Work Text:
I’ve been staring at my computer, doing nothing, for the past two hours. I’ve already finished the article about something to do with the seasonal migration patterns of caribou and how to adapt your hunting routine to it. I personally believe it’s useless to publish since it’s common fact that you can't tell an Alaskan how to hunt. That’s like telling a dolphin it needs to swim like a fish; instead of flapping its fins horizontally, making it swim vertically.
I'm restless, flipping my pen around in my hand, kicking my feet, spinning in my chair, basically doing anything I can to keep from losing myself in boredom. It would have been nice to go outside and enjoy a breath of fresh air if it wasn’t negative thirty degrees out and that the sun hasn't made an appearance in four days. I also can’t go on a sleigh ride since I’m not allowed to anymore, which is perfectly reasonable considering what happened. Sometimes I don’t understand how Iceland can be one of the most happiest countries in the world when their entire country is worse off than the state I’m residing in. Must be the liquor.
“Alright Eddie, that’s enough. You’re driving me mad.” A cough was followed from Dalton’s grumbling. I stuck my foot out in an attempt to stop the momentum of the chair and instead sacrificed my pinkie toe to my desk.
“Sorry, I got all my work done so I’ve got nothing else of relevance to do,” I didn’t mean to whine, but I was nursing my toe and it just came out in the tone of a four-year old. If Finn were here, he’d say that I let my true age shine through, but he’s off running odd jobs ever since he got fired from the airport. I felt a twinge of guilt at that thought, even though it wasn’t my fault. Well, maybe a little bit.
“Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from. The advertisement apocalypse is at it’s peak, so we’re gonna be short on money until summer. By then, you should have enough money to leave by fall and get back to Anchorage.”
Dalton moved from his desk to pour himself another cup of coffee. If there’s one thing I learned about my time here in Kusko, aside from my mistakes, is that people live off of coffee. I glance at the digital clock at the bottom right corner of my computer; it’s 1:33 pm. They also never seem to stop.
I stood up and stretched before walking over to the kitchen where my employer was busy rummaging through the drawers for a spoon. I leaned against the doorway, staring.
“You want another cup?” He asked while waving around the last clean utensils we had. I don’t really think I need more caffeine, and I already drank three cups. Plus, I’m three-hundred percent positive that this will be Dalton’s fifth cup. “No thanks, I’m good. Any more and I’ll die of a heart attack.”
“Suit yourself.”
Movement out the window caught my attention, but it was just the silhouette of a bird that flew off the window sill. I closed my eyes and shivered. All my life the sun has been there for me, a constant factor. To have it suddenly not around is extremely unsettling. I won’t admit it out-loud, but I have an irrational fear that I’ll never see the sun again. It’s stupid and childish, but I can’t just knock the feeling out of my system.
Dalton seemed to notice how tense I was and followed my gaze to the window. He let out a little “ahhh” from realizing what had me on edge. He turned to face me and shifted his weight onto his left leg before taking a sip from his freshly brewed cup o’ joe. “Y’know Eddie,” He started gaining my attention. “You don’t fight the darkness, embrace it. It’s not good for you to keep rejecting a natural phenomenon, it’ll stress you out even more.”
“That has to be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”
“Well, you’ve grown on me kid. Also I don’t want to lose my only journalist.”
I snorted, figures. Leave it up to Dalton to create a touching moment and then demolish it literally a second after. I walked to the living room and flopped down on the battered old couch. The antenna for the T.V. is frozen so we won't be able to watch anything except for Dalton’s collection of movies from the 80s. At least the wifi still works, though it’s frustratingly slow. Nevertheless, I had no intention of watching anything; I was pondering Dalton’s Alaskan philosophy.
“Embrace the darkness.” Sounds like something Darth Vader would say. I rubbed the back of my hand subconsciously. It’s so simple yet at the same time it’s not. I can’t change my feelings toward something at the drop of a hat, it’s impossible. I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. I’ll just let the answer come to me like everything else.
“Hey, Eddie! Mrs. Grayson is back from the store. Go help her get her groceries, we don’t want a frozen old lady, now do we?”
Dalton’s yell brought me out of my head. I got up to look out the window, and yep, there’s her old station wagon parked in her driveway.
“Alright, I’ll see you later Dalton. Try not to have too much fun without me.”
“Begone with you, ya scoundrel.”
I laughed as I walked to the front door to slip on my snow boots and winter coat. I couldn’t find my other glove so I just went without them. It was actually nice outside, but only because of the fact that the wind isn’t blowing me to the other side of town. I ran across the road to her car, almost slipping a couple of times. She was standing in front of her trunk lifting a bag filled with pasta noodles.
“Mrs. Grayson! Do you need any help?”
She turned around to look at me. Surprise was written across her face as she tilted her head down to see out the top of her glasses.
“Ah, Eddie. It’s good to see you dear. It would be wonderful with your help.” I grabbed three bags from her trunk and together we walked inside her house. She took me to the kitchen where I laid the bags on the counter. It took me two more trips to get everything inside the house.
“Thank you, hun. Your a great help on these old bones.” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She sat at one of her kitchen chairs rubbing her knee. She reminded me a lot of my grandma, old and kind, yet so implicitly manipulating. It must be part of that grandmother charm.
“Nonsense, you don’t look a day older than twenty-five.”
She laughed at that. “Oh, don’t I wish.” I couldn’t help but to smile. Hanging out with Mrs. Grayson makes me feel like I’m home. She’s so easy going, nothing at all like the rest of the Kusko population. They’re all the rough and tough kind of people, which is the norm considering where we are, but she has a refreshing personality. I find myself spending more and more time here which makes us both happy. She’s quite lonely, her grand kids are in high school so they're, “too cool” for grandma, so they never really come over anymore. I’m compensating for them though; I come by at least three times a week to help her out and play war on her kitchen table.
“Go on Eddie, I got some cookies from the store. Bring ‘em over so we can crack ‘em open.”
“Aye aye, Grams.”
I walked over to the counter and began looking for the treats. I found them in a bag under a box of instant coffee. My eyes trailed up as I grabbed the sugar cookies. There was an old picture that must have been taken in the 1800s. It’s of a man kneeling on the snow covered ground with his arm around a dog that looked to be a mix between a St. Bernard and a sheepdog. It’s frayed around the edges but other than that it’s in pretty good shape. I walked back the table and placed them on it before claiming a chair across from her. She opened the box and pulled out two, handing one to me and keeping one for herself. We ate in a peaceful silence, just enjoying eachother’s company. My eyes kept trailing to the picture that hung on the wall. My curiosity got the best of me.
“Hey, Mrs. Grayson, who's in that picture on your wall above the sink?”
“Hmm?”
She looked toward the sink, her old eyes flying over it before she spotted it. “Ah, that one. That’s my fourth great-grandpa, John Thornton and his mush dog, Buck. That was taken back in 1896, one year before he died out on the Yukon. That was during the Klondike Gold Rush.” I was immediately intrigued. It’s rare to have records of family dating back that far anymore nowadays.
“How did he die?”
I couldn’t help but ask, though I tried not to sound rude.
“The old Yeehat tribe shot him and the rest of his men and dogs with arrows. Though Buck’s body was never found. They used say he was killed by the Yeehats with the others, but he was thrown in the river and it washed his body away. There was a tuff of his hair left behind and my family has kept it as a keepsake, after all, he was Papa John’s favorite dog. It wouldn’t seem right if we didn’t.”
I felt something bloom in my chest. I don’t understand what it is, but it’s threatening to bring me to tears. I can relate to Thornton’s family; though I wish I got some of Joanie’s hair. That would’ve been nice little memento. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the sting in my eyes and the tightening of my throat; Joanie and Lunchbox wouldn’t want me to cry over them. I tuned back into Mrs. Grayson’s story.
“Though five years ago, I sent it to a lab to see if there were any leads on Buck that we could have missed. I got a call back saying that the DNA was linked to a pack of wolves in the Northern Yukon forests, near the Klondike where Papa John died. Buck must have joined a pack and became one with the wild. I’m glad though, that he didn’t die too early in life. It would have broken Papa’s heart. What I learned is that Buck’s life started in Santa Clara Valley, California where he was most likely taken by ship to Canada and sold to those looking for Gold. There isn’t much documentation until he gets to my grandfather and we all know how that ended.”
“Wow, you guys take your dogs seriously.” I was honestly speechless and stupid words leave my mouth when I don’t know what to say. It amazes me that Buck was such a big part of her family that they looked up his life story.
“And that’s not the most interesting part. A little after Papa John died and Buck went off, the Yeehats started to fear a, “Ghost Dog” that kills the bravest and strongest warriors of their tribe. They even said that it was a wolf different from all the others they have seen, in size and in color. I’m positive that it was Buck. Even the DNA points to it. I might be old, but I’m not lacking a brain.” Blinking several times I tried to get all my thoughts together. I just had a crash course in the history of a dog who is the inspiration of one of the most known Native American folktales.
I looked back at the picture, observing Thornton's blurry smile and Buck’s piercing eyes. Slowly I turned back to Mrs. Grayson. “Do you mind if I write an article about Buck and John Thornton?” I felt stupid asking that, like she’ll say no, but this story speaks to me on a personal level. Mrs. Grayson’s eyes old eyes lit up, making her look younger. A smile stretched across her face.
“I think that would be lovely.”