by Ayesha Haqqiqa

The Inuit turned their dogsleds towards their hunting camp. Royce, still dazed with amazement and elation, caught glimpses of Alexsi from time to time, grinning from ear to ear. After a while, however, the rush of excitement left, and Royce found himself totally exhausted.

He didn't know when they reached the camp, but they must have been there for some time when a sharp slap to his face woke him up. A cup was placed to his lips and he drank. Thick and greasy, it was probably melted whale blubber, but Royce drank it as if it were the sweetest ambrosia. When it was gone, he longed for more, but could not communicate with the Inuit, who apparently knew no English.

He lay in the dogsled, wondering what would happen next. Two Inuit men came and helped him up, half dragging him to a boat where they sat him between them for the short journey to the island. He was anxious until he saw Alexsi placed in a similar boat. The hum of the motor soon caused him to close his eyes; the Inuit, ever vigilant, held him up and tried in vain to keep him awake.

The next thing Royce knew, he was being carried into a wooden building. He caught a glimpse of the Maple Leaf fluttering from the flagpole as he was carried over the threshold and placed on one side of a large double bed. He turned, and there was Alexsi, beaming.

"We made it, Royce!" Alexsi raised his hand in the air and Royce slapped it weakly. His hand fell back on the bed.

"Trip took more out of me than I thought," he said softly.

A man wearing RCMP insignia came over to them. "Who are you men?" he asked. "We've had no reports of downed planes since the RAF crash four months ago."

"I was on that plane," Royce whispered, "before I bailed out to help this guy." He pointed to Alexsi.

The Mounty went over to a stove, and came back with a mug of hot soup. He helped Royce to sit, and held him until he finished. "Got the strength to continue with your story?" The Mounty asked as he fed Alexsi.

Royce found the soup had revived him, and he went on with new strength. "The RAF boys noticed a crash site on the frozen ocean below. It was during a solar storm, and the radio was out. I volunteered to go down and help the injured. They were supposed to send a rescue helicopter from Toule the next day."

The Mounty looked at him. "Then you must be that missing meteorologist. The only body they couldn't find after the RAF plane went down."

"I'm Royce," he said. "So the plane crashed. I figured that out the next day, when the skies were clear and no one came. But I didn't admit it to myself until Alexsi here forced me to say it out loud." He smiled sadly at the memory.

"What did you do for the next four months?" The Mounty now took their coats off.

"We waited," Alexsi said. "For help that never came. Once a plane flew over, but we were sealed in, and could not get out in time to signal. So Royce here decides he will pull me to this island. 260 nautical miles."

The Mounty looked at Royce. "You did that?" he asked, astonished.

A faint smile crossed Royce's lips. "Yep," he said. "Ran out of food a while back, but we made it. I saw the island just before the Inuit came. I'm glad they did. I don't think I could've made the crossing by myself."

The Mounty remembered the Inuit's story of finding the two men and shook his head. "Well, you're safe now," he said. "I'm going over to the radio and report this. My superiors will be in contact with your respective consulates."

Royce relaxed, feeling the comfort of a real bed for the first time in four months. The heat--real heat, from a real fireplace--made him drowsy, and he slept. When he woke up, it was dark, but the Mounty was still there, keeping watch over them.

He went over to the stove and brought back some tea. "Drink up," he said, holding Royce as he put the cup to his lips. "I got hold of my superiors, who patched me through to a doctor. You are being transported to a hospital on Hudson's Bay at first light."

The hospital on Hudson's Bay was a modest affair, built for use by the military, Inuit, and the occasional trapper who might need medical attention. But despite its small size, it was the best-equipped facility to handle cases of starvation and frostbite.

Royce's clothes were cut from his body. It was only with protests and cussing that he was allowed to keep the little Russian babushka doll, which they placed on the nightstand where he could see it. As nurses bathed him, doctor checked Royce over, especially his hands.

"You are lucky," the doctor said, checking nerve response by touching areas of the hand lightly with a pin. "There seems to be minimal nerve damage. Your right hand is the worst, but you should still have about 95% use of it." He checked Royce's heart and lungs. "A high calorie diet over the next week or so, along with bed rest, should bring your strength back. The hardest physical problem you have to overcome is combing that hair! You want it cut, and a shave?"

"Nah," Royce said. "My wife was expecting me back four months ago. If I go back home looking spic-and-span, she'll never believe I was lost in the Arctic all that time."

"Your wife. We notified your consulate, which should notify her. She'll call, or we can bring in a phone and you can call her."

Royce closed his eyes. "She's going to be sore as hell," he murmured.

"Relieved is more like it. She thought you were dead." The doctor looked at Royce. "You know, of course, the hardest part of your recovery is the emotional one. It will be an ordeal to try and fit back into society again after four months on the ice. Your wife can help you."

Royce bowed his head. "If she wants to," he whispered. The nurses put a hospital gown on him and covered him up. He closed his eyes, and the doctor went away.

He made the call in his office. "Mrs. Royce?"

"Yes." The voice was full of tension.

"This is Dr. Wilson, Hudson's Bay. I just finished examining your husband." He paused as he heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Physically, he's come through his ordeal remarkably well. His right hand suffered some nerve damage from frostbite, but he didn't lose any fingers. He had no food for at least five days before his rescue--" the doctor paused as he heard a sob, then hastened to add"--but he is on a high calorie diet and, with rest, will soon get his strength back. The hardest wounds to heal will be the emotional ones. He will feel isolated and see his familiar surroundings as foreign. There will be times he might have flashbacks, especially vivid dreams or nightmares. He will need your emotional support."

"I see." The voice had become hard.

"I hope you do," Dr. Wilson continued. "Because without it, Royce will never heal. I'll send a letter with a list of counselors and therapists in your area--you're from around Boston, aren't you?"

"Northern Connecticut."

"Close enough. Do you have any questions?"

There was a pause on the line before he heard her say, "No. Thank you, doctor."

Alexsi was in the same ward as Royce. He was beaming when he was wheeled in. "Royce, Royce!" he cried. "They are getting me a phone! I call Nina!"

Royce looked at him and smiled weakly. "Your Communist wife. Give her my love." He turned over in bed.

"Royce, what is wrong?" Alexsi sighed when he received no answer. He had long ago realized that Royce's soul was not locked in a box, but there were parts of his life that he kept to himself.

Alexsi felt his smooth chin and patted his short hair. It had felt good to be relieved of all that fur. He looked across at Royce's tangled mat of hair. "Royce!" he called. "Why do they not cut your hair? Make you presentable for your wife when she calls?"

"She can't see you over the phone," Royce said patiently. "It doesn't matter."

"It does! It does!" Alexsi argued. "Nina will know, by the sound of my voice, that I am clean shaven. That I am making myself handsome for her. I go home on a plane tomorrow."

Royce, who had been smiling in amusement, grew solemn. "Tomorrow?" he said.

"Yes! Tomorrow, I go home. To Minsk. There the Russian doctors will treat me, make me strong!" He looked at Royce and whispered. "Even these doctors say it is not as bad as I feared. I might not walk, but I will not be like Jake."

"The Sun Also Rises. I remember." Royce murmured. "I'm glad for you."

He turned his back as Alexsi made his call. The Russian was easily translated by the tones of the voice, the murmurings, the sobs.

Alexsi sighed when he was done, and wiped tears from his eyes. "Nina will be there for me," he said quietly. He looked over at Royce's back. "Royce, you will call your wife now?"

Royce slowly turned over and stared at the ceiling. "When it's time," he said.

A photographer came in, and the nurses pushed the beds together so that the two men could shake hands for the camera. They took several pictures, noting the contrast between the clean-shaven Russian and the shaggy American. When they left, Royce's exuberance went with them, and he lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Dr. Wilson came in with a telephone. "We have Mrs. Royce on the line." He didn't tell Royce that he had made the call.

Reluctantly, he picked up the phone. "Hello?" he said, tentatively.

"Royce." The voice was there, neutral, neither approving nor disapproving.

"Anne." Royce took a deep breath. "Sorry to be so late coming home. Had to stop and help someone in trouble."

"Royce!" This time there was emotion--was it anger or relief? "They told me you were dead."

"Killed in a plane crash. I know." Royce sighed. "Didn't mean to worry you for these past four months."

"Like you never worried me before." Anne bit her lip, wishing the words back.

"I know," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

The weakness and frailty of his voice made Anne feel ashamed for her harsh words. "They say you'll be coming back soon. In a day or two, to Boston."

"You'll pick me up?" This was more of a plea than a question.

"Then I'll drive you home. Your folks have been taking care of the kids."

"Yeah. It must've been rough getting on."

"I'm working again--real estate, part time."

"Johnny? Debbie?"

"The kids are fine, and ecstatic to see you."

"And you, Anne?" Royce's question hung in the silence.

Anne finally spoke. "I'll be there for you, Royce."

Royce handed the phone to Dr. Wilson. "I'm tired, " he said. "Tell her I'm tired."

The doctor took the phone, and ended the call. Royce had turned away, and did not respond when Wilson said, "She'll call you again tomorrow."

Royce had to be coaxed to eat and drink. It was only when Alexsi reminded him that he would try at all. The Russian looked with concern as Royce lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"It cannot be so bad," he said finally. "This going home to your wife. She cannot fault you for saving me!" He pounded his chest. "Next time she calls, you have her talk to me! I will tell her!"

Royce smiled sadly as he looked at his friend. "It's not your fault. This happened long before I ran into you."

"But she cannot feel bad towards you! You, so unselfish and caring!"

"I wasn't always that way," Royce shook his head. "And she remembers."

"Then she must know you have changed. She must look at you now, not as you were." Alexsi shook his finger at Royce. "She must see you for who you really are, my friend."

Royce shook his head and turned away.

Anne hadn't called when the plane from the USSR arrived. Royce insisted in getting out of bed and walking alongside the gurney as far as the door of the ward. "Take care, my friend," he said, shaking the Russian's hand.

Alexsi's eyes were bright as he grasped Royce's arm with both his own. "You take care," he said.

Royce seemed to shrink inside himself after his friend left. As the nurse helped him walk back to his bed, he stooped as if he were an old man. Most of the time, he stared into space, not wanting to do anything except idly play with the Russian toy.

Anne's call was short. "When are you coming, Royce?" she asked.

"Tomorrow. Logan Airport. Should be in about five," Royce said. "The Meteorological Service is sending up a plane."

"I'll be there then," she said, and paused. "It will be good to see you again."

"Good?" Royce asked, with hope in his voice.

"Yes, Royce. Good." Anne sighed as she hung up the phone.

The next day, Royce slowly ascended the steps into the DC-3 that had been sent to fetch him. A representative of the Service was on board.

"Mr. Royce, you're a real hero!" he said as he sat down beside Royce. "The wire services picked up on your story, along with your photo with that Russian chap. The President is considering giving you a medal!"

"That's nice," Royce said, looking out the window.

"The Service has put you on extended sick leave, until you recover," the representative continued.

"Doesn't make up for the four months of house payments I'm behind." Royce watched as the snow fields disappeared, to be replaced by evergreen forest.

The representative shrugged. "There have already been agents calling us, asking for the movie rights. We directed them to your wife."

"Good." He took out the Russian toy and held it in his hands. "She's the businessman of the family."

"My heavens, man, how can you take it so calmly?" the representative cried. "You're a national hero!"

Royce just shook his head as he spun the toy on the fold-down tray.

The representative felt he might as well be talking to the wall, but he continued. "The press corps will be on hand when we deplane. We have a statement ready, but if you want--"

Royce looked at the man for the first time. "I want to go home," he said firmly. "You do whatever you damn well please with the press. I just want to get off this plane and go home with my wife!"

The vehemence of his speech, after being so quiet, stunned the representative, who moved to another seat further forward in the cabin.

The representative had warned him, but Royce was not prepared for the number of reporters there were. Every news outlet in the Boston area was there, plus that new cable venture, CNN. He watched the reporters' faces as the representative read the statement. They reminded him of wolves. Almost in a panic, he made his way down the steps, ignoring the cameras and the reporters and their shouted questions. He was half-running by the time he hit the tarmac, his eyes wide as he looked for Anne with both fear and anticipation.

She was there, at the edge of the crowd. Royce broke into a run when he saw her, almost crying as he fell into her arms. Oblivious to the cameras and reporters, they clung together for several minutes.

"Get us out of here," Royce's voice shook. "Please get me home."

She took his hand in hers and walked toward the car, which the officials had let her bring onto the field. Royce collapsed into the passenger side and closed his eyes. Ignoring the reporters, Anne opened her door and got in. A couple of revs of the engine caused the press corps to scatter, and she was able to make it out to the highway.

Royce didn't open his eyes until they were well out of Boston. "Thanks, Anne," he said finally. He placed his hand on her lap.

"Not now, Royce," she snapped as she passed a semi. "This road is tricky. Construction ahead."

He removed his hand as if it had been burned. He watched as they passed the construction area, then turned off the interstate onto the two-lane road that led home.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking out the window. "I'm sorry for a lot of things."

Anne glanced at her husband. This was the first good look she'd had of him. The beard and wild hair could not hide the lines of suffering or the look of anguish on his face. She found a wide place where she could pull off the road.

She turned off the ignition, and then took his hand in hers. His scarred hand. She looked at it and almost wept.

"Royce," she said softly, "I didn't mean it, you know. The big truck and the construction---"

"That's not what I mean, Anne." The sadness in his voice wrung her heart. "It's all the other things I did--or didn't do. Mostly didn't, I guess."

She looked at him and tried not to cry. "For four months, Royce, I thought you were dead."

He sighed and looked at the floor. "Maybe that would have been for the best," he said.

"NO!" she cried out, and put a hand to his bearded cheek. "Royce, look at me! We've both made our mistakes, but God has given us a second chance! Don't you understand?"

"I understand that I spent many hours thinking of you while I was out on the ice," he said, taking her hand and putting it in his. "How I was stupid when I volunteered for the Arctic assignment without consulting you. I did it because of the money I'd make. I never dreamed you'd think for a minute I did it so I could get away from you."

"And I've been kicking myself ever since for the remarks I made the night before you left," Anne said. "Yeah, I wished you'd consulted me. I wished you'd realized I never cared for the money--I stayed home to make us a family, a real family. So I could always be there when you came home at night. You were afraid I'd miss my job, my position, and feel lost. The only time I felt lost, Royce, was when I thought I'd never see you again." She patted his hand, afraid to squeeze it for fear it would hurt him.

He sighed, and a flicker of hope crossed his face. "How far from home?" he asked.

"Not far," she said, turning on the ignition.