Prairie Fire (23 page)

It was easy enough to get started. We had most of the equipment at school. We didn't have to record in the bathroom for good acoustics, though I applauded the inventive nature of those who did. Our gear wasn't top of the line by any stretch of the imagination, but it was good, and it meant that we didn't stumble through our first few dozen videos figuring out how to get the right aspect ratio. The first videos were simple, just me talking and then introducing Owen. By the third week, when we started releasing songs, we had more followers than Emily had projected, and by the time we posted the Manitoulin song in week five, we were getting so many comments and video responses that Emily wasn't sure how she was going to deal with all of our traffic once school started again.

We hit the expected roadblocks. We were banned in a couple of countries almost immediately, and the videos that featured songs I had laboured over inevitably received fewer views than the video of the Battle of Manitoulin as reenacted by Sadie's family cat. But Emily assured me that we were doing well, and a couple of our teachers had allowed us to use the videos to count towards course work, so it wasn't even eating into our homework time too much. And soon there was ad revenue.

By the time we filmed our final video with the three of us together, heads shaved and ready to head off to Basic Training, I had stopped paying attention to the metrics. I could never remember what CPM stood for, but Emily knew. Emily told me what I needed to know, and I didn't like reading the comments anyway. She was always the most interested in the video replies and made sure to link to them as often as she could. It took me a couple of months to realize it, but eventually I understood what she was doing. We didn't need her help to build a community in Trondheim or Saltrock, so she built us one online.

It didn't matter what time zone our viewers were in or how far away they lived. They could communicate with us whenever they wanted. There were hundreds of covers of my songs out there now, converted to synthesizer music, performed
a capella
, translated into other languages. A prominent American young-adult novelist and his brother (who seemed to harbor bardic aspirations of his own) talked about us on their vlog and actually invited Emily to speak at their conference. There was fan art, videos of Owen and Sadie's TV clips set to whatever love song was currently popular (they didn't like that, but Emily and I thought it was hysterical), and something called OT3 fanfiction, which Emily made us all promise never to read.

And yes, our viewers and those people who made art in response to us were mostly kids. But so were we. We were a whole year older now. Owen and Sadie were better at slaying dragons. I was better at writing music in spite of my new situation. Emily was better at whatever it was Emily did. And those other kids, people I'd never even met—they were getting older and more talented too. I didn't know their names, let alone their plans for the future, but I knew that they supported us, that they had carved out their identity using us as a backdrop. We gave them something to aspire to, whether it was Sadie's fashion sense or her tai chi lessons. And they gave back.

I had to take time off when I first joined the Oil Watch, but after Christmas at home with Emily, the videos started going up again, each one winging its way across the world without government oversight or parental supervision. That was the future, I supposed, and we could be patient, because someday it would be ours.

A TO Z

Owen was waiting on the train platform, along with Nick and the rest of their support squads, when we got back from Christmas leave. I was certain he'd stopped growing before we'd gone to New Brunswick, but he seemed taller. Maybe working with Porter had filled him out a little more. Maybe it had just been a while since I really looked at him. Emily and I had spent days in my room recording songs, and it had made me think about everything Owen and I had done since we'd left home together at the end of the spring. I had worried we might have grown apart, but when I saw him, I knew that we were still a team, even with the new additions and the forced separation. Courtney was there too, with Porter standing as close to her as he could without actually standing close to her at all, and she smiled and waved when she caught sight of us in the crowd.

“We've got a bloody assignment!” she said, almost jumping up and down. “They've brought Owen and Porter back to travel with us and Nick's crew down to make it a party.”

“Really?” I said. “And you don't hate it?”

“Well,” she said, slinging an arm around my shoulder and taking my bag, “it's still tedious, but at least it's out of Fort Calgary.”

“She says that like she goes to British Columbia all the time,” Anderson said, bumping fists with Parker in what passed for greeting.

“I've been twice,” Courtney said. “It's not like it's some grand adventure.”

“It's the A to Z!” Nick crowed, pronouncing the Z incorrectly as Americans do. Courtney rolled her eyes. She was not the only one.

“The John A–Zuò Tunnel is good practice for shepherding convoys,” Porter said. We all straightened. Apparently Christmas hadn't been enough to break our good habits. He handed me a file. “McQuaid, you're going to want to read fast. You have a meeting with the refugees after dinner.”

It was nearly impossible for me to read and eat at the same time, but the documents weren't classified at all, so Annie read me the salient points while we ate. It turned out that Peter's family had invited everyone he worked with to stay with them until their fields were back up and running. Our assignment was to accompany them as escorts, in case of dragon attack.

“Peter's family knows how many people they'll be dealing with, right?” I interjected once Annie got through the basics. There were almost a hundred farmers, and even if only half of them wanted to go, that wasn't exactly a kitchen party sort of number. Plus they would have to host all twenty-eight of us for two days.

“Let me get to it,” Annie said, skipping ahead a few pages. “Peter's family has a lot of land and housing up around Prince Rupert. It's all forestry work, but at least it's probably better than sitting around here until the snow melts.”

“Are you talking about them or us?” Nick asked. He hadn't really been prepared for what winter in Alberta would mean, and the others in his support squad, who were mostly from southern states, were even more miserable.

“Pack warm, darling,” Laura said unsympathetically.

“Keep reading, Annie,” I directed, but from there on out it was mostly scheduling and details about the train lines that would only be important after we crossed the border.

I had never been to British Columbia, which isn't unusual for most Canadians. It isn't exactly a safe trip. The Rockies are riddled with dragons, even leaving the Chinooks out of the equation, and use of the A to Z Tunnel is carefully controlled by the Oil Watch. The isolation of BC, and of Cascadon to the south, is a sore point in the Watch, which feels it provides enough dragon slayers to keep the two provinces safe. While not directly separatist like parts of Quebec, the two westernmost provinces had been trying to pass legislation to control their own dragon slayers for almost a decade, but the bills never made it off the floor.

“I still think it'll be fun,” Nick said. “Even with your ungodly weather.”

“We'll start packing for you,” Courtney said, picking up her tray after the general dismissed us from the mess hall. “And I want to see everyone's kit before we leave.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Nick said, saluting.

“I don't care so much about you,” she said.

“I'm hurt,” Nick replied. “But I'll live.”

“Thank goodness,” Owen said. “I'd hate to miss your first view of the Pacific. You would not believe the
nature
they have over there.”

Nick laughed, and everyone but me headed for the barracks. I made my way to the mess where the refugees ate. It was one of those pointless meetings that I've learned the military is so fond of. They knew most of what I told them already, but they listened politely anyway. I could tell that they were as excited at the prospect of seeing the A to Z for themselves as we were.

When I was done, Peter came up and asked if I could spare a moment.

“Yes,” I told him. “I don't have much packing to do. I only just got back before dinner.”

“I won't keep you long,” he said. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“I did, actually,” I told him. “Emily and I recorded a lot of the songs we'd been working on.”

“She's uploaded the first one already,” he said. “I guess you didn't have Internet on the train?”

“Not for that sort of thing,” I said. “How is it doing?”

“You have a lot of hits,” he said. “And no real criticism yet. Just the usual yahoos.”

“Emily will be so pleased,” I said. “You never mentioned that your family was in BC.”

“You were always all business,” he replied. “I didn't think to share.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to be.”

“It's fine,” he said. “But, yeah, my family has the title to a lot of the forestry around Port Edward, near Prince Rupert. We've been there a long time. I'm Haida.”

“Really?” I looked at him more closely. He had very dark hair, but Owen had blond hair and his mother was Venezuelan. And I'd never met someone from the Haida nation before.

“Just enough for tax exemptions,” he said in an overly cheerful tone. I realized I was staring and shook my head.

“Owen will be thrilled,” I said. “Lottie mentioned Haida dragon slaying at one point, but our library was foggy on the details and the Internet sites we found didn't look terribly reliable.”

“Oh, it's all true,” Peter said. “That's what makes it so excellent. But I won't tell you any more. It's better if you see it for yourself.”

“I'll take your word for it,” I said.

“And that's not even what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “My mother is a locally famous drummer, so we have a soundproof recording studio in the house. It's not much, probably not even as good as your high school's, but I thought maybe we could record some of the songs with both of us? Don't get me wrong, I like the one you posted, but it's not the same without the mandolin.”

The prospect of drumming was almost more exciting than the idea of getting out of Fort Calgary, though that was probably because I had only just returned. After Manitoulin, I had made a list of all the musical instruments I would never play again. It was a long one and included all of my favourites, all the ones I was familiar with. I hadn't had a lot of time to experiment and, to be honest, I'd been more than a little bitter about my loss, but in addition to the trombone, the various forms of First Nation drumming were still left to me. There wasn't a lot of it in Trondheim, of course, but getting to meet a drummer in person was exciting. I could move my hands enough to play now, thanks to my therapy and my refusal to let things like buttons and milk cartons get in my way.

Someone, probably Annie, had my bag open on my bed when I got back to our room. Courtney had a sheaf of papers in her hands and was divvying out extra supplies based on who had what room left in their kits. Some of the items looked a bit odd, but after the Singe'n'Burn, Courtney was determined never to be caught wanting in the woods again. I couldn't say I blamed her.

“We liked your new song,” one of the Americans said when I walked through their section of the barracks to get to ours. Their packing process was much less orderly than ours was, I couldn't help but notice.

“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you like the others as well.”

“You know who loved your song?” Courtney said, once I was close enough that she could speak to me without raising her voice.

“Oh, crap,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” Courtney said. “The general particularly liked the part where you weren't wearing your uniform so he can't discipline you directly, but the beret is clearly visible over your shoulder, so everyone remembers what you're up to now.”