Far North

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EVERY DAY I BUCKLE on my guns and go out to patrol this dingy city.

I’ve been doing it so long that I’m shaped to it, like a hand that’s been carrying buckets in the cold.

The winters are the worst, struggling up out of a haunted sleep, fumbling for my boots in the dark. Summer is better. The place feels almost drunk on the endless light, and time skids by for a week or two. We don’t get much spring or fall to speak of. Up here, for ten months a year, the weather has teeth in it.

It’s always quiet now. The city is emptier than heaven. But before this, there were times so bad I was almost thankful for a clean killing between consenting adults.

Yes, somewhere along the ladder of years I lost the bright-eyed best of me.

Way back, in the days of my youth, there were fat and happy times. The year ran like an orderly clock. We’d plant out from the hothouses as soon as the earth was soft enough to dig. By June, we’d be sitting on the stoop podding broad ans until our shoulders ached. Then there were potatoes to dry, cabbages to bring in, meat to cure, mushrooms and berries to gather in the fall. And when the cold closed in on us, I’d go hunting and ice-fishing with my pa. We cooked omul and moose-meat over driftwood fires at the lake. We rode up the winter roads to buy fur clothes and caribou from the Tungus.

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