Avalanche
MHH
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"The smallest vibration can start an avalanche, Ray."
Fraser said that yesterday. Or maybe the day before. I don't remember days much. I remember places and feelings; there've been a lot of both lately. Hotel rooms to mountaintops. Terror to elation. Somewhere, I think it was halfway between hypothermia and exhaustion, Fraser said the thing about avalanches. I don't always understand what he says, but I remember it like I remember hospitals and ice fields. By feel.
Right now, "place" is a dogsled loaded down with tack and tallow and me, wedged between an ice axe and a tent pole. Nobody here but us sledding supplies. The "feeling" isn't as easy to peg. I think it's trying to be excitement by way of yougottabekidding. I leave careful instructions to my stomach, 'cause I know from the way it's gone all slinky it'll get lost as soon as we start to move.
As ready for disaster as I'll ever be, I look at Fraser. He saluted Frobisher, now he's looking at me like it's just occurred to him that packing a city fit novice through Freezerland may not be the smartest thing he's ever volunteered for. I smile and he drops a hand on my shoulder. Here we go. Hush, you Muskies!
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"The smallest vibration can start an avalanche, Ray."
The sheer inanity of my drivel appalls me. Why is it that I can talk for hours, hold all the words, speak five languages, know exactly what I want to say, and still communicate nothing of my feelings? I couch everything in terms of weather and trivia, legends and protocol. Ray, raving with cold, still managed to succinctly define what all my ramblings could not. "No ship like partnership", indeed.
We set off, together, on an adventure. Discovery and exploration that encompasses much more than the Hand of Franklin, or any physical landmarks. With the Hand as a tangible goal, Ray will learn the skills this harsh lands demands of its survivors. And I? I will, I think, at long last learn the language of my heart.
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