STORIES FROM
SHUNDERLAND

CHAPTER ONE

 

"Still think you're going to die?"

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The pilot yelled over the drone of the engine, and the big yellow headphones he wore. Ben did not like how he turned completely away from the controls. He was not in the mood for chit-chat either, not high above the Mackenzie Mountains in a shuddering metal box.

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"No," Ben yelled back. If it required anything longer than that single syllable, he would not have bothered.

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The pilot grinned and took his time turning back to the instrument panel.

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Ben had not said anything about dying, he had only made the mistake of thinking out loud when he called the single engine plane a deathtrap. That was how it looked on the runway in Yellowknife, small, dented and scuffed. He had less faith in it now that it was carrying him through the sky.

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This was the last leg of his journey. The trip had been a long one, full of uncomfortable seats and loud, droning engines. He should not have been surprised when he walked out and saw the little hunk of metal.

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He doubted anyone was intended to sit in the back where he sat. There was no original seating, only a wooden bench that had been installed, too narrow for an average size adult. It hugged the curve of the wall tightly, requiring painful conformity.

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Ben sat on the floor, on his bag, his arms reaching out for support. He could easily reach both sides of the plane. On one side was the bench and a useful hand hold on the ceiling. On the other, a window, round but squared off with utility tape. A poorly done caulk job marked the rim.

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The floor was planked with warped lumber, like an old porch. Cold air came through the dark gaps and up his pant legs. Ben watched a loose bolt vibrate the length of a board and wedge into one of the gaps. Deathtrap.

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His only solace was that the pilot flew the flight routinely from Yellowknife to Brawny without crashing, or stalling, or simply falling apart above the mountains.

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The pilot gave up his controls again to look over his seat back.

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"You're wrong," he yelled. Ben did not know what he was talking about, but the pilot continued. "You'll have to die eventually. Everyone does. As for me, I'm fine with heading right into a mountain!" He punched his headrest and grinned.

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The pilot was just messing with him, but still, what ignorance, to speak of such things so cavalier. And to yell it out for that matter, and up above the mountains, all that much closer to God. The pilot was a fool, daring God to flick his plane from the sky and he did so with a passenger on board for the ride.

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It is folly to talk mockingly about death, especially to a stranger. The pilot did not know if Ben had suffered a recent loss or not. In fact, Ben had. Well, not too recent. It had been thirteen months since Mark's heart attack. That was why he was there, in that deathtrap above the Mackenzie Mountains, on his way to Brawny.

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It dawned on Ben, just then, that this crazy pilot might have known his brother. Mark may have taken this dreadful flight any number of times.

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"What brings you way out here, anyway?"

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It was the first normal thing the pilot had shouted. It was a good question too. Brawny was a long way from Shunderland, the ends of the Earth as far as Ben was concerned. Most of the world did not even know it existed. Ben only knew about it because of Mark, and the letters he sent home. Mark never called it Brawny, but by its native name, Kask-tu-goten. Ben called it Brawny because it was easier. He knew that some of the natives called it Brawny too. Even the map called it Brawny, relegating the longer native name to a smaller, italicized font.

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Ben was going to Brawny now because of Mark's letters, specifically the last one. But that answer was complicated. He stared blankly at the pilot until a single syllable came to him. "God!"

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The pilot nodded. "You're a missionary."

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"No."

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"Good answer. Stick to that."

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The rest of the flight was quiet, if you do not count the plane itself. Ben could see the massive, silent mountains out the front windshield as they followed the length of the South Nahanni River. The ribbon-like river was ripped with tides, but from above it looked like a photograph.

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The plane banked sharply left, more than Ben thought was necessary. He gripped hard on the handle to keep from falling against the window. For a second he lost the feeling that the plane was holding him up and he imagined a slicing fall. The pilot was messing with him again, had to be.

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The plane leveled, showing a small valley, then grew quieter as they rapidly dropped in altitude.

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"Better hang on tight," the pilot yelled. "Runway's short."