Lost in Translation (Prompt 12, Fraser)
Lost in Translation
Fraser, G, 647 words
Fraser's first posting had been a tiny community of around one hundred and the surrounding area on Baffin Island. It was so remote that it even intimidated him, just a little, when he received word upon graduating from Depot. The very tiny place that Fraser couldn't even find on the well worn map of the Territories that used to hang in his grandparents' house.
All of his classmates had teased him - strange Benton Fraser who had wanted to be assigned to an Inuit community, while the rest of them were getting ready to dispatch to much more cosmopolitan places that made him cringe, made him claustrophobic.
Fraser loved the North. He loved the wide-open ice fields, the howling winds, the untamed wildness of it all. He had since he was a child. He realized quickly, though, upon his arrival, that he'd never been alone before. He'd gone from his parents to his grandparents to Depot, and had never been truly alone in his life, even if he had often felt isolated, both physically and emotionally.
In this place, this tiny Inuit community on the edge of the earth, he spent days and, sometimes, weeks out on the ice, patrolling, looking for something that never happened and most likely never would. Occasionally, he happened upon a wayward band of hunters or someone whose dogsled lines had broken, and he was grateful that he could help. Grateful to do his duty. But he did not even speak the language of these people, even though he had proudly listed Inuvialuit as a language spoken, after French, on his application for a posting. He talked to the villagers, stuttering gracelessly, but he couldn't capture the rhythms. He didn't have the accent or the idioms, and without them, he was hopelessly adrift.
The people of the village smiled at him when he walked to the tiny RCMP office from the post office, carrying the rare letter from his grandmother or his father, but they didn't try to get to know him. Some of the young women giggled when he walked past, their long, dark hair and soft faces alluring, but he couldn't reach out to them, for too many reasons to count.
Fraser had always considered himself more Inuit than white, when it came right down to it, but here, in this tiny barren placed that hugged the edge of a frozen ocean, he was painfully aware of the fact that he was very wrong, and that he was the other here.
He stayed for two years. Two years that moved at the pace of the ice-clogged river that spilled into the sea on the other side of the island, almost too sluggish for him to bear. Finally, he made up his mind that, perhaps, he had made a terribly misguided choice, one that he could use youth and inexperience to excuse.
At the desk in his small bedroom, Fraser sat with the official paperwork that would take him away from this place. The pen felt heavy in his hands and the light from the lamp was fading. He briefly thought about throwing caution to the harsh wind outside and writing down someplace exotic. Maybe it was time to see something new, someplace that he had only ever seen or read about in the books in his grandparents' library. The rugged, wild coasts of the Atlantic. The mountains and tall woodlands of British Columbia. The bustling, diverse metropolis of Toronto, or the Francophone rhythms of the streets of Montreal.
He pressed the pen to the paper, and, his hand steady, spelled out the guttural sounds of Tuktoyaktuk, followed by Inuvik and Aklavik. Places with familiar faces and people close enough to be family where his family was gone. People to talk to and understand, people who knew Benton Fraser and spoke his language, no matter which one it was.
My prompt table
Fraser, G, 647 words
Fraser's first posting had been a tiny community of around one hundred and the surrounding area on Baffin Island. It was so remote that it even intimidated him, just a little, when he received word upon graduating from Depot. The very tiny place that Fraser couldn't even find on the well worn map of the Territories that used to hang in his grandparents' house.
All of his classmates had teased him - strange Benton Fraser who had wanted to be assigned to an Inuit community, while the rest of them were getting ready to dispatch to much more cosmopolitan places that made him cringe, made him claustrophobic.
Fraser loved the North. He loved the wide-open ice fields, the howling winds, the untamed wildness of it all. He had since he was a child. He realized quickly, though, upon his arrival, that he'd never been alone before. He'd gone from his parents to his grandparents to Depot, and had never been truly alone in his life, even if he had often felt isolated, both physically and emotionally.
In this place, this tiny Inuit community on the edge of the earth, he spent days and, sometimes, weeks out on the ice, patrolling, looking for something that never happened and most likely never would. Occasionally, he happened upon a wayward band of hunters or someone whose dogsled lines had broken, and he was grateful that he could help. Grateful to do his duty. But he did not even speak the language of these people, even though he had proudly listed Inuvialuit as a language spoken, after French, on his application for a posting. He talked to the villagers, stuttering gracelessly, but he couldn't capture the rhythms. He didn't have the accent or the idioms, and without them, he was hopelessly adrift.
The people of the village smiled at him when he walked to the tiny RCMP office from the post office, carrying the rare letter from his grandmother or his father, but they didn't try to get to know him. Some of the young women giggled when he walked past, their long, dark hair and soft faces alluring, but he couldn't reach out to them, for too many reasons to count.
Fraser had always considered himself more Inuit than white, when it came right down to it, but here, in this tiny barren placed that hugged the edge of a frozen ocean, he was painfully aware of the fact that he was very wrong, and that he was the other here.
He stayed for two years. Two years that moved at the pace of the ice-clogged river that spilled into the sea on the other side of the island, almost too sluggish for him to bear. Finally, he made up his mind that, perhaps, he had made a terribly misguided choice, one that he could use youth and inexperience to excuse.
At the desk in his small bedroom, Fraser sat with the official paperwork that would take him away from this place. The pen felt heavy in his hands and the light from the lamp was fading. He briefly thought about throwing caution to the harsh wind outside and writing down someplace exotic. Maybe it was time to see something new, someplace that he had only ever seen or read about in the books in his grandparents' library. The rugged, wild coasts of the Atlantic. The mountains and tall woodlands of British Columbia. The bustling, diverse metropolis of Toronto, or the Francophone rhythms of the streets of Montreal.
He pressed the pen to the paper, and, his hand steady, spelled out the guttural sounds of Tuktoyaktuk, followed by Inuvik and Aklavik. Places with familiar faces and people close enough to be family where his family was gone. People to talk to and understand, people who knew Benton Fraser and spoke his language, no matter which one it was.
My prompt table