Face the Winter Naked

by Bonnie Turner

  “I’ll sell this house and send you to a nursing home.”

  Mom stared at Dad. Sara groaned. We all knew Dad was letting off steam, and tomorrow he’d apologize.

  But I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped up, banging my chair against the floor. There was no sense in trying to eat, because I already lost my appetite when Grandpa sucked on the chicken bones.

  Everyone stared at me, except Grandpa. His headlights flickered out, like his battery had just died.

  “Look at him,” I said. “He never knows what he’s doing. I gotta put up with him all the time.”

  Sara threw down her fork. “Shut up, Buzz!”

  “Someone should take him back to his room,” Mom said, but made no move to get up.

  I jabbed my finger at Sara. “It’s her turn. And it’s not his room, it’s mine. I’m getting out of here.”

  I turned and slammed out the back door. I was going to find Mitch, and I was mad enough to try one of his smokes.

  (Continued)

  Footprints in Time: A Walk in Sacajawea’s Moccasins

  http://www.amazon.com/Footprints-Time-Sacajaweas-Moccasins-ebook/dp/B002J4T6G4/ref=ntt_at_ep_edition_2_6?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

  In 1805, a young Shoshone woman named Sacajawea joined the Lewis and Clark expedition as an interpreter, and with a papoose on her back helped explore America's northwest while searching for a route to the Pacific Ocean. This time-honored true story of the hardships of the expedition, in particular that of Sacajawea and her baby, Jean-Baptist (Pomp), is retold for young readers ages 8-12.

  This book is dedicated to the brave men and women who faced the unknown to forge trails across this wide and wild continent. When America was young, many pioneers left their footprints in the sands of time as they explored the land from east to west. In 1805, a young native woman joined the Lewis and Clark expedition, and with a papoose on her back, helped explore America’s northwest.

  Chapter 1

  Sacajawea, the daughter of a Shoshone Indian chief, was captured by Hidatsa warriors near her home in the Rocky Mountains. The warriors then carried the frightened young girl eastward to their village near the Missouri River. There, she became their slave.

  Sacajawea missed her own family very much. But life with another tribe was easier in many ways. She was glad to sleep in a warm lodge at night. And there was always plenty to eat. She worked in the Hidatsas’ vegetable gardens, planting corn, squash, and other foods. Her Shoshone family had never stayed in one place long enough to plant crops.

  When Sacajawea was still very young, a French trapper, Toussaint Charbonneau, wanted her for his wife. Charbonneau took her to live with the Mandan Indian tribe, whose village was near the Hidatsas.

  Chapter 2

  One day, a group of white men came up the Missouri River to the Mandan village. Their leaders were Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.

  Sacajawea was curious about the strangers. Captain Clark had red hair, which she had never seen. And he had brought his butler, a black man named York. She could not understand their strange tongue, but her husband could.

  Captain Lewis told Charbonneau, “We were sent by the Great White Father in Washington, whose name is Thomas Jefferson. He wants us to find a land and water route to the Pacific Ocean. We’ll build a fort near the Mandan village. It will be our camp this winter. When spring comes, we will again sail the rivers. But we’ll need horses to cross the mountains.”

  Charbonneau said the Shoshone Indians in the Rocky Mountains had many horses.

  “The Shoshones are my wife’s tribe. Sacajawea and I will go with you when you leave next spring. She will help you talk with the Shoshones. She will help you buy horses from them.”

  Sacajawea had heard of the big water far to the west. How exciting it would be to go there! The thought of seeing her own people again filled her with joy. And before winter was over, she would have a papoose to show them.

  (Continued)

  Drum Dance (YA)

  http://www.amazon.com/DRUM-DANCE-Land-Midnight-ebook/dp/B004C44MKY/ref=ntt_at_ep_edition_2_5?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

  A young-adult historical novel filled with adventure, paranormal intrigue, and danger in Canada's Central Arctic, where Sir John Franklin and his crew froze to death searching for the Northwest Passage. In the late 1930s, 17-year-old David Jansson agrees to spend two years at an isolated fur-trading post with his estranged father, Per, manager for the Hudson's Bay Company, and almost lives to regret it.

  Prologue

  When Aagyuuk appeared in the northern sky in early January, the people of Gjoa Haven held a mid-winter drum dance. There was still no sun that far north, but the dawn appearance of those two minor stars in the Eagle constellation proclaimed the sun’s return: Within a week, the long Arctic night would begin to recede.

  The celebration continued far into the evening as feasting and games ended and babies fell asleep at their mothers’ breasts. Tension ran high in the large igloo as an elderly man with skin like a walrus got up to begin his story—his pisiq. Holding a large flat drum close to his body, he began tapping a rhythm on the tight skin while bouncing up and down, turning from side to side so all could see. His voice was strong for one so old.

  “I am Naigo, shaman of the Netsilik people! I sing of gavlunaaq—white men—come to Uqsuqtuuq!”

  Others joined the singer as he danced in circles, turning the one-sided drum around, swinging it, and beating on the bone frame. His long silvery hair swung wildly as he whirled the instrument over his head, then laid it on the ground and leaped over it, agile as a young man.

  “Nivliqtiriarit! Cry out with joy!”

  The spectators clapped their hands and shouted as Naigo’s story unfolded:

  “Two men—father and son—came to our village, the son with hair like okpik! Snowy owl. Eyes of glacier ice; heart of sorrow!”

  Chapter 1

  The Central Arctic

  Late Winter, 1938

  Strong gusts of polar wind whipped the twin-engine plane as it flew over the last few stunted trees after leaving Yellowknife and entered the air space above the Barren Grounds, a lake-pocked flatland that appeared devoid of life—the panorama below looked raw and unfinished, as if the creator had despaired of the vast undertaking and moved on, leaving his canvas behind.

  Farther north, the weather changed abruptly as rain pelted the small plane’s windshield, followed by a brief ice shower, then snow, reducing visibility to near zero.

  Absolutely unbelievable! I’m in the middle of nowhere in a plane that’s about to get its wings ripped off!

  Seventeen-year-old David Jansson wiped sweat from the window and tried to see outside, but his view was blocked by blowing snow—everything he’d been watching a moment before had vanished. How the pilot could tell where he was flying through this whiteout was beyond him. He braced himself when another blast of wind rocked the plane, grabbed his seat belt, and turned to his companion.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing!”

  There was no reply. Intent on keeping the craft on course, the pilot hadn’t heard the question over the noisy engines.

  Suddenly the plane dropped out from under David and he stifled an urge to empty his stomach into his lap. After a moment, the plane leveled off and steadied somewhat, but he still felt queasy.

  The aircraft was not built for comfort, and the cockpit had been cold since leaving Peace River, Alberta, several hours before. But now a stream of warm air from the engine flowed into the compartment near his feet and he stretched out his long legs and leaned back.

  “Ah, that feels good! My feet were getting numb.”

  The pilot, Mac Brady, turned and grinned at the lanky teen, then picked up the mike. He spoke briefly, then signed off again.

  “Cambridge Bay!” he yelled to his passenger. “. . . reporting snow and wind!”

  David rolled his eyes. “Snow in the Arctic? How exciting.”

  “Well, yeah.” Mac laughed and unfastened h
is parka. “But look on the bright side, my young friend. Sure, the weather’s fickle this far north. But who knows? There could even be a heat wave by the time we get there!”

  “You wish!” David rolled his shoulder to relieve a cramp. “I’ll sure be glad when we land. We’re flopping around up here like a goose with a broken wing!” He pointed to the frosty window next to his seat. “Just look at that! How the heck do you know where you’re going?”

  “Who says I know where I’m going?”

  “Not funny, Mac!”

  “Just kidding!”

  “How much longer?”

  “A couple of hours.” Mac leaned forward and squinted at the windshield. “We’re still south of the Arctic Circle, but we’ll be down soon. I’m picking up mail and refueling at Cambridge Bay.” He glanced at the boy. “You’re not worried, are you?”

  “Nah, just airsick.”

  “Don’t look out the window, you’ll get dizzy.”

  “Now you tell me.” David wiped the glass again. “I couldn’t see anything if I wanted to.”

  “And don’t puke in here with two-hundred miles to go!”

  Their destination: a fur-trading post at Gjoa Haven, in Canada’s central Arctic. David had consulted the map a dozen times and knew the location by heart—not that it mattered, for the Arctic was hostile no matter where you were.

  He was returning to the Arctic because his dad had sent for him, and his relatives agreed he should get to know his father again. He hadn’t seen nor heard much from Per in five years, not even on his birthdays. Why the sudden fatherly interest?

  But his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted to hear what his dad had to say for himself, and with the worst of the Depression behind them, he saw the chance for adventure—how many boys his age could spend two years loafing around a fur-trading post? His friends were envious.

  Aunt Gerda and Uncle Lars would miss him around the farm, of course, but he thought they could manage without him. And he’d broken off with his girlfriend, Emily, after she dated his best friend. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from leaving. But now he was actually on the way, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d walked into a trap. He had no way of knowing what the situation was with his father, even after reading Per’s letter several times. It was only a sheet of paper full of scribbles, and he could not sense the man who had written it. Part of him wanted to renew the relationship. But another part cautioned him against expecting too much from a man who had forgotten he had a son.

  Feeling like a moth trapped in a jar of cotton, he closed his eyes and listened to the propellers hacking a path through the raging sky. After a few minutes—and lulled into a meditative state—he focused on soft patterns of colored light moving behind his eyelids. He allowed his mind to drift aimlessly as they entered his field of vision from the sides and flowed into a center point. Fascinated by these pulsing, shifting lights, he soon felt the stress releasing his taut nerves.

  Then the lights faded, and from the darkness emerged a speck of iridescent blue, like a star in deep space. It moved toward him rapidly and expanded to a round window the size of a teacup. Then an image appeared in the circle, the edges dissolved and he became part of the scene.

  “Aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît! Je suis perdu!”

  A sharp jab to his solar plexus snapped him alert. His eyes popped open, his heart raced, and his brain sought a translation: “Please help me! I am lost!”

  “What th—?”

  Mac turned. “Say something?”

  David ran his fingers through his fine blond hair, then rubbed the back of his neck.

  “A man in a blizzard . . . never mind, I was dreaming.”

  He closed his eyes again, wishing he could undo the whole trip. If he were flying the plane, they’d be hightailing it back to Peace River this very minute, instead of a frozen wasteland where life had no right to exist.

  He considered the vision. It was not a dream, of that he was absolutely certain. In fact, nothing could have been more real. The voice had been sharp, the scene clear, as though he had looked through an open window. It wasn’t the first time he’d had such an experience.

  The bizarre mental states began without warning after his mother died. Terrified and confused at first, but finding he was still alive and unharmed, he gradually accepted the mysterious events as another side of his personality. Still, he couldn’t discuss them with anyone else. If David Jansson didn’t understand his own mind, how could he expect anyone else to?

  ......

  A short time later, the plane landed at Cambridge Bay in near-whiteout conditions. Mac Brady—an expert bush pilot with an uncanny sense of how much punishment his plane could take—anticipated worse weather to come, and not wishing to get stranded on the island, refueled and took off again.

  Typical of the howlers from the north, the storm spread to King William Land, and by the time they reached Gjoa Haven, on the southeastern shore of the island, the weather was as bad, if not worse, than what they’d left behind.

  “Check your seat belt,” Mac said, “we’re going down!”

  The engines groaned as the plane began a bumpy descent through the whiteout, and David prayed the pilot somehow knew where he was and how to get down safely. He could not see the horizon, so there was no reference point to judge their position relative to land and sky. Stealing a nervous glance at the pilot, he wondered how the man could be so unperturbed and confident, when his own hair was standing on end. Deciding to trust God more than Mr. Brady, he braced for a rough landing.

  Then the plane touched down, and he couldn’t believe the ground had not jumped up to meet them. The cushion of air beneath the wings had allowed the plane to settle on its skis with barely a jolt and glide to a stop. Mac shut the engines down and turned with a smile to his passenger.

  “Here we are, safe and sound! Didn’t think I could do it, did you?”

  Relief flooded through the youth as he unbuckled his lap belt—he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until it exploded out all at once.

  “Thanks! You had me worried for a little bit!”

  “Thank your angel a wing didn’t drop off! You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so. A little shaky.”

  “You’ll be all right.” Mac tapped David’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find your dad. He’ll be worried. And bundle up, that wind will be cold.”

  Rushing to shelter through the storm, David didn’t notice that people had come out to meet the plane, and a few minutes later, he stood before his father inside the trading post.

  Years of harsh weather lined the face a scared young boy last saw from the window of a bush plane. That fateful day, David had turned to his sick mother for comfort, but in her delirium she no longer recognized him. Feeling isolated from the world, he had carried away the image of a man in an Eskimo parka standing on the snowy ground waving good-bye.

  Clean-shaven except for a thin mustache, Per Jansson looked much older than his forty-one years. He was dressed like an Eskimo in a caribou-skin parka, but instead of the attached hood, he wore a wool stocking cap Ingrid had knitted one year. David had forgotten all about the cap and was shocked to see it now, for it reminded him, if not for his dad’s work in the Arctic, his mother might still be alive.

  Father and son stared at one another without speaking, then Per choked up and his dark eyes brimmed with tears. David hadn’t expected an emotional scene, and the tears embarrassed him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but knowing one of them had to make the first move, he stuck out his hand.

  “Dad?”

  Per pulled off his mitt and gripped his son’s hand, then threw his arms around him and hugged him hard.

  “Davy . . . Davy . . .” Per released him and stepped back, smiling. “Look at you, you’re taller than I am! And your eyes, they’re your mother’s.”

  David unfastened his heavy coat as Per looked him over.

  “Yes, people say I look just like her.”


  “Ingrid’s eyes were like big, shiny opals that changed color with her moods,” Per said. “Fire to ice in a matter of seconds! So, you’re seventeen now? Almost a man!”

  No thanks to you.

  “I didn’t really want to come here,” David said.

  “I know you didn’t, but—”

  “So why did you make me?”

  “Hey, I didn’t twist your arm! Why’d you agree to come if you didn’t want to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That wasn’t quite true, because he did know, and he was waiting for Per to say something, anything, to validate his feelings. A few tears couldn’t make up for the five lonely years Per’s son had waited to be acknowledged. David felt his own eyes beginning to water. How can he not know how I feel?

  Unknown to his aunt and uncle, he had contacted the HBC headquarters after receiving Per’s strange rambling letter, enquiring if his father might be sick. A company official had replied that, to his knowledge, Per wasn’t ill, but maybe he was just lonely and wanted to see his son. When the man offered him a free flight to Gjoa Haven on the mail plane, it was the chance of a lifetime for many reasons: He had recently completed school and hadn’t made a decision about university; he no longer had a girlfriend to tie him down, and after the way Emily had cheated on him, he was in no hurry to find another; he was almost of legal age anyway and would soon be on his own. Finally—though some part of him argued against the idea because of Per’s apparent lack of interest all these years—he knew deep down that he missed the dad who used to play catch with him and take him fishing. How could he refuse an offer to find out if Per still cared for his only son?

  “Well, now,” Per said, “it seems you had a choice and you agreed to give me two years.”

  Per sounded irritated, or perhaps he was simply let down after expecting a happy reunion with his son. The last thing David wanted was an argument on his first day here.