Ch 36 - Partridge Creek

When we finally got up, Bergeron was already

climbing the old stairs again, replicating the sound we

had heard earlier.

— Very well, the community will be waiting for

us, — he announced as he reached the beds.

— And a good day to you, too, Mr. Bergeron, —

Keene teased. — As you can see, you were right about

the weather. It's a bloody good thing we didn't make a

bet, isn't it?

Andri Bergeron frowned, then turned to the two

of us.

— You, take your team to the port, — he ordered

Lucy. — The boat leaves in 45 minutes. On the way,

tame that lynx, — he finished, pointing his thumb at

Keene, already turning his back on us and returning to

the staircase. Jacob did nothing but grunt at the remark.

Paying no more attention to the doctor's personal spats,

we finished folding our quilts and went down the steps,

letting Keene lead the way. As we reached the reception

desk, we saw Andri preparing to pay for our stay, but the

biomedical doctor hurried to stop him.

— No, no, Mr. Bergeron, how could I do

something like this? Allow me. — And with that, he

threw a wad of bills on the counter, without even

counting the amount. I believe this was the first time I

saw Neleh Lenoir raise her eyes. Wide-eyed with

surprise, she touched her lips before flipping through the

bundle, doing so again as she fumbled while counting.

— Okay, we can go now, — he said with a wide,

almost unnatural smile. Despite the strangeness of the

fact, the Canadian was pleased with Keene's kindness,

and so was the receptionist. With a brief goodbye, we

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left the Lavouie Inn, heading for the stretch of the Yukon

River, where a catamaran-style boat was waiting for us.

We exited a cab at the harbor entrance, not

without Keene throwing the equivalent of a month's

work at the driver, and headed for the boat at a fast trot.

The huge craft was as white as pure snow, enough to hurt

the retina of anyone who persisted in admiring the

reflected glare. We then boarded the raft, with enough

time to sit at the end of the platform and watch the huge

flow of people that would accompany us for the first few

kilometers of the trip. Soon there were people of the

most varied races and cultures around us, all confined in

that open rectangle, without the slightest protection from

the weather.

At exactly the end of the 45 minutes mentioned

by Andri, we heard the huge engine sounding in low

vibration and the propeller below our platform turning

quietly. In a few minutes, the captain's maneuver took us

to the center of the Yukon's stream, where it was possible

to save some fuel and let the force of the water propel us.

With the calmness of the drifting trip, we made

our way through the small crowd that gathered on the

platform, chatting, taking pictures, and laughing. At the

end of an endless session of saying "excuse me" and

"sorry", we reached the cockpit, where a woman,

probably middle-aged, with a muscular build and a

serious face, was skilfully handling the helm. Our

captain's cabin was a raised room, just above the hull

edge, with a huge reinforced acrylic display. The

structure, one of the closest passengers informed me,

maintained an accessible appearance of her authority, but

without leaving her on the same level. Below her feet,

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the vessel curved to show the interior of the river.

Through another acrylic plate, this one guarding the

underside of the boat, we could see the stream flowing

hard, foaming, taking with it the few trout that

challenged its power. The sight was a delight and, along

with socializing with other passengers, or whatever you

call the strange human interaction we were subjected to,

it would be our distraction on the long journey to

Partridge Creek.

Starting at Laberge Lake, the Yukon River

widens into a large pocket and then winds its way inland

again before reaching anywhere recognizable as modern

civilization. After countless hours of the gentle rocking

of our platform, we docked at Carmacks, where we said

goodbye to half of our fellow passengers, with no more

than 14 people left, including ourselves. The river still

held the same name until Pelly Crossing, the next stop,

where three more came down. Finally, we arrived in

stable weather at Stewart Crossing, where the last seven

descended, leaving only the four of us in the care of our

captain. Here too we changed course, heading for the

river named after the crossing. We were much closer

now, after nearly twelve hours of exposure and

unpleasant social interactions.

At the end of the trip, our captain spoke up over

the radio, transmitting her voice to powerful speakers

installed at the angles of the platform.

— Last turn just ahead. Disembark immediately,

— said the authoritative voice. Picking up our rucksacks

from the wooden floor covering the deck, we made our

way to the staircase that now connected to the shores, at

the command of a button in the cabin. We would have

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said goodbye to our captain, but she never looked back.

With the same serious look as before, she maneuvered

her huge floating rectangle and proceeded with this

engineering marvel along the same path we had traveled

to get here.

Our appearance at this point was almost comical.

In view of the low temperatures we faced on the trip,

especially after Pelly Crossing, we took out of our packs

the huge triple-layered jackets that Bergeron had

recommended. The garment was a curiosity in itself,

how it was able to be compressed to a portable size

without retaining its shape. As soon as the suitcase was

opened, the fabric would straighten its fibers again and

swell once more. And so, with our body circumference

more than tripled, we turned toward the interior of the

region where the creature had been sighted. To our left

flowed a timid watercourse, so narrow and weak that it

didn't even produce any sound, especially with the

massive Stewart rivaling it.

— This way, — said Andri, leading us. — Just

past the Partridge. — Saying this, he walked resolutely

towards the stream that ran to the left of our current

position, advancing as if he were going to cross it on

foot.

— What do you intend to do? — Keene asked,

alarmed.

— The same thing I've done all my life, Doctor.

— Folding his coat and putting it back in his backpack,

he spun the bundle in the air a few times, before

throwing it hard over the water; it landed just beyond the

shore. Then, stepping into the Partridge's waters,

Bergeron sank his boot first and then let the rest of his

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leg submerge. Suddenly, he sank to his waist, before a

few steps brought him to the same depth as before,

where he could stand, with water covering his calves.

That's when I realized — Partridge Creek was a smooth

watercourse, not because it was slow, but because it was

deep. As he reached the other bank, his whole body

seemed soaked and his skin regressed to a pale color,

before he threw his backpack over his back again, hiding

his pallor.

— Very well. Who comes now? — he challenged

us. Among the three of us, Lucy was the first to abandon

her shocked expression and imitate the suicidal act. With

precision, she put away her coat and threw her backpack

over the Partridge; it landed next to Bergeron's, who did

not hide the admiration on his face. Setting out to cross

the stream the Canadian's way, she gasped slightly,

trying to finish the process as soon as possible. Reaching

the bank where Andri was waiting, she said with a

familiar laugh:

— I hope you, sir, can light a fire if you don't

want to be blamed for us dying of hypothermia.

Next to me, Keene was sweating at the mere

thought of getting into the water.

— How about... doing it together, Kevin? — The

invitation seemed more like a way to have someone to

hold on to, in case his muscles stiffened.

— Certainly, Doctor, — I begrudgingly replied.

With our backpacks stowing our thick coats and personal

belongings, we spun their weight in the air before

launching it. Mine landed close to the water, crashing

into the short grass on the other side, falling so close to

the stream that its fastener dipped with each gulp that the

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Partridge produced. Keene's was not as successful and

plunged majestically into the deep water. Lucy rushed to

thrust her arm into the stream and save it before the flow

carried it into the Stewart River, narrowly clutching it; in

the background, Jacob was cursing loud enough to be

heard above the sound of the river. With a disaster

averted, it now remained for us to enter the icy waters of

the stream. And how freezing were they! With my first

step, I felt the water entering my boots and wrapping my

feet in a deadly paralyzing shell. To my right, Keene

screamed in pain as he felt the same sensation. At the

next step, my calves disappeared under the surface of the

water and my muscles contracted violently. Finally, the

third one took us to the Partridge bed, covering our

waist. At this point, Jacob was cursing Bergeron, feeling

pain similar only to what Alexander Boseman had felt.

With two more steps, the intense pain eased and we

stepped onto solid ground once more. The cold wind

now punished our thin bodies, cutting our skin.

— Here you are, Doctor, — Lucy said, taking the

soaked backpack back to Keene. — Don't thank me. —

Jacob lowered his eyes, contemplating the miserable

state of his clothes, before reaching us again.

The hills ahead of us were green, but of a dark

hue, like the plants that become that color when brought

indoors. With the lack of sunlight, combined with the

intense cold of the Yukon, the small grasses struggled to

grow, not reaching more than half an inch in height.

— Where...do you intend to take us? — asked

Jacob's trembling voice.

— First to a fine fire to warm you up. I don't

want to go to jail for the death of a tourist.

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— And when...do you imagine making...such a

fire? There's nothing but more and more hills as far as

the eye can see!

With a slightly ironic laugh, Bergeron corrected

Keene.

— Old boy, learn to see beyond the obvious.

Then walking to the next ridge, he stopped his

step, stretching his arms out to the side so that we

wouldn't fall. Hidden from the prying eyes of passers-by

was a tiny shepherd's village, buried in the depression in

the ground.

— This is where I imagine doing it, — Andri

teased.

Carefully, we descended the slope that was about

20 feet deep, leaning our weight on each rock that

supported us, until we were low enough to jump without

breaking a bone. Still soaked and weak from walking,

we struggled to complete this further stage of the

mission, finally falling to the ground without incident.

The view of the village in front of us was bleak

— raw, stacked wooden houses clustered in that perfect

circle of earth and ice. Through the logs that formed the

walls, it was possible to see the eyes of the local

inhabitants, peering through the huge gaps that were left.

In silence, Andri walked to the center of the village,

followed by eyes that changed walls to see him. Stalling

his pace, he called out an Athabascan greeting, leaving

on his face a smile of anticipation for what was to come.

Almost immediately, he was surrounded by a flood of

people coming out of the houses, happy to see him. Still

in the language of the North, they welcomed him;

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children jumping around him, wearing a miniature of the

huge sweater he was wearing.

One by one, the villagers then turned their

attention to us, who were still waiting at the village

entrance. Switching sharply to English, Bergeron made

the introductions:

— This is Kevin and Lucy Lane and Doctor

Jacob Keene, the team of researchers who welcomed me

to New Haven.

Most eyes remained as suspicious as before, not

believing that we had crossed such distance just to do

research. Taking a step forward, Keene spoke in one of

the Athabascan languages, saying a long sentence that

we did not understand. The audience reaction was

immediate; changing the look on their faces, we now

saw more smiles and approving looks from the elders.

— What did you say, Doctor? — Lucy asked

him.

— That I came to seek their wisdom; to

understand their customs and to hear their stories. That's

the truth, isn't it?

Maintaining its flurrying form, the crowd hurled

itself upon Keene, bringing him and Bergeron with them

into the village. Alone, Lucy and I were left in the cold

outside of the border that surrounded the place.

— How on earth can he be so popular? — I

asked with an exasperated sigh.

— Not for the right motivation, that's obvious, —

Lucy replied.

We had to remain alone behind the crowd of

people who were returning to the village's interior —

two lonely spots in a vast green and white expanse.

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When we passed the edge of the first houses, we spotted

the site where most of the inhabitants were gathered

around a small fire. The lack of preparations made it

clear that nobody was expecting us that day, especially

us, the so-called research team. The size of the fire was

appropriate for only two or three people to warm

themselves, but now more than 40 were gathered around

the tiny heat source and its original owner had already

been swallowed up by the sea of people. After rows and

rows of villagers, in a small circle where the fire was

slowly fed pieces of wood occasionally thrown by

someone, we could see Andri Bergeron, sitting in a very

rustic and brittle-looking chair. In the first row of the

assembly, sitting like a disciple at his feet, Jacob Keene

kept his face fixed on Bergeron's, often adjusting the

position of his glasses to pretend he was paying

attention.

In his native tongue, the Canadian gave a speech

to the people, gesticulating with pleasure as he

explained, as we later learned, what his life had been like

when in America. His manner was animated and grand,

as if being surrounded by an audience pleased his ego.

Of course, all that attendance was also his family, but I

am afraid to tell you that I had already judged him in my

heart. As I considered these things, I remembered the

situation in which Lucy and I found ourselves. The

winds were struggling to get into this depression,

particularly to get through the barrier of huts; yet a slight

breeze reached us at this point, enveloping our wet

bodies, and cooling our muscles. I felt my heart beat

faster, in an attempt to pump the blood more quickly and

warm myself as much as possible. Fortunately, our

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bodies are more efficient than those of the Steppesaurus,

and I would not die. Not right away, that is.

Running his eyes over the people around him,

Andri set them down on us and no longer moved them.

With a gesture, he invited us to come closer, which we

desperately accepted. The good people of his village

were also willing to give us passage, each half of the

large circle moving to one side, looking at us with

curiosity. These people were used to the intense cold of

the region and their limbs were strong and muscular, all

adjectives that did not fit the two pale teenagers who

were now crossing their midst. In silence, they waited

for us to reach the smaller circle, where Bergeron had an

outstretched hand inviting us to sit next to Keene. The

fire was now twice the original size, and we had to step

back to keep distance from its glowing embers. Its heat

radiated on us and our wet clothes, maintaining our hope

that we would not freeze to death. Not on a mission

where the creature should be able to do so, at least. More

than temperature, however, the warmth of a campfire is

capable of soothing the weary traveler, which was

precisely our current experience.

Maintaining his friendly smile, Bergeron went on

giving his lecture. Rising from his chair, he set it aside

and erected his body in front of the glow of the flames.

The light of the fire formed at his feet an imposing,

shimmering shadow, which silenced the voices of those

closest and fascinated those farthest away. His words

were still in his Athabascan language, but Jacob was

kind enough to translate them.

— First sighted by the Dene Indians, — he

translated what the Canadian was saying, — This animal

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has always been feared for its strength and...ferocity. A

horn on its muzzle is its main weapon, used to...charge at

its prey with enormous fury, which it throws to the

ground with a violent swipe, looking at it immediately

afterwards. Pardon me, devouring it immediately

afterwards, the two verbs sound similar. It is a

fur-covered animal, like a wild boar, and much like it, it

is black as night. It measures 50 feet and has a voracious

appetite for travelers lost in the white expanse of snow.

When not hunting our kind, the monster stalks our herds,

even decimating them when the spirit of war is weak and

does not motivate us to fight. Fortunately, our friends

from the Dene people joined us the last time the beast

dared to attack us, and with their support, we brought

upon it the death it intended to bring upon us!

At this public intimation, all the people shouted

in unison, celebrating a victory that their eyes had never

seen.

— And of course a remarkably positive public,

— Keene said, rubbing his sore ear.

We felt at this point that we were slowly drying

and the flames were warming us more effectively. Also,

with the end of Bergeron's talk, the assembly slowly

dissolved, each returning to their log cabin.

— Fifty feet? — Lucy whispered. — That's

more than 15 meters. Do you think it's possible for an

animal to get to such size here?

It is a well-established fact that animals tend to

be smaller in colder climates and on islands, where the

reduced amount of food forces them to shrink over many

generations. That is, if the species survives that long in

the first place. There were, however, a number of factors

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that influenced this equation, especially the availability

of resources. Although it is now a white desert, the

Arctic had been occupied by dinosaurs in its distant past,

and even the Antarctic was once green, as shown by

countless fossils of cycads and huge herbivores.

— It wouldn't be totally impossible, — I replied.

— There are fossils of Daspletosaurus, Albertosaurus

and Acrocanthosaurus in Canada. Even to the North, in

the Arctic, fossils of Nanuqsaurus, a six-meter-long

carnivore, have been found. What bothers me most,

though, is the presence of a nasal horn. This description

matches that of an abelisaurid, but there is no record of

any genus that reached these proportions.

— Of course there are no records, — Keene

remarked scornfully. — These legends are a silly

exaggeration, something coming from the human mind,

especially when corrupted by pride.

— How can you be so sure? — Lucy asked

firmly. — It's not as if all the creatures we have

encountered so far have been thoroughly studied.

— They all inhabited a remote zone, Lucy. And

only then did a human population develop in their

vicinity. Here, there are old tales about this animal.

Stories whose tellers increased them a little each time.

This has happened several times before, you know. The

legends of the Kraken are based on sightings of giant or

colossal squids; the latter reaching up to 14 meters in

length. The folk tale, however, speaks of monstrous

mollusks, much larger than the vessels they grabbed,

then carrying them to Davy Jones' locker.

— If this is so, your theory will soon be proven,

Doctor.

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— What do you mean?

— Tomorrow we will cross Partridge Creek,

where a tribe of the Dene people have settled.

⬫⬫⬫

The plane finally landed in Whitehorse. His flight

had been painful, as indeed was any experience at his

age. The seats were also part of the torture. Tight and

uncomfortable, they seemed to be made for the

stereotype that society considered ideal — a slender

body, without folds of skin or fat, preferably anorexic.

Keene was one of those who seemed to support this

concept, humiliating him whenever possible. Countless

times he had felt his hands burning, wanting to close

around the scoundrel's throat, but he had been able to

control his spirits. Then one day, a good friend appeared,

someone who listened to him openly and sincerely

enjoyed spending time with him. Looking around, he

could now see the other passengers heading down the

aisle towards the door, but his dear friend was nowhere

to be seen. The seat next to him remained empty, just as

he wanted it. At Tweed, in New Haven, he had bought

two tickets, just so that no one could take Bergeron's

seat. Lifting his eyes once more, he realized that he was

alone, and then he also realized that this was his way of

life.

Frederick Frost stood, leaning on the back of the

seats, approaching the exit. The Yukon cold hit him at

this moment, and he remembered that his usual suit

would not be enough here. It would be a shame, but he

would have to cover up the garment that made him

proud. Still shaking his head and walking down the

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stairs, he made his way to the landing strip, looking

around to locate himself. There wasn't much difference

between the Brone and the Tweed; the runway led to the

same maze of coffee shops, set as traps for those who

would enter the place. But Frost had no desire to eat

anything now. All that mattered was to catch a certain

ferry, which would take him to Partridge Creek and settle

this matter that had been plaguing him for months.

Leaving the Brone through the front door, he then came

upon the main thoroughfare of Whitehorse, lined with

vehicles, souvenir stores and restaurants, but...there

weren't many hotels. In fact, there was only a single inn

near the Brone airport. A strange construction in the

shape of a scalene triangle, with a wooden sign hanging

on iron chains. The sign read: "Lavouie Inn".

It was not the most exquisite place he had ever

set foot in, but the one that would save him the most

effort. Pushing at the door, he observed that it would not

budge, until his weak eyes noticed a padlock shut on the

links of another chain as thick as the one holding the

sign.

— A closed hotel...Charming, — thought

Frederick. What else would happen to eliminate what

little cheer he had left?

On the sidewalk, next to him, passed by a

gentleman in an overcoat, who was walking gracefully

through the area.

— Excuse me, sir, — Frost asked. Stopping

suddenly, the man opened his curious eyes to the

stranger who approached him.

— Yes, sir?

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— Perhaps you know when this hotel opens? —

Glancing at the Lavouie Inn sign, the wanderer sighed,

then looked down.

— I'm afraid it won't open anymore, — he said

with his hand on his chest.

— An...economic crisis, possibly?

— Something much worse. You see, there was

only one person who worked at the Lavouie — Neleh

Lenoir was her name. Yesterday afternoon, young Neleh

was found dead on the reception counter, with a hideous

smile on her face. Her mother, the owner of the hotel,

could not bear the pain and closed the establishment. I

haven't heard from Madame Lenoir since then, either.

— I see... Thank you, sir. — With a polite

farewell gesture, the stranger left him alone again.

— Once again...late, — Frost said to himself.

⬫⬫⬫

— On the other side of the stream, isn't it? You

might as well have said across the territory, — Jacob

complained, shivering at the bitter cold nature was

subjecting us to.

— Oh, shut up, Keene, — Bergeron exclaimed,

finally losing his temper. — We've already gone all the

way around the Partridge so that you wouldn't have to go

into the water again.

— As every civilized individual is expected to

do! Know that not all of us were raised as wild animals,

under the worst possible conditions, only to boast about

it later.

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We were now on our way to the nearest Dene

tribe. Our guide wished to ask for their help in fighting

the mysterious beast, Lucy and I intended to seek more

information about it, and Keene...well, he was

accompanying us. The detour around the stream had

taken up a long while in our travel time, but at least it

had kept us dry and safe, free from the risk of

hypothermia. It was the morning after Bergeron's speech,

and his village, motivated by his words of

encouragement, had bid us farewell in good spirits.

Andri also seemed to be in such a mood, but as soon as

we got far enough away from the village, his smile broke

into a dismayed expression.

— You don't have faith that you can get rid of

this thing, do you? — Lucy asked the man.

— Unfortunately, not enough, — he answered

with a sigh. — I don't think the legends are entirely true,

of course. And yet...there is something out there,

threatening not only the way of life of my people, but

also their lives. I don't expect you to understand this.

— We just don't want the animal to be killed, — I

said tactfully. — And I think that, to some extent, we

know what it is to have our family threatened by an

incomprehensible danger. Our father, he...was killed by

one of these beings.

— Oh, I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't think you had

experience in this.

— More than you do, — Keene spoke bitterly.

Casting a correcting glance at him, Lucy turned again to

the shepherd, who had refused to give the biomedical

doctor any attention whatsoever.

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— Well, believe me, I don't like the idea of

needlessly killing an animal either, — Andri returned to

the subject, — perhaps Bruneau can help us in this

matter.

— And who might that be?

— That, Doctor, is the chief of the tribe you are

about to enter. A political and social leader, respected by

members of his community and outside groups as well.

In fact, we will soon spot his dwellings, just beyond this

hill.

Keeping the shepherd's word, the first sight after

that last snow-covered hill was the one we had been

hoping to see for hours. On the lowered plain, countless

cabins, similar to those in Bergeron's village, stood out

of the snow, built of hollowed-out logs. As we entered

the tribe's area, Andri took the lead, as if to be the first

sight the natives had of our team. We soon understood

the reason for such a gesture.

Here too the children were running, but they

were saying something incomprehensible, the only word

that made any sense to me was "Andri". Coming out of

their houses, men, women and old people came to see

what the commotion outside was all about, meeting

Bergeron first, who greeted them warmly. The cabins

were the dwellings that the Dene people had chosen after

they had settled, huts being their style of habitation when

they were nomads. Such houses were carefully carved,

so that every curve, joint and angle fit together perfectly,

leaving no space between the logs, as was the case with

the ones we saw in the village, although these were the

model that Bergeron and his neighbors had copied. The

clothing was also not the same as the people wore before

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the forced colonization of their land, being now a

mishmash of styles, many still wearing the traditional

moose hide, while others, especially the younger ones,

adhered to the more modern clothing of our culture. A

few, certainly rich and important among their people,

adorned themselves with jewelry and ornaments of all

kinds, as well as tattoos that were common to all classes.

The Dene people themselves, in fact, were a curious

jumble of several smaller indigenous peoples, all

grouped under that title that simply means "people".

Unfortunately, their culture and way of life had been

extensively affected by the arrival of the conquering

barbarians, as we were about to discover. Approaching a

separate cabin in the center of the tribe, Bergeron

signaled for us to wait for permission to enter. We were

standing in front of the dwelling of Jimmy Bruneau, the

powerful Dene chief.