Work Text:
It took Constable Benton Fraser some time to get to his first posting. There were no direct flights between Inuvik and Qurluktuk, so he had to fly down to Yellowknife and wait two days for the next flight up.
Benton wished he had something to do while he was waiting. He felt empty.
Perhaps he ought to go out, find some fresh air, but he couldn't summon up the energy. The hotel room had a dark brown carpet and a patterned wallpaper, likewise brown, and dingy white curtains over a window that looked out over the street. Benton sat down on the bed and took out his guitar, tuning it and practising chord changes and scales until the next-door neighbor knocked on the wall and shouted something indistinct.
He put the guitar down and curled up on the bed. Closing his eyes, he saw snow falling. His grandmother's open grave. Benton pulled the covers over himself, trying to find some warmth.
***
Qurluktuk lay at the edge of the sea, like Tuk did, but where Tuk looked out over the vast expanse of the Beaufort Sea, Qurluktuk lay in a strait between the mainland and Victoria Island. From the window of the plane, Benton could just see the low flat shadow of the island to the north before the plane came down for a bumpy landing.
In the cold wind off the sea, Benton helped the pilot unload a sack of mail and various other crates and boxes. A woman came by to pick one of the crates up on a four-wheeler, nodding at them in thanks.
"Hello, there. You Constable Benton Fraser?" The man was white and in his late thirties, and Benton instantly pegged him as RCMP. Something in the posture, perhaps.
"Yes, sir."
"You don't need to call me sir," the man said, looking amused. "We got the same rank. I'm Constable Ned Sanders." They shook hands. "I'm to show you where you'll stay. Where's your luggage?"
"This is what I have," Benton said, putting his backpack on and taking his guitar in one hand.
"Travel light, do you? Well, come along. It's not far."
They trudged along the road to town. It was already dark, but the thin cover of snow on the ground and the sparkling expanse of stars above provided enough light to see by.
"This your first posting, then?"
"Yes, it is."
"And they sent you off to the middle of nowhere, eh? That's what you get when you're fresh from Depot." The man shook his head in sympathy.
"Actually, I requested a northern posting."
"You did? Oh, now I remember. You're supposed to know the local lingo, that's what they said."
"Well, I only know the dialect in the MacKenzie Delta area. I'm not sure I can make myself understood here. I'll try to learn as quickly as possible."
"Still, that'll come in pretty handy. I've been here three years, and I can't understand a word of it."
Perhaps you didn't try, then, Benton thought, but he pushed the thought down. It wouldn't do to alienate his new colleague on the first day. "Are there many people who don't speak English, then?"
"Oh, some. The older people especially. The youngsters have gone to school, though, so they can translate for us."
Benton nodded. Most people in the MacKenzie Delta area did speak English--the area had been subjected to much more influence from outside than the northeastern Inuit societies.
"Well, here we are. Home sweet home." They'd come to a utilitarian set of apartments that seemed to be the RCMP employee housing.
"This is your apartment," Constable Sanders said, unlocking the door to one of them and giving Benton the keys. There was a hall, a kitchen and a bedroom. It wasn't large, but Benton had never had an apartment of his own, and it seemed ample enough to him.
"Well, I'll be going, then. Report down to the detachment in the morning—it's just down the street—and we'll get you sorted out."
"Thank you, Constable," Benton said. As Constable Sanders left, Benton put down his luggage and looked around. He hung his parka on one of the hooks by the door and put his boots neatly beside it. Someone had been thoughtful enough to heat the apartment for him, and he was grateful.
The kitchen had a small gas stove and some cupboards containing a few plates, glasses and cups. There were also a couple of pans and other kitchen utensils, and a table with two chairs. The bedroom contained a narrow bed with two folded Hudson's Bay blankets, two closets and a night-table.
Well, there seemed to be everything he needed.
Abruptly, Benton was very tired. He hadn't brought any bedsheets, but it couldn't hurt just this once to lie down on the mattress. He changed into his long johns and shook out the blankets. The nights he had spent in the hotel in Yellowknife had been uneasy with traffic noise and streetlights and grief, but he was dead tired now, and slipped into a deep dreamless sleep.
***
Benton only woke when sunlight filled the room, and he jerked upright. What time was it? He would be late for work on his first day! He pulled his clothes on and rushed out of the apartment without breakfast (not that he had anything to eat, anyway) and down the street to the detachment.
Constable Sanders looked up from his desk and pointed his thumb at the office door to his right, where 'Sergeant Stanley Withers' was printed on a sign. Benton nodded at him and knocked on the door.
"Come in." Benton did, and saw a white middle-aged man with a moustache and the beginning of a paunch.
Benton stood at attention. "Sir, I'm late. I humbly beg your pardon."
"Well, it's your first day, and you got in late last night," the sergeant said benevolently.
Benton let himself relax a trifle. "Thank you, sir."
"Your desk is just out here," Sergeant Withers said, directing him to one of the three desks in the room outside. "Now, I know you're just out of Depot. What's the main job of a Mountie, eh?"
He looked at Benton expectantly. Was this a test? "To maintain the right, sir," Benton ventured.
"That's what they all think. Actually, kid, it's doing paperwork." He laughed and handed Benton a sheaf of papers. "Here's a bunch of applications for hunting permits, mostly tourists who want to bring home trophies. Your job is to read them over, fill in the 723-B and the 139-A forms for each application, file the one and mail off the other to the applicant. Ask Sanders over there if you have questions. Oh, and don't forget to do the forms in triplicate."
He turned as if to go into his room again. Benton said, "Sir? How do I decide whether to grant the permits or not?"
"Huh? Oh, you grant all of them. Unless they want to kill a bunch of whales or something. Tourism brings in money, and god knows this little village can use it."
"Yes, sir." Benton sat down to fill in forms.
Around lunchtime, he grew desperately hungry. His stomach growled loudly, and Sanders looked up.
"You hungry?"
"Ah, yes." He hadn't eaten since yesterday on the plane.
"We've got a fridge back in the break room. Come on." They went to the break room, and Sanders told him make some sandwiches. "There's nowhere to go out to eat here, so you buy your food at the co-op."
After lunch, a woman perhaps ten years older than Benton came in and occupied the third desk. Benton stood up to introduce himself.
"I'm Constable Benton Fraser."
"Yes, I heard you'd be coming. I'm Laura Nukapiak," she said in accented English. They shook hands. "I'm the community liaison."