This chapter was inspired by the song 'Land of the Silver Birch' by Michael Mitchell, although the song itself is a traditional Canadian song that is sometimes used to keep time while canoeing. The lyrics seem to be adapted from a poem.

This song was requested by coahoma-cat on my tumblr account. She is very nice to me, although I do not always say 'thank you', and I owed her a treat. Cheers!

Land of the Silver Birch

The paddle cut into the river, propelling the birchbark canoe forward to constant beat of 'one, one, two; one, one, two'. The water was silent and still and it reflected the sunlight in shimmering silver and white. It was peaceful.

Canada sat at the stern of the craft and paddled with a serene, centred expression. He seemed truly at home on the water.

Prussia watched the world pass from the bow of the canoe, clutching the sinew edges. The riverbanks were bare in patches and he could see animal tracks pressed into the mire. Canada pointed them out from time to time and identified the animal; beaver, coyote, lynx. He greeted every animal like an old friend.

Perhaps they were.

Prussia had offered to paddle but Canada brushed him off, partly because he wanted Prussia to pay attention to the passing landscape and partly because he enjoyed the rhythm of it. 'One, one, two. One, one, two'. Dip, dip, and swing. He paddled to a song that only he could hear.

Prussia twisted in his seat to look at Canada. He had tied his blonde curls tight to the nape of his neck but a couple of strands escaped to frame his face. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were pink. His eyes were calm and focused on the horizon.

He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Prussia watched the muscles in his arms work as he shifted the paddle from one side of the canoe to the other.

Prussia tightened his hold on the boat and marvelled at the texture. He was almost positive that Canada had built it himself. He knew that Canada still spent a lot of time with his native people, especially the elders, and he knew that he still practiced their traditional skills and arts.

"Where are we going?"

Canada blinked a couple of times as if waking from a dream before his eyes focused on Prussia. He grinned.

"North."

Prussia rolled his eyes and glanced up. A skein of geese flew over them, travelling in the opposite direction in a deafening chorus of feathered delight.

"I thought we were north…" He mumbled. Canada splashed water on him with a gentle 'smack' of his paddle.

"Further north, asshole."

"Oh."

Canada snorted and turned back to paddling.

Prussia leaned forward on the bow of the canoe and dragged his fingers through the water. It was freezing but somehow comforting. He could see fish just below the surface, scattering in the wake of the boat.

And it really was peaceful. He could see why Canada disappeared into the wilderness for weeks at a time, often without provisions. It was an important part of him and he cradled it at the absolute centre of his essence; he was part of the wilderness, just as it was a part of him. He was a hunter and a predator but he understood the circle of life. He respected it.

The wilderness suited him. Just as Prussia had been shaped for war and conquest, Canada had been moulded around the mountains and rivers and prairies. He had walked with the animals and hunted alongside his people. He had cried over colonization and industrialization and pollution.

Canada was more in touch with his land, even now, than most of the nations could ever hope to be. He had jumped, danced, and swam over every inch of it; bare foot and beautiful and free.

"Look," Canada whispered. Prussia sat up a little straighter.

He was pointing at a moose drinking at the edge of the river, a mere fifteen feet from their canoe. Prussia opened his mouth in surprise. It was huge, and obviously male with large velvet covered antlers, but unexpectedly quiet.

It sank into the water and watched them. Canada dragged his paddle through the sediment, slowing down in front of the animal and clouding the river with sand and dirt.

"What are you doing?" Prussia hissed in trepidation. He had never seen a moose in person before but he had heard some stories, and if it wanted to crush them, it could. Easily.

Canada shushed him and held out his hand to the moose. He curled his fingers into an intricate gesture that Prussia did not recognize. He said something in a language Prussia did not recognize, but it sounded ancient, with flat vowels and trilling consonants.

The moose cocked its head to the side and studied him.

And then it stepped closer.

Prussia tried to push backwards and perhaps leap over the side of the boat but Matthew pressed his foot against his leg and held him in place. The moose came up the canoe and knocked its nose against Canada's hand. It was large enough that even completely submerged, its chest and back were dry.

Canada laughed, and the sound echoed over the water.

"Hello," he said softly, petting the beast. The moose nuzzled against his hand and it was strange and intimate and fantastic. "Come here, Gilbert."

Prussia shook his head so hard that he shook the boat.

"No," he choked, "I'm, ah, good. Over here. Way over here…"

Canada sighed.

"Shut up and come here."

Prussia bit his lip and crept forward. It was not as if he had anywhere else to go, and if Canada wanted, he could just tip over the whole craft and then Prussia would be in the water… With the moose. And that just would not do.

Canada chuckled and clasped his wrist. He guided his hand to the moose and let go.

Prussia stopped breathing. The moose was matted and filthy and the smell was indescribable, but there was something majestic about it. It watched him with large brown eyes, curious and expectant.

He touched the animal with shaking fingers.

"Nice moose, good moose," he chanted, "don't eat me. Please don't eat me."

Canada leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He ran a soothing hand over the small of his back.

"There, you see?"

The moose threw its head back with a low grunt and swam back to the riverbank. It climbed over the reeds and shivered; unkempt coat dripping, and lumbered into a thatch of evergreens and birch trees.

Prussia stared at his hand, the one that had just pet a fucking moose, and then at Canada.

"Okay, that was awesome," he admitted reluctantly. Canada beamed. "But if you ever, ever do that to me again, I'll kill you."

Canada laughed and pressed his lips to his own, soft and sweet and not quite apologetic.

"Well, then. This is going to be a long trip, isn't it?"

Author's Notes:

This was fun. I always like the chance to explore Canadian culture and how it might have shaped Canada as a character. (That said, I now have drumming songs running through my mind…) I love my country and I'm lucky that I've been able to touch so much of it. Canada might not have the architectural wonders of the old world but our wildlife is amazing.

A moose (in this case, an adult bull moose) can stand seven feet at the shoulder and weigh anywhere from eight hundred to fifteen hundred pounds. That's big. If you have ever seen a moose in person, they're intimidating. The closest I've ever been to a wild moose was about twelve feet in British Columbia. It was terrifying and magnificent. (Please avoid being that close to a moose if you can help it. It's dangerous.)

I like to think that Canada remembers most of his history before colonization, stretching back to the settlements that died, and that he remembers the long lost languages and cultures therein. I assume that the hand gesture he used here is some sort of ancient charm for calming or communicating with animals.