."

- "Benefits?"

- "Hunters kept coming, in the old days. They forced a lot of small, independent communities to unite for self-defence. And the more hunters we killed, the more weapons and equipment we acquired. Some of that helped us defend ourselves even better; some of it improved our standard of living. And it became a way for us to acquire money, too."

On our second day on foot, we reached the edge of a sizeable lake. Sylvie unerringly led us to a cache, where a canoe was concealed. She frowned, and made a 'cluck' noise with her tongue.

- "Something wrong?" I asked.

- "Last canoe. We can't take it."

- "We can't?"

- "No. There might be an emergency. Someone injured, or an attack nearby. We're not in a hurry, but the next people who need this canoe might be."

She used her radio, for the first time since we'd left Ten Lakes. Then she sat down, and indicated that I should, too.

"It might be a while." she said. "You can ask questions now, if you want."

I had a bunch of them. "Do you have family, Sylvie? Siblings? Parents? You haven't mentioned anyone like that at Ten Lakes, except maybe Uncle Bear."

She hung her head for a moment, and I thought that she wasn't going to answer me.

- "I had a mother." she said. "She worked at White Spruce Golf Club."

- "WHAT? When?"

- "Long before you got there, Mike. I was six years old when a member decided that he wanted my mother as his mistress. He was already married, but wealthy enough to be able to keep two women. My mother insisted that she be allowed to bring her daughter with her; for her temerity, she was badly beaten, and had to be sent to hospital. She never came back."

I should have said 'I'm sorry' - but it seemed so paltry, so insignificant, that I couldn't even utter the words.

"My mother had already entrusted my care to her best friend: Tess."

- "Tess? The Tess I know?"

- "Yes. She took care of me until I turned twelve. Then she realized that the Pro was thinking of 'adopting' me."

- "Adopting? Wait: who was the Pro?"

- "You know him: Emerson Howard. He has several fetishes. He loves to deflower virgins. But he prefers them young. Very young. Tess knew that he was interested in me."

My tongue just gave up. I couldn't even formulate words.

"Tess made contact with the Outsiders. She got me out of White Spruce. I was brought to Ten Lakes, and adopted by Anya Four-Finger. She became my foster-mother. It was Anya who taught me... well, just about everything. She took me out with her on patrol."

- "Where is Anya? Is she not at Ten Lakes?"

- "She died six years ago. A fight with soldiers. We drove them off, but..."

- "I'm... I'm so sorry, Sylvie. I don't know what to say. Did she... did you have any other family here?"

- "Anya had a son. Bryce. He was four years older than me. We learned from her together."

- "Where is Bryce now?"

- "Dead. Your partner Trey shot him."

***

We reached the community near Rankine Lake. Everyone seemed to know Sylvie; they called out her name, and waved. More than a few came over to speak to her, to ask about the fight with the soldiers. Children, particularly young girls, ran over to stand nearby, to gawk, or to touch her hand.

Sylvie introduced me as her partner on the perimeter - but not to everyone. I remarked on it.

- "I don't know all of their names. If I told you all of the names I do know, there would be over fifty. Could you memorize that many?"

- "No."

- "Anyway, it's more important that the dozen people I did introduce you to remember

you."

- "Why?"

- "In case something happens to me, and you have to come back alone, or with somebody else."

After our talk the previous day, I might have been feeling... well, guilty.

- "Why do you say things like that? Like something is going to happen to you?"

- "Because it could. Anya used to tell me that every couple of days, so that I'd pay attention, and not simply rely on her all the time. She was wrong, of course, for six years. And then, in one day, she was right."

We spent the night at Rankine Lake. The next day, they took us down the lake by canoe, and followed a narrow river that ran east, until it ran out after a few kilometres. They gave us some food, and some messages for the next community we were headed for: MacIver Lake.

We waked from there, accompanied by a young man and a young woman who were returning to MacIver Lake. They had evidently been taught the same as I was, or took their cue from Sylvie, and refrained from speaking while we travelled.

When we stopped for a break, though, they were happy to talk to me while Sylvie moved a little further off. Marco was from Rankine Lake; June was from MacIver. They were going back to live and work with her kin, now that they were handfast.

I'm sure they could see that I had no idea what they were talking about.

- "Um... plighted?" said June.

- "Plighted? Is that like... engaged?"

- "Engaged?" Now it was their turn to seem confused.

- "Engaged to be married."

- "Oh." said Marco. "I mean... sort of. It's a declaration to both communities that we're together."

June grinned. "It tells other women that if they want a piece of my man, they have to talk to me first."

- "I'll explain it to him later." said Sylvie, as she came walking back. "Mike is very new to our ways."

- "But you were at the fight with the soldiers? At Stony Lakes?" June sounded impressed.

- "He was. And he killed two soldiers."

When we resumed our walk, both Marco and June kept looking over at me. If I caught them looking, they would flash me a thumbs-up, or simply grin and look away. It was a bit weird.

It was only a ten or eleven kilometre walk; we arrived well before dark, and were received much as we had been at Rankine Lake.

Once again, Sylvie was recognized, called to, and waved to. Even more people, it seemed to me, came over to speak to her, and a few even shook her hand or hugged her. There were more little girls who wanted to stand next to her, or touch her hand. Many called her by the Dene version of her name.

I paid more attention when she introduced people to me by name.

We met June's family, and were once again treated to a meal. Sylvie was asked quite a few questions; I noted that she kept her answers short. She seemed to know exactly what kind of news her listeners wanted to hear.

They offered us a shelter to sleep in, but it was a fine night, so Sylvie declined. We unrolled our sleeping bags under the stars.

- "So many of these people seem to know you." I said.

- "I've been walking for twelve years, Mike. Six years with Anya, six without. They loved her, and came to like me because I was always with her."

- "I think they appreciate you for yourself, now."

She was silent for a moment. Then we both burrowed into our sleeping bags. I lay on my back, looking up at the stars.

- "I killed your partner Trey." she said.

- "I know."

She didn't respond to that. I had nothing else to say.

In the morning, she called my name to wake me. She was already up, her sleeping bag carefully rolled up. She had saved some of the food from last night for our breakfast. I thanked her.

- "Did you have me in your sights, that night?" she asked.

- "Which night?"

- "When I killed Trey."

I shook my head. "No. But that first night? I spotted you a second or two before Trey called out 'Target!'. Then he shot your friend. Bryce."

- "Why didn't you shoot?"

- "We weren't supposed to." I explained IADE to her. Identify, Apprehend, Defend, Eliminate. "Trey jumped straight to eliminate."

- "Whereas you followed the rules, and I'm still alive."

- "I... I guess so."

- "Do you still follow the rules, Mike?"

- "That's... that's a tough question. Mostly, I think? I don't know how I'd handle having no rules at all."

- "Bad rules are often worse than no rules at all." she said. "That's what the Indies say - although they usually leave out the word 'often'."

- "No rules? Isn't that just chaos? Or law of the jungle?"

- "Some of the Independents are anarchists. Some are libertarians."

- "What's the difference?" I asked.

Sylvie smiled. "I'm not entirely sure. They all agree on one thing: they refuse to acknowledge any authority but their own."

- "Authority? Is there some kind of Outsider government?"

- "Of course there is. No President, or permanent assembly. But living in a community imposes obligations. There are benefits, obviously, but you can't live in a group that depends on all of its members, and still claim absolute independence."

That made sense to me.

"But you should still have a code, Mike. I think you do."

Sylvie was a lot like Tess, in that regard: she would say things that stuck in my head for far too long.

The MacIvers ferried us across their lake, and then gave us one of their canoes. Sylvie and I picked it up, and carried it, along with our gear and our rifles.

- "Portage?" I said.

It was a short walk, this time; barely half a kilometre, between two very small lakes. No, make that three. One lake was no bigger than a large pond.

- "How many lakes

are

there?" I asked.

- "In Manitoba? Over 100,000. Or do you mean in Canada? That's closer to two million."

- "Are you serious?"

She didn't bother to dignify that with an answer. Very shortly afterwards, we reached another river, not more than twenty meters wide.

- "What river is this?"

- "It's another branch of the Churchill. We call it the Little Wanderer, though. You'll get to know it well enough."

It wasn't very wide, and it was quite shallow in places, but I could I soon see how the little river had gotten its name. It turned, and twisted, and doubled back on itself, all the while heading in a generally south-westerly direction. Within the first kilometre, we hit a double 'S', and then another 'S' (or double bend) two kilometres later.

Then we encountered a canoe going in the opposite direction. As soon as we spotted them, Sylvie made a hand signal, and they responded.

- "Friends." said Sylvie. "You paddle." With that, she put down her own paddle, and unslung her rifle. The man and the woman coming towards us had given the correct signal, but she was taking no chances.

As we came together, Sylvie relaxed. "I know them." she told me.

The second canoe pulled alongside us. Sylvie took hold of their boat, while the man in the bow held on to ours. Introductions were made: Marie and Norval were out of Mack Lake, which we would reach in a couple of days. They exchanged news with us, and asked about the fight with the soldiers. They wished us well on our journey, and we did the same.

The Little Wanderer was the twistiest, turniest, most obnoxiously un-straight river I could ever have imagined. By the end of the day, when we ran out of river again, we had covered thirty or thirty-five kilometres, and my arms, back and shoulders were all sore.

- "We'll camp here." said Sylvie. "Portage first thing in the morning."

That night, I asked her about Tess.

"What about her?" she said.

- "Well, you knew her before I did. How did she end up at White Spruce? What's her story?"

- "Don't you think that's for her to tell?"

- "But... I may never see her again."

- "But you might. And then you can ask her."

***

We only had to carry our canoe for a few hundred meters, and then we were back in the water. There were some shallow spots, though, and it was my turn to jump out and manhandle the canoe over them.

Paddle five kilometres. Portage forty meters. Paddle ten kilometres, portage fifty meters. In both of those cases, I could see what should have been the river bed, had there been more rain.

By the afternoon, I believe that I was beginning to feel what Sylvie had talked to me about: a simple, comfortable rhythm. I wasn't over-pulling. Subconsciously, I was matching my stroke to hers, but without having to watch her carefully or even think much about it.

Maybe that was why I heard the sound of an aircraft even before she did.

- "Airplane."

- "Steer for shore. Left!"

We were only a few feet from the bank when the plane was almost directly overhead. There was no question about it: they'd seen us. It wasn't a military aircraft, so they didn't have weapons that could reach us. The people inside would have rifles, of course, but firing from there would be problematic; a light plane doesn't make a very steady platform for accurate shooting. Nor does it have loopholes for firing through.

Sylvie and I beached our canoe. I immediately followed her example and took cover under the nearest trees.

- "Watch - and listen." she said.

The plane came back, flying a little lower. They could obviously see our canoe, and might even have caught glimpses of us - especially Sylvie, who was sheltering beside a fairly small tree, rather than behind it. Preferably, she should have been further back.

- "I think they saw you." I said.

- "I meant for them to see me."

- "What?"

- "They're hunters. They'll be tempted. And that was a flying boat. Amphibious. They can land on lakes, or even the river. But there's a lake only a short distance away. If they turn east, that's where they're going."

We listened. The plane (or flying boat) did indeed turn east.

"Come on. They're going to set up an ambush further up the river." Sylvie began to push the canoe back into the water.

- "Can we outrun them?" I asked.

- "No. We're going to be in position first, though. Quick sprint." She took up position in the stern.

We picked up a head of steam, and dashed for several hundred meters. Sylvie then steered for shore. We beached the canoe, and then carried it into the trees.

Sylvie took out her radio. She identified herself, and then had a very brief conversation with someone at the Mack Lake community.

- "Flying boat on Soto Lake. Believe they intend to ambush us on the river. Will engage." She listened for a bit. "Understood. Out."

Sylvie turned to me. "We can't rely on you to be stealthy, Mike, so we'll have to go with speed, and trust our luck. Bring only your rifle. Let's go."

With that, she was off and running. I followed, trying my best to keep her in sight without worrying about catching up. I'm not sure how far we ran, but it was probably only a couple of hundred meters.

Sylvie knew exactly where she was going. At one point, I could no longer see the river, off to our right. It was probably yet another of those 'S' turns, and she was cutting across rather than following the riverbank. Soon enough, I could see the river again.

I'd worked up a pretty good sweat by the time she stopped, and raised her arm. I stopped. She glanced my way, and pointed to her feet. That was to be my position. Then she moved off to the left, moving from cover to cover. She only went about twenty meters, though, and made sure that we had a clear line of sight between us. She flashed me the 'Wait' signal.

Sylvie had trusted to speed and luck, rather than my ability to move stealthily. It was a wise decision. We had cut it close. Not

too

close, but close enough. My breathing had returned to normal, and I'd had time to identify two positions nearby (one to my right, one just ahead) which offered additional cover, if I needed to move.

I saw movement. There were three men hustling through the trees. I glanced to my left; Sylvie flashed me another 'Wait' signal. We were going to let them take up positions, then.

Sylvie pointed to herself, and then showed me her index finger. Then she pointed at me, and showed me two fingers. I gave her a thumbs up.

My breathing might have returned to normal, but my heart rate was speeding up.

The men had separated a bit, finding good spots from which they could murder us if we came up the river in our canoe. Or maybe they intended to kill me, and try to capture Sylvie alive. I had no trouble hating these men. They were like soldiers. Possibly worse. Killers. Rapists. Murderers of women and children. For sport.

Sylvie moved before they were still, flitting to another position further to my left, and almost behind them. She must have found an excellent location. I could see her as she slowly trained her rifle, which gave me a moment to lock onto the back of my target's neck.

The crack of her Van Guren was all the signal I needed. I pulled my trigger. My shot hit the target right in the back of the neck, pretty much severing the top of his spinal column.

Just like that, two of the hunters were dead.

Unfortunately, I didn't know where the third man was. Nor did Sylvie. She flashed me another 'Wait' signal. We both stayed stock-still for at least a full minute.

The third hunter didn't show himself - not to me, and by her reactions, Sylvie hadn't located him yet.

She flashed me a new signal. She'd taught it to me, but this was the first time she'd used it. 'Decoy'. I was to move, to draw the third man's attention, until Sylvie could find him. If I did it right, I would distract him, or even tempt him into taking a shot at me, revealing his location. If I did it wrong...

I understood, though. It only made sense. Sylvie was a better shot, with immeasurably better woodcraft and infinitely more experience. All I had to do was jump from one safe spot to another. I gathered my feet beneath me, and raised myself into a crouch.

She let out a shrill cry, which was simultaneously the signal for me and a distraction for the third hunter.

I jumped, took three running steps, and slid to ground behind a large tree. I didn't try to poke my head around it. There was no need for me to look for the third man; the whole idea was for him to be looking for me.