The late March wind is strong and chilling, tearing viciously at Barney's clothes as he stands over Gem's simple grave, its wooden cross bent slightly.
The little chap would have been four today and the rage that he isn't celebrating it right now chokes Barney.
It's not fair, any of it. Gem should be alive and laughing as he tears into his presents and cake. Cissy should be alive and witnessing it with her wide smile and blue eyes shining with happiness. Valancy should be there with them, without the sentence of death hanging over her head. That it isn't so is such an injustice that at the moment Barney feels like taking a page from Abel's book and bellowing at the skies in protest.
He doesn't, but it is a close thing.
Instead, he kneels down and adjusts the weatherbeaten cross until it stands straight again.
"I hope you're happy with your mum right now, little chap," he says quietly, his fingers caressing the arm of the cross lightly as he clings to the memory of the soft blond locks instead. "But I promised her I will visit you on your birthday anyway, just in case."
Only the wind howls in answer, the humble cemetery of the up-back church deserted and quite desolate in the bitter cold. Barney could have taken Valancy with him – he knows she would accompany him without question, despite the weather – but in the end he decided to come alone. As much as he would treasure Valancy's support and compassion during this moment, she had never met Gem. It feels more fitting somehow to visit him alone.
"You'd have liked Valancy, I'm sure," he tells Gem and ties a delicate wreath of bloodroots and marsh marigolds around the cross to secure it from being stolen by the wind. The first flowers of the oncoming spring are small and fragile but he hated the thought of coming here empty handed, on Gem's birthday of all days. "Your mum did, very much. Valancy'd have loved you too."
His throat tightens harder. Valancy is fond of kids and babies, he can see her smiling at each they pass on the streets. She never speaks of wanting one of her own, but he knows she would like one if… Well, if it was possible. But it isn't and this is yet another thing which makes him angry today.
He doesn't really dwell on the fact that any child of Valancy would necessarily be his own too. He's buried any such fancies long ago, after his first disastrous attempt at marriage; he doesn't expect ever to have children and doesn't truly desire them, not anymore. Gem was his only chance at experiencing bond with a child, if not exactly fatherhood, and while he loved the little chap with all his heart, it's probably for the best. He'd probably make a lousy father anyway. But he hates that Valancy will never get to be a mother. She'd make a wonderful one, generous and loving as she is.
He thinks briefly that maybe he could be a decent father with her by his side, but he throttles this thought mercilessly before he has time to complete it.
He looks again at the wooden cross over the small mound of crumbling, wet soil and allows himself to remember Gem instead. The red, squalling newborn he helped to bring into the world out of utter lack of anyone more suitable for the task. The tiny baby he cuddled to sleep at times to give Cissy a much needed break. The laughing baby, a bit older, whom he was rocking on his knees. The way he clapped his hands in delight when Barney let him topple the tower he built for him out of bright wooden blocks. The determined way he was crawling after his ball. The way his face lit up at the sight of Barney.
"You deserved better, little one," whispers Barney, touching the cross briefly again. "You deserved the world."
As did Cissy. As Valancy does.
"The world is a very unfair place though. I'm so sorry you never got the chance," he takes a deep breath and caresses the wood of the cross for the last time. "I know you were loved your whole life through – the most loved baby in the universe. Sleep well, little tyke. I'll stop by again when I have a chance."
He gets up, nearly stumbles from the force of the wind and curses when he looks up at the clouds. Obviously he should have paid more attention to the weather.
A proper storm is coming and he's not sure he's going to make it home in time.
Well, he's been through worse – much worse, the fiercest snowstorms in Ontario are nothing in comparison to the Yukon – but one may freeze to death here just as well as there and Barney has no intention of ending his life like that. He considers his options. Roaring Abel's house is slightly closer, but the way leads through the open barrens; it would be better to keep to the more sheltered path through the woods, at least until the wind grows strong enough to topple trees if it comes to that. He might make it home, but if not, there is an old lumber shanty just off the shore, which would do well enough.
Decision made, he bows his head to the grave and leaves the cemetery at a brisk pace. He stops after passing the ramshackle gate and takes off his coat to remove his sweater which he ties around his waist instead. He pushes his arms into the coats' sleeves with relief – the wind is bitterly cold already and seemingly growing colder by the minute – but he can't risk getting sweaty while he walks. Cooling down in wet clothes could be deadly. He ties his scarf around his mouth and nose too; breathing the frigid air is dangerous in its own right. The scarf is soft and thick, made of dark green wool. Barney remembers Valancy knitting it by his side as he was reading Curwood to her, her eyes wide and entranced by the descriptions of the great north, its haunting beauty and vast emptiness. It's somehow fitting that her scarf will be tasked now with protecting his lungs from the cold; its touch on Barney's face feels like a comforting caress of her small, delicate hand.
Right, enough dawdling. He needs to get home to her before she starts to worry.
Soon, much too soon, the wind gets strong enough that Barney isn't sure if the snow blinding him is falling from the sky or being picked from the ground and thrown into his face. Whichever direction it is coming from, it's flying sideways in front of his eyes and he struggles to see anything. The path is leading downhill from the church through the barrens and is maybe half a mile long at most, but it feels like he's been walking for a literal age. It's the damn wind. Not only is it shooting enough snow into his eyes to make them useless, but it does its best to push him to the ground, trap him in a wet snowdrift or, at the very least, slow down his progress. For a moment, Barney remembers that he made a will not so long ago and laughs inwardly at Valancy's expression when she discovers she's going to be the richest person in Deerwood. But the laughter fades to nothing with another merciless gust of wind and he scowls deeply instead.
He spent two years in the far north. This baby storm is not going to get him.
He breathes with relief when he enters the woods on the edge of Mistawis and gets out of the open. It's still nearly impossible to see anything but the trees do help – and what's more, he can use them to navigate by touch. He knows those woods, he's spent nearly six years exploring every inch of them. He recognises trees by their bark, he can tell direction by the bends in their branches and the thickness of the moss on their trunk. Even unable to see more than a foot or two ahead of him, he can find the way home.
Hopefully.
He hears the branches crack and sees how the trunks of the trees bend; there's no chance he's going to get home tonight, it's too dangerous to walk through the woods in the wind this strong. He doesn't fancy dying from being crushed by a tree any more than he does from freezing to death. He needs a shelter and soon. If he can't find anything, he'll have to build one – a lean-to, windbreak or a snow cave; anything to protect himself from the wind. He spent many a night in shelters of this kind, once upon a time. But no self-made shelter like this offers much protection from a falling tree, so he sincerely hopes he's going to succeed in locating this lumber shack despite walking near blind.
He's too focused on navigating the woods with barely any clues where he's going exactly, on keeping his pace steady but not straining enough to exhaust his strength or perspire too much, to think much about Valancy – and yet in all the moments when his brain is not busy analysing the geography of Mistawis and searching for a stable spot to put his foot, this is all he can think about. She must be worried by now, there's no way around it. She doesn't even know where he went; for all she knows he might be miles away from home or any possible shelter. He didn't tell her where he was going. He should have, he thinks now, mouth twisting downwards in annoyance at himself. If he did, she would at least know that he was quite nearby, even if there was no chance he was going to get home tonight. But somehow talking about visiting Gem seemed too difficult, as if the little chap's name was making his throat constrict and his voice disappear. The grief which he has assumed to be long faded and accepted felt nothing of the kind when he allowed it to surface. To talk of Gem, of the tragic injustice of his death – no, he was not ready to give voice to it.
But he regrets he didn't tell Valancy where he was going. He doesn't like the thought of her standing guard by the oriel, waiting fruitlessly for his return and worrying. And she would worry, he knows, as absurd and incomprehensible as it is. After all those months he still has no idea what she saw in him that was worthy of love, but he knows with painful clarity that she truly does love him.
All the more reason to get a grip, stop daydreaming, and get yourself to a shelter, Snaith, he tells himself sternly and trudges on through the wet, muddy snow.
As much as regrets keeping the reason for his lonely errand secret from her, he's glad, fiercely glad, that he didn't take her with him. He recoils from the image of Valancy following determinedly behind him, struggling against the wind and snow, her lips blue from cold. She wouldn't have complained, he knows, not his brave, resolute wife, but it's such a relief that he doesn't have to worry about her now. She's not frail despite her diminutive figure and her doomed heart, but there's no question that he is both stronger and much more experienced than her in treks like this. He saw grown men fall dead from heart attacks they got from too much strain from the combined cold and the effort of pushing themselves in such conditions, or falling to the ground in exhaustion, never to get up again. He's so damn relieved that he doesn't have to worry about Valancy meeting such a fate today, with him with no chance to get her any kind of help.
He narrowly avoids slipping into the furious, frigid waters of Mistawis when, blinded by wind and snow, he stumbles out of the protective cover of the woods to the shore. As soon as he regains his balance, he wants to yell in triumph – there is the shanty, just a dozen or so yards to his left, on the verge of a clearing used to store lumber before loading it on a barge. It's empty now, of course, the lumberjacks won't be back until the spring starts for good, but it has four walls, a roof and the doors which close, so Barney is not going to complain. He walks towards it as quickly as the snowdrifts allow him.
The door creaks but doesn't resist when he pushes it; it's not locked. When Barney closes it behind him and leans against it tiredly, blinking against the darkness inside dispersed only by the dim light from two little, dirty windows, he immediately understands why – there is nothing inside worth stealing. The shanty, built from rough planks and some tin on the roof, is sparsely furnished with a long wooden table, two benches and several bunks in the back. There are no sheets or blankets – the lumberjacks must have packed them to take home with them in the fall – and while there is a simple stove in the corner, there is nothing to burn or start a fire with. Barney has matches in a tin can in his rucksack, but unless he takes some of the bunks apart with his bare hands – an unlikely feat, they look too sturdy for that – this is going to be a cold night.
He shrugs to himself and pushes himself with effort away from the door. He slept in worse conditions than this, many times, and at least he's out of the storm. He takes off his coat, hissing at the cold, unties his sweater from his waist and promptly pulls it over his head, with the coat coming back over his shoulders in quick order. Now that he's not moving, his body needs all the layers he can get before it starts losing its warmth. He shakes off the snow from his clothes, which held up well thankfully – the outer layers are damp, but the ones close to his skin remain dry. It would be nice to have a fire, he thinks, looking wistfully at the rusty stove, but even without it he should be snug enough, if not necessarily comfortable.
He settles on a dusty bunk closest to one of the tiny windows and looks at the powerful spectacle of nature behind it. It is something to inspire awe, now that he's not trapped in the middle of it. The storm tears up the lake. What was once blue-dimpled Mistawis, is now the furious smoke of wind and snow. The dark angry woods around the clearing scowl at Barney, menace in the toss of their boughs, threats in their windy gloom, terror in the roar of their hearts. The trees crouch in fear. The wind strikes mightily at the lumber shack, getting through every nook and crack which it can find, and Barney shivers as he pulls his coat tighter around himself and folds into a ball, his arms around his knees and his gloved hands pushed firmly under his armpits. Yes, it's not going to be a comfortable night, he thinks ruefully, longing for the snugly warmth of the Blue Castle and his wife's body in his arms, with the cats sneaking under the blankets too to hide from the viciousness of the elements. Still, he's going to be alright, and this is the most important thing here. The will in his desk can remain as superfluous as it's always been.
He hopes Valancy is not too scared for herself. They weathered enough storms in the months she's been living with him to make it clear she's not afraid of them as such, but she never had to endure one alone and it is an especially horrid one. Tom McMurray had built his house well and Barney has no doubts Valancy is perfectly safe there, but he's not sure if she is assured of that, and this is yet another reason he is annoyed with himself for his carelessness. He should be with her now. He vows to himself not to leave her like that ever again. She had an attack just two nights ago – not a bad one, all things considered, her medicine did its job soon enough – but still. He doesn't like thinking that she could be in pain now, as well as worried or scared, and he stuck here and unable to offer whatever comfort he could to her.
The night goes on, the storm stubborn and not giving up. Barney dozes on and off, getting up intermittently to move around, both to relax his stiff limbs and to warm himself up. He braves opening the door briefly to gather some snow into his water canteen; cold air is very dry and dehydration is yet another danger one has to be aware of. Eating the snow is out of question, it would only make him colder, but after waiting for it to melt, the canteen held against his stomach to speed this along in the ice cold shack, it's safe enough to drink. He eats a lonely emergency bar of chocolate stoved into his backpack, making a mental note to carry more of them in the future. He's grown more complacent here than he should have, apparently.
When morning finally comes, the storm breaks and clears; the sun shining gloriously over Mistawis; and at noon Barney finally reaches home. He finds Valancy on Banjo's chair, with the cat glaring at her fiercely, her head buried in her hands.
"Barney, I thought you were dead," she whispers, and his heart clenches with guilt for causing her such distress. He hoots, hoping to put her at ease.
"After two years of the Klondike did you think a baby storm like this could get me? I spent the night in that old lumber shanty over by Muskoka. A bit cold but snug enough. Little goose! Your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket. Did you sit up here all night worrying over an old woodsman like me?"
"Yes," says Valancy. "I—couldn't help it. The storm seemed so wild. Anybody might have been lost in it. When—I saw you—come round the point—there—something happened to me. I don't know what. It was as if I had died and come back to life. I can't describe it any other way."
"Come here," Barney coaxes her gently, reaching for her hands to pull her up from the chair. She falls into his arms like a marionette with her strings cut, boneless and lifeless, and he hugs her tightly against his chest so she can feel and hear how very alive he is. She snuggles against him, her hands clutching at the sweater on his back, and he can feel her tremble in the echo of her dread for him. He waits for the trembling to subside, stroking her back lightly in a hopefully comforting gesture, because he suggests getting her to bed. "You should rest, Moonlight," he says softly, "I'm home now."
She nods, getting out of his embrace and following him to their bedroom, but Barney can see that she doesn't take her eyes off him, as if afraid he'd disappear if she so much as blinked. He helps her take off her clothes and puts a cotton nightgown over her head, tucking her in bed before removing his own sweaty and dusty clothes. He makes quick work of washing himself in a basin, her eyes still following his every move, and jumps into bed with her after dressing in his own pyjamas. He should shave, he thinks as he strokes his scruffy chin, Valancy prefers his face smooth, but he doesn't think that she's thinking about that right now. She sighs deeply when she lays her dark head against his chest, her cheek resting against his heart.
"I was so scared," she whispers, as if she was afraid that speaking of her fears in a louder voice would make them become reality somehow. "I don't think I could go on living if you died out there. There would be no happiness left in the world for me."
Barney swallows, his arms tightening his embrace. He feels both incredibly guilty and selfishly glad. If he could wipe last night from existence, he'd do it in a heartbeat to spare her distress on his behalf. At the same time though, the realisation just how much she worried about him – how important he is to her – does tighten his throat and spreads warmth through his chest which has nothing to do with the fire crackling in the living room or the blankets over them. He's not used to being an object of worry, of having someone who cares so much whether he lives or dies to waste the whole night of sleep keeping vigil for him. Dear Moonlight! He still can't wrap his head around the fact how deeply she loves him and what in hell has he done to deserve it.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into her silky hair, contrition taking over the selfish gratitude. "I should have paid more attention to the weather when I set to depart. I was simply too far to make it home last night, but I promise you, Moonlight, it won't happen again."
She shudders once more, but then relaxes in his embrace, her eyes finally getting less frantic, her eyelids closing.
"See that it doesn't," she mutters tiredly. "I don't think I could stand another night like this. I would have hit you with a pan if I wasn't so very glad that you're alright."
Barney chuckles softly, the tenderness for her so strong in that moment that he can barely stand it.
"You have my permission to do that if I ever scare you like that again," he promises, his own eyelids getting heavy as he slowly falls asleep with her in his arms. That's better, he thinks sleepily, hugging her even closer, and he doesn't mean the softness of the mattress or the warmth provided by blankets and the fire. In fact, this is perfect.
In minutes, they both are soundly asleep, neither letting go of the other.