Winterlands Flight

By Erin Buczkowski

A child of the season of night, Teagan prefers to keep to the shadows. An unaccepted loner, he funnels his anger into a trek across the inhospitable Winterlands in escape from his judgemental community.
In Winterlands Flight the dangers of the tundra and her beasts lay between Teagan and his heart's desire. Which animal totem will lend direction and strength?
Travel across polar ice and taiga with Teagan. He will risk everything to discover what magic may heal a broken spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erin Buczkowski
• Release date: Jan 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301023240

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

Winterlands Flight

Erin Howse Buczkowski

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed 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 Toblerone and Toffee, for whom the walk is everything and my mom Nancy Howse who has taught me to be a walker.

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:

Chapter 11:

Chapter 12:

Chapter 13:

Chapter 14:

Chapter 15:

Chapter 16:

Chapter 17:

Chapter 18:

Chapter 19:

Chapter 20:

Winterlands Flight

Chapter 1

Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the

most terrible poverty.

(Mother Theresa)

Take a hike, loser.

It’s hard to come up with a witty response to comments like that on the spur of the moment. Despite the frequency of opportunities that come my way, I fall back on my standard response. Hands clenched, my right arm swings up fast and connects with Scab’s face.

God, that hurts.

You’d think by now that I would be prepared for the pain in my knuckles and the sting that races up my arm. That I’d reflexively drop into a protective crouch to block the incoming blow, or better yet follow up with a hard left. You’d think.

Maybe by now I should have learned to just walk away.

I may have no friends, be too skinny and too dumb, but I am not a victim. Bring it on, beast.

The first blow hits my stomach and knocks the wind out of me. I’m pretty sure the second cracked a rib. Scab, by the way, looks like a musk-ox, a solid wall of hugeness. Some part of my brain sent the message to my hands and I break the fall onto a dusty stretch of the road, sucking in a mouthful of dust.

Wanna know what I think about while I’m taking this shit-kicking? I can feel this. And it beats the hell out of not feeling anything.

Just leave him, Joran griped, pulling Scab away from Teagan. We’re going to be late for lacrosse. There was no sympathy in his voice, just irritation for the delay.

It’s a warm-up, Jor, Scab replied, circling the scrawny kid in the dirt. Less stretches to do.

Forget about it, man.

Joran shook his head in disgust. Scab was too easy to pull into confrontations and the twit on the ground just begged for a smack. If he’d get it through his head that he wasn’t going to fit in maybe he’d stop following them and getting hurt. She-it; Scab could be late on his own.

Teagan rolled away from the final kick and glared stonily at the grey sky above. Breath came in heavy bursts, unhappy explosions from an aching chest. From that illustrious position he could barely feel the cool breeze on his sweaty face.

Well that was successful, he muttered sarcastically. With ginger movements he sat up and took measure of his injuries. No marks on the face. That was good—everything else he could hide from his mother.

Teagan’s left hand scrabbled along his leg, anxious until it wrapped around the cool, flat stone buried in the folds of his pocket. Rock beats paper. His cousin Oren kept a journal, and freakshow that he is, let everyone who showed the slightest interest read it. Teagan’s fingers rubbed against the smooth grooves. Whatever he said to the rock didn’t go further. Only a rock bore silent witness to his struggles and joys.

I hate Chesterfield. His husky voice stayed calm and quiet. Repression topped his list of skills. He worked up a gob of spit, sent it flying into the dust. I hate the taste of this place, the people who pollute the space.

Teagan sighed as he climbed to his feet. Too quickly the hollowness was replacing the aches. You and me, rock. We’re outta here. I’m not taking anything I didn’t get on my own and I don’t owe any favours. I am so. Out. Of. here.

He fingered a tear in his shirt as he walked across the schoolyard. A few kids remained, ignoring the reedy boy. Teagan gave them plenty of room so even his shadow wouldn’t disturb them while his hooded eyes took in everything around.

Teagan!

His head snapped around in surprise.

Oren, older by a few years, waited by the door of the Weatherstation office. A grin lit up his face as he beckoned his cousin over.

Got a minute?

Teagan’s eyes flickered back towards the school and down the street. His shoulders rose up in suspicion as he stared intently at his cousin. Finally, with a shrug, he wandered across the street, hands deep in his pocket. Teagan leaned unencouragingly against the doorframe.

Oren’s workspace was cluttered with bits of machinery. Wires ran everywhere like an upset nest of field mice.

Guh. Od. The room was full of ten year olds.

Molten fury flashed in Teagan’s eyes.

Stop trying, Oren, he hissed. The sheer weight of your freaking effort is killing me. I don’t want your pity and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to your friends. Just leave me a… No. D’ya know what? Just keep that last message I gave you until Mid-summer, but I’m leaving now.

With a rigid back and clenched fists, Teagan stalked away, cursing softly under his breath. He buried the sounds of Oren’s calls in a landslide of frustrated, melancholic abuse.

Sadness warred with irritation on Oren’s face. His cousin was such a lost soul, wandering a desolate path. Oren had tried to hook him up on a radio-link with an acquaintance across the Winterlands. Teagan desperately needed to know that he wasn’t the only kid to feel alone and inadequate. Being miserable and prickly just wasn’t working. Things could change; he could find hope, if only he’d listen…

Sorrow beat out irritation. Did the Weatherman always feel this troubled when people left home, chasing the shadow of a dream in the wilds of the treacherous Winterlands? His stomach turned sour as he sought out Thorla in the tidier regions of the building.

The storage space under his loose floorboard was already full up, so Teagan jammed the talking rock under his mattress. The straw ticking shifted over its hiding place.

Teagan? his mother called out anxiously. A series of dry coughs followed.

Yes, ma. Who else would it be? he thought darkly. He quickly admonished himself. She had reason enough to fear strangers in the small cabin.

He stretched out his lanky arms cracking his knuckles as his fingers laced together. Peering through his doorway he saw his mother by the window, pale and trembling.

Ma, you should sit down. Teagan picked up a blanket and draped it over her thin shoulders. I’ll get your needlework for you.

Allin resisted the gentle pressure on her side. Stiffening from her son’s touch she leaned forward, placing her forehead on the window pane. She closed her eyes at the coolness of the glass.

Teagan shrugged and stepped quietly back into his room. It would feel great to scream or smash something against the wall but utterly unhelpful. Repression. Blocking away the cold of desperation was the next best thing. It would be over soon, anyways.

The crap hand fortune had dealt him had one stellar exception. Driven to spend so much time alone and in quiet, he had a remarkable imagination. He had left this hole dozens of times only to be abruptly awoken, drenched in sweat in his own bed. But he could clearly remember each item he needed to pack, each tool that would aid in a real journey.

The Weatherman had been surprised at how prepared Teagan was when he had stopped by her office earlier. Weatherlady, whatever—he corrected himself. With Trey half dead with old age plague, his daughter had taken over completely. At least Oren, the new apprentice (barf), would keep his secret for one more day.

A sneer crept over his face, darkening his already drawn out face. He would leave, blessing or not. It was too agonizing to wait for the Midsummer’s eve ceremony.

One last item remained on Teagan’s list of preparations. He had left it ‘til last intentionally, worried that word would get out too soon. Might as well get it done, Teagan prodded himself. Now that the Weatherman knew he was leaving there was no turning back.

Ma? Teagan called gently.

Allin remained at the window rocking gently on her heels. The grey floorboard creaked in harmony with the discordant noise in her head.

I’m going out again.

He watched her for any sign that she had heard and sighed. No sense waiting for an answer. A flash of pain creased his face before he shuttered the emotion away.

It irritated him that it was so bright out. Teagan hated the long season of day as much as most disliked the season of night. Dark suited him better. Hid him from the glittering, prying eyes that bombarded him during the day. Twenty-four hour sunlight provided no shade for his tormented soul.

When Oren had left Chesterfield seeking his talisman he and his companions were supplied for all their needs by the townsfolk. Teagan’s resolve not to take anything from the community left his escape plan with one gaping hole—he had no pack.

The trappers all had packs but needed them for their trade. The only others who had them and didn’t need them were the brash, arrogant questors. A bear could shit him out if they thought he was aligning with that group. Which left the companions’ bags. At least he could identify better with their insecurities and fear of the unknown.

Trailing his hands across the grey bark, a wistful smile lightened Teagan’s face. He had hidden out in these orchards many times, sheltered under the stunted low branches. He felt more at peace here than any other corner of Chesterfield, which wasn’t saying much. Cassin was his cousin’s friend, not his.

Teagan moved through the rows, careful not to break any branches. Laughter drifted over the low treetops. Teagan tensed, still as a bird, before changing direction. Apparently the whole family was out.

Have you ever seen this many hare in one place? Cassin’s father moaned despondently as he rolled a new length of mesh fencing around a tree.

Looking down, Teagan recognized piles of little brown pellets near the base of the trees. He examined the bottoms of his moccasins. Gross.

With a short cough to acknowledge his presence, Teagan peered around an apple tree. Hello?

The farmer dropped the mesh on the ground and spun around. Hmm, he drawled slowly. Looking for the boys? His broad, ruddy cheeks were echoed on the faces of all his children.

Lukan. Cassin. Chuck. Brats? He nodded at each of the boys as they stopped their work, staring silently. Any of you got trouble with this boy?

The roundabout slur annoyed him. One of the twins wiped his nose on the back of his hand while the oldest spat crudely. Chuck, closest to him in age, crossed his arms over a full-grown pot-belly and glared knives. With a family of overfed hillbillies like this in town, it seemed utterly unfair that he was targeted as the rotten apple.

No trouble, sir, Teagan interrupted, shuttering his eyes so the old man wouldn’t see the eyeroll. I’d like to speak with Cassin, if I may.

He motioned him over.

Cassin shrugged quizzically and tossed his pliers and gloves on the ground. Hey.

Hey. Teagan moved further and turned his back to the staring men. His voice lowered to a rough whisper. When you came back from that quest, did you ever burn stuff? Like Oren burning his boots?

Cassin quirked an eyebrow. That was a year and a half ago, Toots. Why do you care?

Never said I cared, I just asked if you did. He gritted his teeth.

And if I did? Can’t say I’m as full of fond memories as your cousin of the long walk.

As if remembering an old conversation, Cassin clicked his cheek. But if I did burn everything I took with me, I may have kept one thing you’d be interested in.

Cassin led him to the barn and held up a finger. Idly, Teagan leaned against the wall, scraping the soles of his shoes as he waited. Amid dragging scuffles and cusses, Cassin jumped from the loft with a dusty bundle.

Teagan reached for the bag, surprised to find it held back.

It comes with some free advice. Cassin kept a firm grip on the pack.

Yeah?

It took this much time to get my belly back. I’d bulk up a bit before planning any holidays. Cassin eyed Teagan’s lean frame warily.

Teagan smirked. Thin, sure, but it was all lean muscle. He didn’t need weight for endurance. Hard lives had some good lessons. Don’t worry—my walk will be half the distance of yours.

Cassin’s face bunched up in an honest, sad expression. He released the backpack with a sigh. I’m sure there are other options.

There never were options for me, Teagan answered. He cracked his shoulders and glanced away. Sooo. Can I help with the rabbit problem or anything?

Chuck’s braying laugh echoed through the trees around them. Cassin moved towards the fencing project. Nah. Think of it as the worst birthday gift you ever got. If you want more advice, go talk to Oren or Berit.

Teagan snorted.

Racing home, Teagan kept the pack rolled in barn rags in case anyone saw him. Not that they’d pay much attention…‘There goes the crazy boy, son of the crazy lady,’ his inner voice mocked.

Wild onion soup boiled on the stove filling the cabin with a heady scent. Smells great, ma. He smiled tenderly, pecking his mother’s cheek.

Allin stirred the pot unresponsive to her son’s attention.

His smile slipped. He rubbed her shoulders lightly. I’ll be in my room.

There really never have been options for me. Teagan flung himself on his narrow timber frame bed letting the tension drain out. He dug under the mattress for his rock and held it to his chest. The tears that formed in the corner of his eye caught him by surprise.

Teagan awoke to the raucous cawing of two jays fighting in the tree outside his room. The flapping of wings and arrogant pecking matched his inner struggle. Without sympathy for their territorial conquests Teagan reached out of his window and shook the branch. If his mother awakened it would just add hardship to the departure. With stealthy movements, he slipped on his clothes and moved into the kitchen. Yesterday’s bread sat on the table and Teagan ripped off a generous portion and gobbled a round of soft cheese.

Cursing the door’s creak he let himself out of the cabin. Teagan paused a moment to see if there was any responding action; reassured by the silence he leaned against the cabin, breathing heavily. He waited on the porch for a few minutes, uncertain of what to do.

Almost he reached out for the doorknob, but pulled back his hand. Be fair, he admonished himself, his dark eyes clouding with emotion. This was an opportunity to right all the wrongs his mother had faced in the past eighteen years. Silently he stepped off the porch and began his journey alone.

The town was silent, sleeping despite the midnight’s light. In the Winterlands people adjusted to the sun’s polar mood swings. Teagan headed to the centre of town, the only building which appeared to have life.

He rapped on the door of the bakery, pushed the door open and stepped in. Teagan was immediately overwhelmed with the warm, yeasty scents. His inhaled deeply, his eyes glazed in reverence.

A voice from the kitchen hollered out, breaking the spell. Nothing’ll be ready for half an hour. Get outta here.

Teagan peered over the counter into the back room. He coughed to get the baker’s attention.

Buns was elbows deep in flour, pounding a huge piece of dough, pushing it with the heels of his hands. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. After several discrete coughs and a louder hey, he looked up.

You didn’t hear the part about come back later, boy? What makes you so almighty important this morning?

Teagan shrunk back. The warmth of the kitchen disappeared, leaving a familiar hollow chill.

Well, sir, I was hoping we could make some private arrangements. I’ve got a pile of furs that I could trade for traveler’s bread.

The baker dusted off his hands and came to the front room. What about the meat? he asked looking at the rabbit pelts on the counter.

We ate it, my ma and I, Teagan shrugged. It’s just the furs. You could get a lot more for it at the general store. Me, I just want some loaves.

Buns poked a skin with a floury finger. Those Yannick’s?

They’re mine. Teagan gritted his teeth at the veiled accusation. I’m not a thief. I just want some bread.

That’s some party you must be planning with all these skins, Buns motioned to the pile.

Yup.

I’ll give you five loaves. They’ve been in the bin for a few days already.

Five?! Teagan’s voice cracked. For all this? You’re kidding me.

Five traveller’s loaves is all I’ve got, kid. If you want I’ll through in some fresh sweet buns. Go home 'til you know what you want.

Fine! Teagan’s dark eyes narrowed in frustration. Give me the sweetbuns, too. Wrapped well.

Quietly Teagan crammed the food into his already bulging backpack. He caught the door from slamming behind him and shook the dust from his feet. Somewhere across the Winterlands was a home Chesterfield Weatherstation never had been.

Chapter Two

There are no goodbyes, where ever you'll be,

you'll be in my heart.

(Ghandi)

No one commented on the fact that Teagan Allinson missed the last two weeks of school. No friends dropped by to see if he was ill. When his neighbour Yannick returned from checking his trapline, he was the first to notice how still the cabin across the shared lot was. Allin’s angelic face smiled sorrowfully, while her hands fluttered like frantic beating wings of a bird trapped at a window when Yannick asked after Teagan.

Is he around to help prepare the skins, Allin? Yannick directed her to the twinseat and held her delicate fingers to still their movement.

Like a flower bending to the wind, Allin leaned forward and placed her forehead on his. Not today, not today. Her voice was the wind, airy and small.

Maybe tomorrow then, darling. How have you been? It’s been such a warm spring, Yannick stumbled over the small talk.

Not tomorrow, not today! Allin flinched back, wide, grey eyes frightened.

It broke his heart to see her troubled, but apparently it wasn’t one of Allin’s good days. Gently untucking her hand from his calloused paw, Yannick draped a crocheted blanket on her. His head tilted and he chewed long at a sore in his mouth.

Tonight’s midsummer. I’ll come by after dinner.

The sun circled the pole setting a new pattern for declining white nights. Midyear’s night was a time for magic—drawing strength from one another to uphold the promises of the town charter. Long ago the First Ones taught them to survive the harsh Winterlands. In return, those who straggled northward pledged to keep harmony with man and nature.

Bonfires glowed brightly, small sparks dancing along with the spontaneous music filling the air. The city folk gathered on blankets and chairs along the Weatherstation’s runway.

The old building had been cannibalized—a window here, a beam from there. The long asphalt strip was in worse repair. Once it allowed the nation to haul supplies above impassable terrain; it went fallow following the Final War. Long cracks developed where frost heaved it; hardy tufts of grass grew in the spaces.

Thorla Treysdaughter, current Weatherman, sat on the podium, lost in thought. The position of honour had been passed down from her father, and his father before that in a chain that went back beyond recall. It was a marvel that even as her daughter fled her upcoming responsibility, a questor returned and picked up the challenge. Oren, her apprentice, was made for the position—charming, daring and whip-smart. What he lacked in empathy he made up with enthusiasm. Compassion could be learned over time, she thought, watching him bump shoulders with the families of town.

Thorla was pleased that the recent crop of graduates had no problems choosing their apprenticeships. No one chose the questor’s path, asking to leave Chesterfield seeking a talisman. Trails across the Winterland’s were scarce and rough. It was easier to find a position in the community than to seek out a new idea to improve life for the townsfolk.

Well, there was one exception, but he knew what he wanted and the city would not stand in his way. Thorla rapped her staff on the podium and began chanting the ancient pledge. The crowds’ droning voices echoed their part in the well-rehearsed ceremony.

Oren stood and waved as questors of past years