Winterland's Talisman

By Erin Buczkowski

Stark polar landscapes wrapped in ice and mosquitoes form a dramatic background for adventure where civilization has been driven to the northern extremes of the land. Winterland’s Talisman follows carefree and daring Oren as he and two friends leave an ancient Weatherstation on the coast of the Hudson Bay to explore the limits of freedom, and responsibility. With the guidance of his wolf totem Oren and his Company of Adventurers seek a talisman that will service their community and provide a trade on their return. The quest will test their strength, perseverance and friendships, pitting them against the savage force of the North.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Buczkowski
• Release date: Sep 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301466467

Erin Buczkowski

About the AuthorIt is exciting to finally present a story that has travelled with me across Canada and the States!After enriching life experiences in the Yukon and northern Europe and college studies in Saskatchewan, my current wilderness home and muse for many winter scenes is in central Manitoba.In true "Oren’s journal" style, here are some TMI tidbits about me:1. Our family dog is a massive Malamute who treats us to dog sled rides in the winter and long, pulling walks through the snowless seasons. Best not to bicycle with him.2. I am considering a 10 step program to help me with an addiction to Coca-cola. Which, by the way, fueled 3⁄4 of this novel.3. I walk and walk and walk each day, often considering to just keep going and never turn back. Kind of like when you’re at Disneyland.4. If I believed in reincarnation (or that God would let us experience life like an animal in the heavenly realms) I would pick polar bear. Not so much if the ice caps disappear, but you know, wishful thinking.5. I love to read, write, solve puzzles and laugh over the comics in the newspaper. Which I read faithfully because it is something to read.6. Bored yet? I love Mars bars, dressing up for Halloween (I was Smurfette last year), playing laser tag, and getting my nails done. Because under the whole “travelling, loving the outdoors persona” is a princess. With pretty nails.

Book preview

Winterland’s Talisman

Erin Howse Buczkowski

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition, Liscence Notes

This ebook is liscenced for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please direct them to Smashwords.com and purchase another copy. Thank you for your support and for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is dedicated to Paul and Robert Howse who travelled first and farthest, Braden whose path is twined with mine and those whose journeys are barely beginning, Isabelle and Thomas. May the road always rise to meet you…

Table of Contents

Chapter 1:

Chapter 2:

Chapter 3:

Chapter 4:

Chapter 5:

Chapter 6:

Chapter 7:

Chapter 8:

Chapter 9:

Chapter 10:

Chapter11:

Chapter 12:

Chapter 13:

Chapter 14:

Chapter 15:

Chapter 16:

Chapter 17:

Chapter 18:

Chapter 19:

Chapter 20:

Chapter 21:

Chapter 1

Journal entry:

The Weatherman has given his permission.

The Winterlands were named by the Outsiders. To the First people, the vast expanse was known simply as home whereas home for the Outsiders was a bittersweet memory buried deep beyond their collective memory. Few were willing to delve that path.

On the cliff overlooking town, Oren scratched his back restlessly against the ancient signpost. Barely clinging to the rusted pole was a tired piece of wood, grayed with age. The word ‘Weatherstation’ was barely visible; the town name above broken off years earlier. The rocky ledge wasn’t the most comfortable spot, but its isolation offered privacy rarely found in the streets below.

The air felt charged, somehow. Despite the lists he needed to run through his head, Oren found it hard to concentrate.

The lulling warmth of a salty wind drifted across the glacial bay, eddying in the pools of long yellow grass which sprung out between the rocks. The waving grass tickled Oren’s bare forearms, interrupting his meditation, teasing his eyes open.

One eye cocked open and his gaze fell on a blue inked thumb resting on his knee. He plucked a stem and chewed it contemplatively, trying to regain the path of his thoughts. It was his favourite spot for mulling the deep thoughts of life and escaping the monotony of chores.

From this vantage point he could see the city sprawl below. Oren sighed. It was all so—familiar. Well back from the water’s edge houses were set in neat rows, as if imagination was completely lacking in their design. Functional. Practical.

Oren frowned, an unfamiliar line creasing his forehead. Usually it wasn’t so hard to shake off this mood. For the slightest moment it had seemed as if a dark glass surrounding the town had shattered. Agitated, he twitched against the post to get comfortable.

His own stone farm house was the closest below. Once an ancient glacier had deposited granite boulders randomly; now they formed a tidy fence around his families’ property. Vivid red paint on the shutters brightened the house’s otherwise dull exterior.

Oren flipped a sun-streaked wave of hair from his eyes, squinting down at his yard. He could feel his face droop sullenly, so his gaze shifted past to the gorge where shed roofs were covered with neat rows of drying salted fish. Closer to the inlet, he noted where his best friend’s orchards were located. Lucky chump to enjoy his family’s work so much. But then Cassin could eat the fruits of his labour whereas his family owned the crappy reindeer stables.

The familiarity felt like a crushing weight.

Which wasn’t fair, he acknowledged. The Weatherstation offered a decent, comfortable life, and yet Oren was tempted to stomp his foot like his sister—it was so boring!

His hazel eyes flickered irresistibly westward across the barrens. Oren’s heartbeat jumped. So much potential lay beyond the boundaries of town! Excitement thrummed through his veins as his imagination took over.

On the horizon a glint caught his interest. As he focused on the light dancing off something in the distance, Oren was overwhelmed with the sensation that whoever was there, was watching him. A thin line of smoke wisped up from behind the glaring glass lens.

Shivers raced through him, electrifying his thoughts.

Honestly! Oren grumbled. He was never this edgy! It took a backwards glance at the reindeer barn to steady his nerves—the ideas percolating in his brain were simply crazy.

Orennnnn!

Oren spat the pulpy stem from his mouth. He heard, rather than saw his sister huffing up the dusty slope.

Mother is going to have a fit if you don’t get those stalls mucked before Father returns. Leandra glared with all the mock severity a ten year old could muster as she reached the top. And Father will do more than have a fit.

Oren waited as his younger sister approached. On the treeless plateau there was no where to hide, and worse, she was right. It was just depressing to leave daydreams for the miserable reality of shoveling manure.

I’m coming, Leandra, Oren muttered through gritted teeth. There’s no need to announce to the world where I am. He considered what the consequences might be if he rolled her back down the slope.

Oren stretched his lanky limbs. Judging by the position of the sun, he had stayed away too long. Figuring he should show a bit of gratitude to his sister for saving his hide, he chucked her on the back.

Let’s go, sis.

Watch it!

Leandra skipped down the path flicking branches from the low scrub brush at her brother’s legs. Teasing went both ways—a clod of dirt crumbled down the back of her neck. Leandra whipped her head around, missing a root stretched across the path. With a startled shriek she somersaulted the remaining few feet in a cloud of dust.

Gotcha, Lee. Lengthening his stride, Oren reached the bottom and scooped up his sister before she had a chance to cry.

Slinging her over his broad shoulders, Oren walked briskly toward the farm.

A small wail of anger held back Leandra’s tears. She balled her fists and pummeled his back.

Let me down, Oren. Pleaaaaase!

With a teasing grin he swung his sister to the ground. Oren knelt and gently squeezed her ankle.

You could have hurt yourself, Lumpy. When we get to the house chip some ice off and wrap your ankle for a wee bit. We don’t want Mother to be asking silly questions.

It was well earned, but Leandra hated her nickname. No one in town seemed to have as many bumps, bruises or accidents as she did. While it was embarrassing to trip, especially in front of her brother, she had too much pride to wear the thick glasses the doctor had ground for her. She ditched them as soon as she left the house.

Leandra kicked her brother with her good foot. Leave me alone, Oren. Get to the stalls—I can walk home myself.

With a chivalrous bow, Oren laughed as he waved his sister off in a grand gesture. Thanks for getting me, Lumps. The chores will be done by the time you find your specs!

Still chuckling at the image of his sister rolling ass over teakettle, he raced across the lower meadow to the barn. A glance told him that his father was still at work.

A new latch held shut the old timbers of the barn. Oren swung open the heavy door and paused, momentarily overpowered by the dank smell. Grabbing the pitchfork and a shovel from the tool rack on the wall he set to work, heaving a small sigh.

Removing the manure from the stalls was a smelly job but it was a solitary one, and Oren had grudgingly learned to appreciate the silence and the rhythm of scooping and tossing.

If he was stronger than many of the other seventeen year olds in Chesterfield it was from such physical work. Oren didn’t often consider his looks, but he was starting to become aware of both the sidelong glances and brazen stares from girls.

Thank goodness school was over for good. The girls in his class left him feeling slightly awkward and he preferred to spend time philosophizing or fishing with his buddy Cassin. It sucked that real adventures were just stories from the past.

A bead of sweat dripped past his heavy eyebrows, stinging his eyes. He took a kerchief from his pocket, pausing to wipe his brow before he moved to the last stall.

There is pride to be found in all honest work, the city charter taught them. A job well done is a reward unto itself. And that could be spread on the fields, too, Oren thought as he stuffed the grubby cloth back in his pocket.

Oren pulled a foot stool off a hook and lay the shovel beside it. Shit! He could hear the animals making their way home for the night. He grabbed a handful of straw from the closest stall and rubbed his tools quickly.

As his father swung the front gate open Oren slipped out the back. He dashed furtively to the rain pail and dipped his kerchief. There was just enough time to rinse off the stink before dinner, possibly even enough time to disguise the wild excitement in his eyes.

Oren dreaded an apprenticeship in reindeer handling more than the pox. More than pox and lye fish combined.

His father actually enjoyed cajoling the animals into the tasks they were hired out for. He had raised several generations of reindeer and knew each beast by name and temperament. Quite different names than what, out of earshot, Oren spitefully called them.

His nostrils flared as he entered the house. Dumplings! Lately his mom had been cooking all his favourite meals. Watching him closely, too, Oren noticed as his mother stooped under the weathered beam to the kitchen. He ducked into his chair at the table and waited, unconsciously tapping on the smooth wood.

Mr. Ants-your-pants, his mother called out. Set the table, if you have so much energy left.

Oren snapped to attention. His hands definitely needed something to do.

Leandra was pleased to hobble in and find her chore finished. She managed not to step too hard on his foot as she pushed past to her seat.

Oren registered chatter at the table and somehow managed to nod his head and answer at the right times. No one commented on his odd behaviour. Weird, but he couldn’t recall how the food tasted as he pushed away from the table.

I’m going out for a bit tonight, Oren told his parents as he jumped up. Did his voice sound as excited out loud?

His father stood up, too. Acadia reached over and touched his arm; the two adults stared silently into each other’s eyes. Alton turned slowly, watching Oren’s cheeks burn a steady crimson.

Alton—, Acadia started. Her pleading look softened his tense grip on the chair.

I know. He sighed. Go on, then, son.

Oren stretched his shoulders back until he felt a pleasurable crack. Great. See ya!

Leandra’s whining about clearing up faded as he fled the house. Too bad, sis, he grinned. The intoxicating bubbles were in his blood again; his feet flew as he tore along the dusty path from the house.

Oren sucked in several deep breaths, never breaking his stride. A corner of his mind wondered if he should swing by Cassin’s place first, though he already knew the answer. This was his adventure. It would begin with his ritual.

Avoiding the market center, Oren jogged along the edge of town. Exhilaration flowed over him like the wind whipping his sepia hair. The asphalt runway shimmered up ahead, reflecting the midnight sun. He shielded his eyes to focus on his destination.

As he got closer, the house grew no larger—indeed it was barely a shack, infrequently inhabited and run down from disuse. All the same, Oren was certain somebody awaited him. Feverish excitement burned away all caution.

A splintered porch board creaked as he stepped up, awakening a raven from its perch on the balustrade. It fixed a sharp eye on him, flapped its wings and resettled. Even with hooded eyes and feigned sleep Oren could feel the bird studying him, ancient and all-knowing. An icy wave of apprehension fought and lost the battle as he lifted his arm to knock on the door.

Come.

A voice soft as smoke yet commanding the strength of the earth issued from within the derelict shanty.

Pushing the rough door inwards on its rusty hinges, Oren left daylight and entered a dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the inside was much cozier than the exterior projected. A thick rag carpet covered most of the floor and set upon it were two chairs facing each other. One was occupied.

Forgive my intrusion. I saw a fire on the plain and guessed that someone would be in town. Oren stood behind the chair until the older man gestured to sit.

A wrinkled hand motioned for silence. His throat felt so dry that Oren wondered if was possible to speak again. Several minutes of uneasy stillness passed before the tribal elder spoke.

You are son of the reindeer herder? You favor his looks if not disposition—your spirit is much wilder. You will wander far before you have learned the lesson of balance. But this is not news to you, is it? The native elder leaned forward with a piercing gaze.

Yet this is new. You are a wolf and a part of my clan. Already you bear markings of a warrior on your hand and wrist. You have come to receive the branding of a wolf!

Oren held his tongue when a tribal youth appeared from a deep shadow in the corner. His eyes dropped to the juvenile tattoos he had marked on himself.

He needed to concentrate on stilling his hand’s quiver as he stripped off his shirt, handing it to the mysterious apprentice who seemed to melt from wall. While the other boy draped it over a table Oren glanced enviously at the elaborate tattoo on his sun darkened back. Obeying an unspoken signal, Oren knelt on the soft rug, willing his body not to respond rationally to the ritual he was about to undertake.

The younger one passed a cup to the older one in the chair.

Drink, the smoky voice ordered. It will numb the sting of the needle.

Compelled—unable to resist—Oren reached for the cup, quaffing it back in a single, burning swallow.

Lie down and listen while I paint your skin. Focus on my words and tattoo them on your spirit.

The laconic voice was hypnotic, and combined with the drink, it numbed Oren’s brain. He endured the first stab on his shoulder blade with closed eyes.

A wolf, he murmured.

Listen, son. This is who you are.

Oren bit his lip at the chastisement. The burning continued across Oren’s upper back as the stylistic shape of a running wolf took form.

The wolf is a noble spirit. Sociable and instinctively loyal to family, the wolf is also very intelligent. Remember this- the wolf balances flexibility to establish harmony and order. That will be the journey of your spirit. That is the lesson you must understand fully before you return.

You have sensed brokeness in this village for it is being further cut off from the wild energy.

Stunned, Oren fought against the trance. The fractured image he had seen earlier flashed across his mind. He almost missed the apprentice’s soft whisper, but he could feel the intense gaze like daggers.

The way home will be a struggle, but you must return and heal your home. The wolf must return to its pack.

The master’s voice undulated and threaded the mysteries of the wolf into tales and ancient myths while he worked on his bare canvas. There were words of encouragement and wisdom to the initiate. Oren lay quietly, absorbing each lesson and story in the manner that his flesh absorbed the unnatural color placed upon his back. His mind grew heavy; eventually drifting into an uneasy sleep.

When his eyes fluttered open, the light filtering through the window was a pale brother of the robust sun which had ushered him in. Incense lingered thick in the air. The small room was stale and stifling and for a disoriented moment, Oren felt that an age had passed while he had lain on the floor, sleeping as eternity was created and destiny devised.

He stood up and tightened his shoulders, expecting a searing reminder of the procedure he had undergone. Eerily, there was no sensation at all. Gulping in the thick air, Oren lunged for the door seeking purer oxygen.

Summer’s white night gave the impression of day—it seemed unnatural that the streets were silent. No curtains blew in the gentle breeze, no chickens cackled. Oren wondered briefly what time it really was. He lengthened his stride, looking for the shaman, or any human, for that matter.

The old runway still shimmered as the past day’s heat evaporated into the air. Within the haze he glimpsed a grey creature trotting west towards the gorge. It turned his head towards the boy, slowing its pace, and threw back his head in a soulful cry.

A wolf! Oren’s head felt instantly cleared. Fare well, my brother Oren sent his thoughts toward the retreating shape. The animal disappeared in the shimmering light.

Owen awoke with a start, disoriented to find himself lying on the floor. He felt an uneasy déjà vu as his footsteps carried him home through the white night. His mind drifted on a different plane, striving to recall everything the elder had chanted.

I am a wolf. Epic!

The shuttered house was silent when Oren got home. He crept stealthily to his bed in the loft, hesitating when his brother rolled over in his sleep. Avoiding the boards that always creaked, Oren leapt across to his bed, sinking with a moan into the soft quilt. Dreamless sleep came immediately.

The entire family waited at the table for Oren to come to breakfast. Leandra and young Joss stopped whispering when he dropped stiffly into his chair.

Morning, Oren mumbled, lifting his bleary eyes to his mother.

Good morning, son, Acadia answered, her eyes twinkling. She scraped a pile of bacon and freshly turned eggs onto his plate.

Oren’s favourite again? his younger brother complained. What’s the deal, mom?

Acadia blushed, surprised to have her little game caught out. She tousled Joss’ sunbleached head.

Alton snickered. Pass the bacon, love. Anything exciting happen last night, Oren? Were you watching them set up for the town meeting?

Mid-years eve was a huge night in Chesterfield Weatherstation. The townsfolk all met to declare aloud the charter, renewing their vows to peaceful living. In the past few centuries little had been added to it, yet it was the night of opportunity. The rite of passage into adulthood opened its doors to any taker: male or female, a youth could step into an apprenticeship and accept the responsibility of citizenship.

Seeing the wistful look upon his mother, Oren guessed her thoughts.

It was difficult to share his decision. He had delayed for weeks, agonizing if he could, yet more certain every day as time ran out. Last night confirmed it.

He had seen it only a twice himself—a citizen turning his back on the city’s apprenticeships for the enigmatic way of the talisman. Their parents found little joy against the possibility that their child would not pass the harsh test of the wilderness. Some questors never returned.

His eggs tasted like rubber.

Under the table Oren clenched and released his fingers. His mind cast wildly for a way to explain his need to carve his own niche in this lonely corner of the world.

A list for all the reasons that you love me! Oren finally answered.

Who says we do? hooted Leandra.

Oh hush! While list is lengthy and you may want to add in your own ideas, after seventeen years of contemplation on this brilliant subject, I’ll dazzle you with just the highlights. Listen up! Oren gazed fondly at the people he cherished most. His baritone voice lowered, and somehow didn’t betray the clamour of his heart.

"Number One: Because I do not snore.

Number Two: I have grown the sweetest peas in my little garden patch which I share with you all.

Three: On those Saturday afternoons when you complain that I laze about, I bring home fish from the gorge. Don’t give me that saucy look, Mother, this is a fine list.

Fourth: I inspire you with these lists and stories."

You inspire our patience, you mean, heckled his father.

With mocking severity Oren quieted his family. I do not complain about my chores, even though I muck the stalls six of the seven days per week.

The room burst into noisy laughter again at Oren’s mournful fifth point. The mirth and warmth gave Oren the courage to speak out his final argument.

Also, because I will bring honour to the family when I return home with the greatest talisman ever received into the heart of Chesterfield.

His eyes flitted anxiously from mother to father. Acadia put her fork aside and wiped her hands on her apron. Alton managed a stoic grimace. Oren could hear his teeth grinding slowly.

No, Leandra whined plaintively. Who’ll tell me night time stories? Tears swelled in her eyes as she clutched Oren’s sleeve.

The moment stretched unnaturally as a rubber band, becoming more taut and unreal as it went. One word snapped time back into place and sent the room reeling.

Oren? Acadia jumped up, then slowly sank down again into her chair. Sounds whirled in her ears, her voice shrill. Fingers at her temples, she looked directly at Oren. Pardon?

Unsure of how to continue, Oren hugged her tight. I love you mother. And I have tried to love the reindeer, Father but we… they… I just don’t. His voice was a coarse whisper. Despite his love of words, Oren was finding it increasingly difficult to express himself.

Have you considered the other apprenticeships? Oren, I know you aren’t set on being a deer herder, but surely there is something else for you here in Chesterfield. You don’t need to decide right away, Alton’s voice cajoled.

I’ve already spoken to the Weatherman. I just wanted you to know first. Father, you have given me all the skills to be a man of distinction. I just haven’t found the right forum yet. I’m sure that in traveling I’ll discover something that will click for me. Do you understand? Oren’s voice deepened with passion. I promise I’ll come back. It won’t be forever.

Alton lifted Acadia’s hand into his. His dark brows furrowed together like storm clouds gathering above the plain. He coughed and cleared his throat. Son. The pause was longer and more disturbing.

Your mother and I have watched you slip away to the hillocks and barrens for years—further from us and beyond our realm of influence. We will not allow you to slip out of our family for good.

Oren blinked hard several times, centering himself. The muscles on his face tightened and his jaw clenched. He had not expected his father to utterly defy his choice.

Son, we won’t allow you to slip away because we love you. Instead, we send you with our blessing. Alton’s voice was brusque with emotion.

The tears that Oren’s mother sought to hold back broke loose in rampant streams. Acadia smiled as she dabbed at her cheeks.

Did you think we didn’t know, son? I just… hoped there would be a little more time. Her voice caught with emotion. Your spirit is too free to follow the daily routine of this work. Of course I did cherish the thought that you might find something else in town would attract your attention.

Sorrow tainted the words of parenting wisdom. The pain would grow with parting; Acadia grasped tightly at Alton’s hand, each hoping to strengthen the other.

Sensing it was alright to join in again, Joss tipped back his chair.

Was your number one reason honestly that you believe you don’t snore? Dear brother, if an ice bear was hibernating in the bed next to me, he could not possibly be louder than you!

Booming laughter filled the house again. The family joined together to wrap their arms around Oren.

Leandra piped up, Those were fine words about bringing back the greatest token ever, but have you forgotten that Brinock gave us chocolate? You’d better settle for the second best or you’ll never make it back home.

Oren could scarcely believe his ears. They wanted him to go.

He was about to leave the Winterlands!

Chapter 2

Journal Entry

"Gah. I’m counting on history to absolve me at some point…

The team is made."

A crack of lightning momentarily brightened the ocean of dark clouds swelling over the sea. Midyear’s night was already deemed powerful without such omens, the Weatherman thought, hurrying through the evening’s ceremony. Others were watching the sky, too.

There were apprenticeships available for all sorts of work, for all sorts of workers—creative types, planners, all manners of hands-on work. Nowadays the Weatherman was rarely brought in as liaison. By school’s end most kids had their plans sorted out.

But. The Weatherman raised his eyes to a ragged group of youth gathered in the distance. Mischief-makers. There was definitely a new mood of disenfranchisement that he ought to consider later. Always later, he sighed, feeling the weight of his years.

The townsfolk dutifully responded to his speech, repeating their oaths accepting the new workers.

The charter of the city was taught like a creed from the earliest days of school. The need for personal freedoms tied with responsibility. The need for personal endeavour to be complimented by community need. The need to balance progress with the health of the land. The charge to weigh justice with mercy.

We hold to be true that …

The crowd responded as one. We hold all this to be true. The ceremony continued for a quarter hour, sped along by the ever flashing sky.

Ah, there was the boy, thought Trey. He’ll need to discover his own work. For the sake of the community, he would search out a talisman of civilization that would improve the daily fare of Chesterfieldians.

The Weatherman’s aged shoulder’s relaxed slightly as he nodded at Oren. The boy had inner fortitude and strength that would carry him through his trials. And if he had gauged things right, there was still enough time before the storm hit. He rocked on his feet as Oren began snaking through the crowd.

Dad.

A hand touched the Weatherman’s sloped shoulder. He had become distracted. Trey reached over and patted his daughter’s hand. The ceremonies seemed to go faster each year.

Thorla watched him carefully, gauging if he was well.

Citizens of Chesterfield! Trey tapped his cane on the wooden podium.

As in years past, we honour those who take the heavy role of questor on themselves. As a community we pledge to provide gear for our questors and helpers for their families amongst us.

A murmur erupted, echoing the thunderous sky.

From a family of diligent workers, a chosen son has passed aside the apprenticeship of… The Weatherman paused, building anticipation like the mighty northern storm. Our deer handler’s son Oren has accepted the challenge to find a token for Chesterfield.

A wave of noise filled the square. Clapping thundered like ice cracking in the harbour at spring. Several gasps and deafening cheers accompanied a grinning Oren onto the makeshift podium.

Have you considered a travelling companion?

No one was obliged to go, yet it was slightly embarrassing to be asked if you then declined. Trey was curious to see who would be invited to join the young adventurer.

Oren looked at the crowd before him- friends, relatives, teachers and shopkeepers. He knew each face there, but searched for one in particular. His cousin’s dark eyes captured his for a moment—Oren was surprised to see longing, though it was quickly washed over with its perpetual glare of anger. Oren looked away first.

Cassin?

Splayed across a blanket a teenager sat up quickly. Russet freckles disappeared in the flush of his apple cheeks. It was more like a punishment to leave his farm, but loyalty compelled him to share in this pilgrimage with Oren. Cassin glumly nodded his head.

Oren flashed him a grin. When the roar of the crowd lulled, Oren continued. Weatherman.

"Beg your