Rubaboo Stew

"If you're not going to sing, why are you still awake?"

"I like listening."

"Loser."

Scout Master Mark interrupted the building argument, "If you don't want to sing, Tres, then you don't have to. But it'll be more fun if you do. And Thomas, don't insult people."

Faces around the fire stared deep into him until Tres sighed and started clapping. "The other day (the other day), I met a bear (I met a bear). A great big bear (a great big bear), a way out there! (a way out there!)"

The other scouts joined in on the group refrain. "The other day I met a bear! A great-big bear a way out there! A way out there!"

"He looked at me," and the others responded, repeating the words. "I looked at him. He sized up me, I sized up him." Then, clapping faster for the refrain, "He looked at me I looked at him! He sized up me I sized up him! I sized up him."

Mark was smiling, clapping along and singing the words that sounded so ancient to him without really hearing them. It was a by rote kind of thing, a song sung so many times beside so many fires that it nearly faded out of awareness.

There was pain in his smile. And, in the half-minded way he sang along, he embraced a moment of gratitude. What a difference forty years can make.

Looking back on it, he was always surprised to think that it took people so long to figure it all out. Sprawl was an interesting thing, it made everyone feel like landed gentry. But landed gentry without the ability to employ lesser persons to maintain their property.

And scouts had been an incredible tool for him. "He said to me (He said to me), why don't you run? (why don't you run?) 'cause I see you ain't ('cause I see you ain't), got any gun (got any gun).

"He said to me why don't you run? 'cause I see you ain’t got any gun. Got any gun.

"And so I ran (And so I ran.) Away from there (Away from there). But right behind (But right behind). Me was that bear (Me was that bear!) And so I ran away from there! But right behind me was that bear! Was that bear!"

When the whole ten verses were over, and no one could be prevailed on to do anything else. The kids started demanding s'mores. Playfully, Mark refused and made a stink about it. Scouts then 'mutinied' and Mark was held at bay while they looted one of his bags.

"Scouter Mark," asked Thomas around a mouthful of too hot marshmallows. "Oh oof! Ouch! Um, yeah, do you know any campfire stories?"

Despite the mischievous gleam visible in the youngster's eyes, Mark said, "What kind of a question is that? Do I know any stories, of course I do! But here's the question, what makes you think I'm going to share any of them with you?"

Naturally, the children began to plead, wheedle, and cajole. Mark enjoyed holding what they wanted out of reach just enough to get a reaction, then, an idea struck him.

Lowering his voice to a mockery of seriousness, he said, "I don't know. I did hear an awful lot of complaining this morning, climbing the big hills and then again cleaning up after dinner."

Promises that at least a couple of the kids would likely keep flowed, and he smiled at them. "In that case, I suppose there's no harm in a story. What kind do you want?"

"Dealer's choice," said Scouter Erik - if he wasn't going to be helpful, couldn't he at least keep being quiet gave his old friend a mocking little finger wave. "Whatcha got in the barrel, Skipper?"

"Listen close, kids. This is called Rubaboo Stew."

"That's what we had for dinner!"

"You want a story or not, Thomas?"

"Sorry."

-0-

It isn't always hot in August. Sometimes the winds can blow over the mountains in just the right way, and you'll see the cold put snow on the ground. Other times, you'll be in the dead of winter and suddenly be hit by heat rapidly melting snow and its shorts weather.

But this wasn't that kind of summer.

Erik and I were on a hike into the mountains with our Scout Troupe, don't you remember? Less a hike and more of an expedition or voyage, the big kind you read about in stories.

Over a month we were supposed to be out there, and over a month we were.

Wind like I mentioned before blew in one day, we were a couple weeks from anywhere and still enjoying ourselves. The rule about complaining and entertainment is an old one we had even then. The wind carrying a howl of snow changed that.

What seemed like a breath separated a baking summer's day and the black heart of winter. Of course, it couldn't have been like that. Eh, Erik? It's not possible, is it? To have the world go from August to February in an instant.

(“Doesn't mean it didn't happen, though,” said Erik, keeping the illusion going)

I was standing on a riverbank, and thank goodness my feet were out and booted, and all of a sudden we were in the winter. Except, it shouldn’t have been winter.

Leaving my rod where it fell, line on which I had a brag-worthy fish still frozen into the ice, I ran back to camp. There was a fire going, mostly because we liked having it and we had been at that site for a couple of days, and I saw most of the other boys clustered around it now for warmth.

Our Scout Master, Jordan, appeared out of rapidly gathering shadows and explained what we were going to do. Because we were where we were, it would take days to try and hike out, so we had to stay.

Do you remember what we found when we did?

(Erik nodded, enjoying how the old ghost story had evolved over time. Remembering the Chinook that had caught them unawares, and vanished nearly as quick.)

A couple days is more than anyone can reasonably ask a group of boy with woods-training to sit still surrounded by trees. And after re-organizing our sleeping arrangements into something more suited to the weather, SM Jordan set us to different busy work.

I think I know how he felt, looking at all of you. Anything like that happened, it'd be tough to keep you all entertained enough not to start fist fights. I see those guilty grins, hands to yourselves please.

Anyway, one of the busy work tasks was "innovative exploring" as SM Jordan called it. Essentially, we were to roam where we could safely and, find things that might be useful, then find their use. A pretty simple way to keep a rambunctious group of boys occupied.

Thank goodness we did that, because we found something amazing. I don't think we were the first ones that phantom blizzard caught, because, hidden in an old tree and wrapped in oilskin, we found a book.

You all might just wonder at that. It was a very old book, you see. Very old even back then! And we opened it.

I'll tell you who it belonged to, don't interrupt.

Opening the leather cover, we saw that a Mountie had written the journal a long, long time ago. He and his troupe were out on some mission or other for the Government, a few of the pages were missing, when they were caught by the same kind of storm we were.

Luckily for them, they had a guide from a local First Nation who helped them survive it. For a while.

(Gasps from the collected scouts.)

The pages were stained with splotches of brown, they were old and stiff, creaking a little every time we turned them. By the time our Scout Master came back to the fire from whatever chore he was about, we had read the whole thing.

Start to finish, it was a simple journal. The kind of thing you might find in a museum about Westward Expansion. But those stains bothered us, and so did the random scribbles and numbers that started to infiltrate the writing.

Scribbles and numbers that, if you looked at them for too long, would start to bend your eyes until you saw pictures hidden in the chaos. Pictures of tortured, screaming faces. Of wolves and twisted creatures made of flame and shadow that crept out of the darkness around them.

We also found the recipe for Rubaboo stew.

For some reason, starting about half-way through the book, just as the numbers started to twist their way onto the page, references to their food changed. The writers, and the further we went the more we realized that multiple hands had held the pen, started putting quotation marks around "pemican."

About half-way through, they also stopped mentioning their guide. The last reference we have for him was, "Crow High-Climber departed this morning. He claimed that his intention was to scout a way down this blasted mountain since the weather had begun to slacken. If he does not return within two days, we shall set out after him."

By all evidence they did, but when they found him, or if they found him, perhaps. The page is lost or they simply chose not to record their findings. But after that searching, the "pemican" became a regular part of their diet.

SM Jordan read over our shoulders for a while, listening as we talked about our find. Listening as we dreamed our boyhood dreams. Listened as he thought about just how much growing boys need to eat, and how difficult it can be to find enough food when snow blankets the world.

That night, wind howled out of the mountains, and we had to dig our way out of the shelters were had pitched against the elements. Finally breaking free of the snow, we emerged into warm sunlight, and saw SM Jordan sitting by the snow-buried fire pit, that book in his hands.

As a group, we decided to leave him be. Clearly the man was lost in thought. Clearly...

We spent the day much as we had spent the day before. Improved the shelter, expanded the camp, found firewood, looked for food and with stones built a simple fireplace and chimney,. The kind of things that we needed to do to survive that “summer”.

The kind of things we hoped would be over with soon.

SM Jordan was a good man. He didn't help us much that day, but then, what help did we really need? We were strong enough to handle whatever needed lifting, and there were enough of us working together that no task was beyond us. So instead, he just sat there with the book closed in his lap, staring into space.

More wind that night, and the night after, and the one after that.

Cold froze us into our shelters and we quaked in fear of what might happen to us. I was sure SM Jordan only slept with the book because he was afraid of losing such a precious artefact. I was sure that was the reason.

Two weeks passed away, and I remember the man growing steadily thinner and frailer. So did we all, though I don't think anyone else could have managed half so well.

Then at night the knocking started.

A steady, slow, almost hypnotic knocking on the support beam for our door. Constant, determined. (He started knocking on his campfire log like a metronome)

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

We sat huddled in the half-dark, shadows from our fire leaping across the walls, telling our subconciouses the stories that had scared our ancestors for millennia. It was in the heart of that strange and unnatural winter, it was the dark of night, we were alone. And someone was asking to be let in.

Erik here stood, he said that he wasn't about to let anyone freeze to death, and strode to the door. Always a short bugger, he could stand easily in the tiny longhouse we'd built. But SM Jordan barred his way.

There was a light in the man's eyes that has stuck with me to this day. He told Erik to sit down, told him that the knocking was just the wind, just a tree branch. Nothing to take notice of.

I didn't question him. Erik didn't question him. We all knew that no trees had branches that could reach there. We all knew that if the ones over our heads were so weighed down by snow as to reach us, that we'd already have been crushed by the massive trunk as it fell.

We all knew that whatever was out there, it wasn't a tree. Besides, when have you ever heard a wind that knocks so steady? We knew who it was. We'd read the same journal as him.

Days passed. Nights of constant knocking.

SM Jordan grew more drawn and pale. I saw him sitting there, every night by the door with eyes locked on us. I don't think he ever slept at night, just sat and stared, fingers idly trailing down that damned book. And yes, I'll call it that because I know what it was. I knew exactly who stood outside, begging to be let in.

Finally, one night as fresh snowy wind howled out of the high mountains at us, I saw SM Jordan's eyes drift closed. Watched him slump forward, and heard the gentle snoring that meant he was properly asleep. Then I crouched and crept my way to the door, each step in time with the constant, steady knocking.

Knock-Step

Every step the knocking seemed to grow louder.

Knock-Step.

I got closer, and could have sworn the rhythm picked up. It was like the knocker knew that I was coming. Finally knew we could hear him.

Knock-Step,

Knock knock!

"Crow," I whispered in a whisper's whisper. "Is that you?"

Knock!

Knock!

Knock!

Then a voice. A frail, shivering voice. The kind of thing I had only ever heard in movies or audiobooks. The frozen, desperate voice of a man who knows he is going to die. And the frozen, desperate hope of a man inches away from life-saving fire.

"Help me."

But it was cold by the door. We had made an effective, but imperfect door and the evergreen branches we'd rigged to supplement were also imperfect.

"It's so cold."

Tendrils of cold crept around the door like questing fingers, leaking into the room; pushing us so that no matter where we had fallen asleep, we all wound up jumbled by the fire. All except for SM Jordan.

"Help me," the shadow of a voice filtered through the door. "Help me, please. I can't find the door."

My breath caught in my throat.

"Please. Help me. I'm so cold."

SM Jordan snorted in his sleep, yanking my attention away from the door as he shouted at me to get back into bed.

But from the voice outside.

"Please... I'm cold... Let me in... Please..."

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I went back to my spot on the floor as SM Jordan shifted, grunting. After lying down, I felt a cold draft against my back and turned ever so slightly to look. There, silhouetted by stars through the open door, I saw SM Jordan holding out the book.

"But I'm hungry, and it's sooooo coooolld," the voice was the same. Crow's voice from the other side of the hanging door. The same ragged, desperate voice that sounded like ice cracked in his throat with every word. But there was an edge to the desperation. And the shadow he cast against the stars was wrong. Too long, too thin, it waved and flickered in the weak firelight.

One hand was extended, palm up, begging. The shadow reached for SM Jordan, I was certain it would reach out and take him by the throat, pull him into the dark of a false-winter's night. For some reason, it didn't. For some reason, Crow could not cross the threashold.

"Take your talisman and go," snarled SM Jordan, hurling the book through the open door. "Take it and go."

"S-s-o-ooo co-llld."

The door swung shut, and the knocking was gone. SM Jordan sat down, rubbed at his eyes wearily, then curled up and went to sleep.

Waking up the next morning, we discovered that we had stock of "pemmican" to make our rubbaboo. Never did find anything that tasted quite the same again. And most of us even made it home in one piece.

Eventually.

-0-

As the Scouts moved off, having enjoyed scaring themselves and breaking that same tension with pranks and jokes, Erik came over and sat beside his friend. "Quite the new telling," he said. "Shame about Jordan, I liked him."

"You were there, you know what really happened. Besides, all I said was that we had pemmican."

Erik laughed and fished a small circular flask out of a hidden pocket. "Lucky Jordan found that deer, eh? Can’t believe we took it down. Ahh well," he handed it over after taking some. "At least this summer'll be nothing like that. Can't imagine us being stuck out here for two months with these kids."

"Least ways we don't have to worry about Chinooks like that."

"Speaking of, that blizzard only dropped a few inches and they were gone by noon. The real of the reason we took so long getting back was you broke your leg falling off that ledge Jordan told you not to climb and Davie lost the satellite phone in the river when we got lost in that other storm."

Mark laughed and slapped his friend's shoulder, handing back the flask. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to make sure Thomas doesn’t do anything that stupid."