06/12/1917
He counts December 6th in seconds, now. In the first minute the sky is a usual pale grey, the air is mild, and a child shouts behind him, dashing by with a small dog, waves back and apologizes for bumping against him. He raises a hand and smiles, nodding. The second minute there is a heretic pushing past the boy, bewildering him, hollering about something on fire. They look towards his harbour, sparkling in the morning sun, and his eyes catch on the black speck of a ship, inching sideways towards his land, smoking. His breath catches. Minutes disappear and there are only seconds, there is light, blinding and enormous and everywhere, and a sound that rips apart his ears, thrown back into a building, falling, water crushing him, another second and a hole stabbed clear through his stomach and fire across his shoulder, another second and blood, red and warm and seeping over his hands, knees, another second and screams, piercing, voices in his head, “Stop trains. Munitions ship on fire. Approaching Pier Six.”
Halifax curls into a small ball under his blankets, hiding from the glass he knows isn't shattering at him and noises he knows aren't ear-destroying, presses his forehead against his knees, and chokes, his stomach burning, tasting saltwater.
“Goodbye.”
---
He wakes, slowly, as if dreaming, the very blinking of his eyelashes making his bones ache. The room slowly comes into focus, although anything past his bed frame starts wavering in his sight, like heat rising from hot rocks. He doesn’t make a sound, but the boy behind him seems to know instantly -- “He’s cahnscious,” says Boston, and Halifax can feel a hand on his forehead, moving his bangs from his eyes. There are faces in his view, suddenly, blurs of hair and concerned expressions. He attempts to smile for them, but his face contorts into a grimace when he breathes too quickly and his ribs crack around a hole in his stomach. The all seem to suck in a loud collective breath; one body sits itself down on the bed and runs a thumb along Halifax's cheekbone. He can feel calluses, and there's a pale smell of fish and ale on the palm -- blinking slowly, he mumbles, "Hey, M'kenzie."
"How y'do-- ho-- are'y---" the man is stumbling over his words, pausing as each sentence begins and then sounds too pathetic to continue. He sighs and cringes. He tries again, his words coming out as a near-whisper: "M'sarry I wasn' here sooner, Hal."
Halifax waves a hand dismissively, stifling a groan as a stab of pain flicks across his chest. Part of him is glad his province hadn't arrived more promptly, for Nova Scotia is prone to panicking about his cities and counties and towns. Generally he was a level-headed person, gentle and easygoing, when he was angry he was furious, and nothing made him madder than wrongdoings towards his people and land. Halifax can just imagine how the man would've reacted to the accident, had he been in the ashes of his city and watching as people screamed and were blinded, how Halifax himself had convulsed and bled.
The boy looks away from his brother as his eyes start to burn, tries to wipe at them, but finds his fingers mostly bandaged. He can feel someone pushing up on his torso, lift him gently, but his ribs feel as though they are shattering against each other and he gasps; quickly a body slides in behind him and lets him recline back. When the pain subsides he can feel legs and arms against his back and holding his hip. He glances up with one eye, grinning softly when he sees his best friend Boston looking down at him, orangey-brown hair falling around his very dirty face. A wet cloth follows, passed from New Brunswick, who he notices for just a moment, and his view is blocked.
"How're they doin'?" he asks softly, knowing only the boy behind him can hear. Pressure leaves the spot where Nova Scotia had been sitting, and the muffled voices of he and New Brunswick float from somewhere far away. He can feel a hand above the cloth, holding it in place, and Boston bends towards it, sighing.
"Nat good," he mumbles hesitantly, his voice drawling, and Halifax can hear him swallow heavily. ”Theah estimatin’ maybe… ah leas’ half the population’s gahd samsahta heavy inj’ries, ‘n… ovah a thousin’ dead, Hal, Ah’m so sorry.” The boy whispers the last bit quickly, folds over and presses his brow against the top of Halifax’s head. His hands clench, and Halifax chokes, grabbing his friend’s fingers blindly, his own shaking. The skin feels clammy and rough, strange, wrapped. He tries to push back the cloth on his eyes to see why, but Boston holds it forcefully, hiding. The city twines their fingers, and his feel too large, lumpy, nothing like Halifax has ever remembered them being, having often held hands when they were children, little British colonies.
“T’s frahsbite,” the boy behind him says, chuckling sadly, hesitantly, “Frahm when Ah… we weah diggin’ ouh the train.” He swallows again, thick and slow, his chin resting gently on Halifax’s hair. “Ah-we trahd to get heah as fas’ as- Ah wish ah had heahd soone’, Hal. Mah people all… we jus’ dropped everythin’ ‘n collected s’pplies an’ trahd to get heah as fas’ as we could, but… the… the snowstorm thing, Hal, we had ta dig the train ouh so many tahmes, an’ we didn’ hahve shovels or anythin’, so thay jus’… they threw theah suitcases empty, Hal, an’ they dug with’m.” He buries his eyes, his voice cracking, furious and proud. “An’ anyone who didn’ jus’ used theah hands.”
---
It's a challenge, remembering how he's supposed to wrap the yard to make the form he wants, especially when his heart keeps beating unsteadily, worried over memories. His dreams weren't kind to him this morning, though rarely they were, being today’s date. Irritated, Halifax leans on his knees and rubs his shoulder, the lumpy, scarred skin underneath a too-familiar tandem to his thoughts. He twirls a hideous little yard ball in his other hand and frowns, watching the early sunlight flash over its plasticky broken strands, wondering for the fifth time that morning if it's too bright a colour and if he's actually doing this right. He mentally kicks himself for never having written down the practice, only to remember that he had, once, long ago, and that it was likely burnt to pieces in the shattered and blackened remains of his old house.
The phone rings, suddenly, a little digital phone on the tea table - he has long since thrown out the old turn-dialer, the ringing from it having eerily reminded him of sirens and prompting him to avoid the very room it had sat in. He jumps, startled, and reaches for it. The voice on the other end is quiet, and mumbles, “Mornin’, Henry,” as if afraid Halifax will shatter at the sound. He chuckles softly, reclining in the cold leather of the sofa and replies, “S’up, M’kenzie?”
The voice on the other end pauses, uncertain. When the owner finally speaks it is hesitant, and Halifax can picture Nova Scotia standing awkwardly by his wall phone in a kilt and sweater, scratching the back of his morning hair. He snickers to himself at the image, then has to force himself to focus, as the man has started talking again.
“-jus’ thoughd’d be… okay d’call. Sarry it’s so early, bud Ah wasn’d sure when you’re leavin’…”
“S’alright, I was awake anyway.”
“Ah,” comes the response, “Well, Ah was… we’re havin’ the usual… doin’ the thing down a’ d’harbour. D’weather’s nod as bad as s’was last year, so som’ma d’… d’veterans’re comin’ out. Ah know yer nod gonna be there dis year, but…”
“There’s less ‘n less of’m every year,” Halifax says, running a hand through his hair. He can almost hear his brother nod on the other end of the line.
“People don’ live very lon’.”
“…s’pro’lly a good thing,” sighs the city, closing his eyes and leaning into the arm of the couch. There are only ever a few people he sees who lived through the accident, all in their nineties, now, and he’s sick of watching them flinch when they shoot off the cannon at the Citidel every day, sick of watching them hold back tears during the ceremony they hold every year, sick of reading countdowns in the paper to the last to die of age. Nova Scotia is silent.
“Just… I’m sorry, the tree was supposed d’be sent out days ago, we just god’all tied up, ‘n I don’ mean to… I can’t go through this this year,” he swallows, cringing, “I just don’t think I can do it, Joel.”
For a moment the man on the other line is silent, painfully so, and Halifax pulls his knees up to his chest, ashamed. He opens his mouth to start apologising, begging, when Nova Scotia finally speaks.
“You’re a brave kid, Hal,” he replies, the sound pale, “Say hi d’Dhomas fer me, awrite?”
“M-M’kenzie, I’m sorry, ‘m not tryin’- ‘m just tired’a-“
“Ah’m nod mad at’cha,” the man assures gently, and Halifax can almost hear him smiling, “S’been a long time since it happened, ‘n Ah don’ wand’cha to be worryin’ ‘boud it fer the rest’a yer life. If geddin’ away from home helps yeh fergive yerself, then s’fine wi’ me.” He pauses. “Ah’ll see’ya when y’ged back. Love yeh.”
Halifax sits in numb silence, trying to say something, but his lungs can’t seem to find the air to do so. He hears a soft click, and then a long dial tone. Swallowing thickly, he throws the phone on the couch and glances up at the clock.
6:43AM. His stomach aches, whether with hunger or something else he’s not entirely sure.
---
The first thing he becomes aware of is a heartbeat behind him, loud and gentle, and the second is how it speeds up suddenly, and how the arms and hands connected to it suddenly tense, clinging to him protectively, restrainedly. Halifax can feel his own heart begin to hammer, worried - he can’t take much more bad news, anything worse. He tries to reposition himself, open his eyes, but his bones tell him to stop by electrocuting him with pain, and a hand clamps down over his face, pushing on the now-cold cloth that covers them. He panics, clawing at the fingers above him, aware, as his hearing fades in, of the voices around him, harsh whispers and stifled yelling, clops of leather boots on wooden floor, an overshadow of the hum of movement and people in the rest of the room that has been so constant even through his sleep. Halifax pushes up against his captor, his feet slipping on the sheets below him and ribs screaming as he moves. He begins to cough, and a rough voice from his left furiously yells, “Let him up!”
The pressure on his eyes is relieved instantly, but the grip on his shoulders remains, albeit gentler. Halifax snatches the cloth and throws it angrily. The action is near pointless, however, as he only screws up his eyes and presses them against the person behind him, writhing the in the pain of his movement. He can hear a worried voice above him calling his name, shaking, apologizing. All around him people are talking, English and French, banter that makes his head spin. A pair of hands lift him, turn his body back towards the air, their grip tight, pinching. One reaches to the side of his face, cupping his cheek, and a voice calls his name, tells him to relax. “Easy, Hal, easy, jus’ breathe, breathe, calm down, s’alride, s’me, s’Joel.”
The accent soothes him, so familiar he can feel it echoing in his blood, and he gasps, forces himself to swallow air slowly. A warm hand strokes his hair, coaxing him. He squints up into the room, panting and cringing, the musty wood ceiling so far above him blocked by Boston's eyes, watered and worried, flashing back and forth between him and Nova Scotia. The latter doesn't look away from Halifax's eyes as he answers Boston's flustered comments, distracted by something Halifax can't see.
“Is she... Nahva, should she be heah?”
“They ran oudda room 'cross d'harbour. We'd nowhere else t'put'er.”
“But so close ta Ha-- so close? Naht ev’n across th’roim or somethin'?”
“This's it, Dhomas,” the reply is patient, but Nova Scotia's voice wavers, “E'erywhere else's full.”
Curiousity gnaws at him and Halifax tries to sit up, but with a single hand Nova Scotia keeps him down, finally looking away. Irritated, Halifax watches his brother's expressions, instead; his heartbeat becomes unsteady as he watches the usually calm and smiling face go from serious concentration to lip-biting and furrowed brows. There are noises from his left, quiet moans and hurried conversation, shuffling. Someone curses, and Nova Scotia's green eyes flicker. For a moment Halifax can almost see them watering, but before he can assure it his brother stands, his face pulled into an agonized expression, and snaps a quick, “Don' ledd'm see,” before striding out of view.
Halifax can feel the hair on his arms stand up. He fights to see past Boston, who has shifted to sit in front of him and is peering over his shoulder, cringing. There's a pained noise from behind his friend, and it sounds frighteningly familiar. Halifax pushes himself up on one arm, panicked, and Boston turns back to him quickly, throwing both hands onto his shoulder, pushing him back down. His lip is quavering, his eyes afraid, and his hands are clumsy, slipping on the cotton sheets. Halifax pushes himself away, his limbs shaking with the effort, and coughs blood as he backs up against the wall. His eyes widen as he spots the group of people Boston had be hiding from him, the circle of women in stained white clothes, Nova Scotia with his hand clenched in New Brunswick’s, all eyes trained on a thin girl in a makeshift bed, all hands moving, blood all around her head and clumping in her brown hair. Halifax can feel his own blood run cold under his skin.
“Da... Dar'm...” it hurts to speak, he finds, gasping to force air past his shattered ribs. Boston crawls onto the bed and tries to pull Halifax's face back to him, calling his name, but the sound seems distant to his ears. Nova Scotia's head snaps up, horrified, as Halifax begins to scream.
“Dar'mith! D-Di! Diana! Diana!” His sister does not even twitch, although every other person does; Halifax is soon overtaken and his view blocked by a flash of orange hair and then sheets, wrapped about his eyes and pressed into Nova Scotia's chest. He pushes back, trembling, fighting to call out to his sister city again, his baby sister from the other side of the harbour, but his lungs have refused him, putting all their motion into hacking fluid out. He grabs the fabric in front of him to hold himself up, watches ugly, clumped blood race down them as he coughs. The world seems oddly calm past his bed, where nurses continue their practice and pay no heed to his convulsions, although, he realizes sadly, they have likely heard much of this in the past few days. Around him Nova Scotia's arms are broad and warm, restraining, and it scares him, but he can no longer beat against them, for his limbs all shake and it's all he can do to breathe. The arms pull him almost sideways, gently loop around the tops of his legs, and rock, subtly, as the man attached to them mutters to Halifax, his voice breaking.
“Hal, s'okay, s'okay, she's jus'... yer worse off'n s-she is, Hal, jus' calm down, please, s'okay...”
But funnily, Halifax finds, before the lack of air cuts off his senses, he is more conscious of Boston crying by his feet, his hands clenched in his hair and whispering, “Stupid fackin' idea, stupid fackin' idea.”
---
He is always surprised how many different people come to help on this yearly excursion. There are citizens from all over the province, as far away as Truro and the highlands of Cape Breton, and even one small girl in a massive orange jacket, who smiles at him past her friend’s shoulder, speaking in soft Brunswicker French. Halifax leans against the massive wheel of the transport truck, snow crunching under his boots, and takes in the scenery, notes the sizes and movements and expressions of the group, feels his heart fluttering gently at each one. A burly man comes to stand by him, chainsaw resting on a shoulder casually, scratchy-looking black moustache dotted with snowflakes. The man smiles, scratches his neck, and asks if Halifax knows when they’re going to get moving, for the kids are getting restless. Halifax follows the man’s gaze to a group of schoolchildren, blurred by the puffs of warm air they breathe out, a mass of puffy jackets and little Nova Scotian flags. They shuffle among each other like a flock of penguins, giggling and looking towards the truck expectantly.
There is a shout, and all eyes turn; a short woman begins barking instructions, telling bodies where to go and what to do, her cheeks a vivid pink. Vehicles rev behind them, sputtering white smog into the cold air, and they crawl up the little hill near an old farmhouse, their target swaying high above them, taunting and inviting them with snow-covered branches. The loud scream of a chainsaw echoes across the clearing.
Halifax tromps a ways, waiting until the rest of the masses have faded towards the hill before shuffling up and taking the hands of an older woman, the donator. The lady stares at him curiously, her face near buried in the folds of her scarf, squinting as though there is something difficult to see about him. He smiles gently and thanks her earnestly, aiming to kiss her mitten; they both chuckle as he flicks the cotton from his tongue, cringing at the feel.
“It’s a good thing you’re doin’,” she says, and her smile is solid as she squeezes his hands.
---
He’s not sure what day it is when he wakes again, and the fact frightens him a little. There’s a hand holding his fingers and legs sprawled horizontally over his knees, pinching the blankets and taking up bed space. The boy to whom they belong is staring out at the room, his head resting against the wall and eyes tired, blinking slowly. Halifax takes a moment to contemplate whether or not he feels like moving, though when his spine makes a sick gurgling noise the decision is solid. He squeezes Boston’s hand, instead, just gently, as the movement stings the tendons in his arm, but enough that the boy feels it and turns to look, his head springing off the wall.
"Yah'r awaike," his friend sighs, relief and colour flooding into his face. He begins to move forward, but then seems to think better of it and instead reclines back against the wall, slouching. “Sarry, Hal,” he smiles wryly, closing his eyes, "Ah've bayn up since... fah a whaile."
Halifax can feel his heart swelling, growing parallel to Boston’s enormous but quiet yawn. He keeps a tight, thankful grip on his friend’s hand and slowly turns his neck to take in a view of the room, wincing. His bed is farthest to the right; the open barn-like doors of the building look very small from his spot. There are beds packed around the room, some standard hospital-type and others makeshift, bits of clothing packed on great wooden boxes, the contents of which are piled on the floor aside it. There is not a single one empty, and indeed most of the floor has been taken over as well by bandaged bodies, some coughing, all wrapped in thick black winter coats but looking awfully cold. A few people remain standing, stroking the cheeks of their loved ones and crying over those not present. Their sobs are quiet, but Halifax can feel them echoing and ripping through his own heart - these are his people.
“How long was I out?” he asks quietly, eyes still locked sadly on a huddle of mourning persons. One tucks their head against folded hands and begins to pray; Halifax focuses on Boston’s hand, still cold, and the faint heartbeat under the wrappings to distract him from threatening tears. Boston’s head lolls towards his chest and he starts awake, rubbing his eyes furiously with his free palm.
“Ah day ah so?” he yawns, the need for sleep taking an obvious toll on him, “This tahm, 'n'yway.”
“This’dime?”
“Mmm.” Halifax turns to looking at the room again, sorry for keeping his friend awake. His eyes swim as he takes a real look at the person in the bed next to him, a frail mass of black jacket and white bandages. His voice catches and turns into a whimper as he tries to ask, “Is’sat Dartmouth?”
Boston nods gently, then his eyebrows screw up, annoyed. He taps Halifax’s knee and says forcefully, “If ya gah makin’ a fuss ovah hah again, Ah’m gahnna punch ya out."
“But she--?”
“Sha's alrah', Hahl. Ya gah' the wois' a' the damahge. Althah...” the boy opens one eye and bites the inside of his cheek, hesitating. He stares at the sheets to finish, "Shah'll prahly be blahnd 'n one aye."
Halifax curses, and his friend whacks his leg sympathetically.
---
He inhales deeply and scrubs his eyes exhaustedly when the truck finally slows to a stop and he jumps from the high seat, his feet crunching happily on snow. His chest is tight, constricting, and it irritates him that he cannot shed his aching ribs like the coat on his back. He watches, his hand still tight on the door handle, as the driver of the truck and the people in associated cars park like a scattered barrier around the truck's massive cargo, filing out in various states of business. Halifax decides simply to breathe, proud of his having not looked at the radio clock for the whole drive - although his heart and mind knew when the numbers hit 9:04AM. The shift in time zones regardless, they knew.
“Hal!” he hears, moments before he's enveloped in the embrace of a puffy coat and wall of reddish-brown hair. He chuckles despite himself, leaning into his friend's shoulder. Boston's eyes are sparkling when he pulls away, his grin stretching across his whole face, and we begins bombarding Halifax with questions; “How was th'roide? D'ja bring m'ny a thahs dahnit hall things Ah laike? How've ya baen? D'ja geh 'ny sleep?” He pulls on the smaller city's eyelids at the last, frowning. Halifax pushes him away, nodding, then stands up on his tiptoes to reach into the cabin of the truck and fish out a little box of Timbits, which he throws at his friend. Boston grins, whoops, and tears into the box.
Halifax turns and watches as his people menuver themselves, deciding where- and howabouts to lift the enormous gift safely. He crosses his arms, bothered. Boston shuffles up beside him, nudging him with his elbow, his hands preoccupied with transporting the doughy treats from the little yellow box to his mouth, and watches the people around them.
“Cad j've got a beggah tree?” he asks casually, and Halifax can feel his blood run cold. He glances at Boston, who looks quite unperturbed, his attention focused elsewhere, then at the ground, his throat tight. His fingers tighten on his jacket as he worries, a little insulted and very much hurt. He tries to speak, to apologise, but only squeaks come out; Boston does a double take at the sound, finally looking away from the truck, and stops in mid-chew.
“Wh-whoa, whoa, whoa!” he holds up both hands, alarmed, then flails to catch the Timbits box. “Nah, Ah didn-- Ah mhant-- Ah's kiddin',” he finishes pathetically, his blue eyes wide. Halifax avoids them, keeping his eyes on the snow, and swallows thickly. Groaning, Boston pushes the treat box into one of Halifax's hands and takes the other, mumbling, “It woise a jauke, y'know, Ah men'd... Ah's troi'n d'say it was o'erly... 'm shoire it'll... thanks, Hal.”
Halifax sighs uneasily, squeezing his friend's hand as they wander towards the back of the truck, knowing he means no ill will. Boston stuffs his free hand in his pocket and looks at the massive tree curiously, his attention not totally absorbed, as he keeps glancing at his companion. He suddenly freezes, his lips pouting outwards and eyebrows creasing. He releases Halifax's hand and pads up to the truck bed, standing on his tiptoes to poke at something in the branches. Halifax follows his his gaze and can feel his face grow warm.
“S'this?” the boy grunts, trying to reach a little ball of coloured yarn. He glances at the massive wheel below him and crawls up on it, throwing one hand under the tree to hold himself up. Now at a comfortable height, he cradles the little object gently.
“Sahm’n poid’n ahrnamahnt in the tree!” Boston turns to grin at his friend, turning and hanging precariously so Halifax can see. “S’loike those’ns y’toite me t’make all-“
“It's... tha'was me.” Halifax mumbles, swinging the Timbits box from one hand. The other boy’s smile fades for a moment, and he looks back at the little boiled yarn ball as if thinking. He releases it and hooks both hands into the truck bed, rocking on the wheel and watching it spin back and forth, and his smile seems to flood back into his face with each move. Suddenly he lets go, and turns as he tips, jumping from the huge wheel and tackling his friend. Halifax yelps, surprised, as they fall backwards into the snow, and his ears are filled with Boston’s laughter as it explodes around them.
---
Boston beams the first time Halifax sits up properly, albeit slowly. With his friend persistently coaxing him he pushes himself against a wall of pillows and clothes (he doesn't ask where they've come from, but mostly because he doesn't want to know). His guts tremble unhappily but he forces himself to move; he's come to realize, though the long days and nights since the accident, where only his body sleeps because his mind cannot rest, plagued by thousands of sobbing voices, that he must push himself to heal. His head spins mildly, and he pauses mid-shift to breathe, let it calm. He has only just made himself as comfortable as possible when he spots a mass of bodies flooding through the far away entrance and weaving through the nurses and patients, all black coats with dots of different-coloured hair. The smallest of the group pauses to look around, searching, while the rest move instantly towards Halifax's bed, but she - for surely it is a she, and Halifax smiles wryly as he recognises the bright orange hair of his aunt -- soon follows, passing the group quickly as she dashes to Halifax's side.
“Swee'dart! How're you feelin'?” the short woman demands, whipping out a pale hand to feel his forehead. “Ah heard the blast all d'way in Charlottetown, honey, 'n things were shakin' all o'er the place, dishes 'n windows 'n all that...” she frowns, her hand slipping down to Halifax's cheek, and continues, “Yer'roit pale, sweetie, han't anyone been feeding you?” He spots Boston grinning bemusedly out of the corner of his eye as Prince Edward Island turns, her hand still latched to Halifax's face, to look at Nova Scotia, another of the group that had come to visit, and chides, “Ye'aven't bothered d'feed'm anythin', Joel, for the lov'va god, it's a good thing I brought food, 'tis been what, days? Hal, honey, ah made'ja up some red potado soup, nice'n easy t'swallow, awrite?”
Behind her, Nova Scotia is stoic, his fingers latched into the sides of an enormous pot. Halifax is startled to see heavy bruise-like circles under his eyes, the dead glance at his city before he pushes past PEI and clears off a crate to drop the pot onto. He stares off at the brick wall, reaching to the thick glass window and picking at a mound of ice, unconcerned as his sister continues rambling. New Brunswick, the third of their pack, watches him, her lips pursed.
“The city’s been a right liddle mess, there,” PEI sighs, brushing at Halifax’s wavy bangs, “But don’cha worry, we’re gonna gett’r right fixed up soon as this snow stops. Help’s been comin’ in from all o’er the place, far as Austral’a ‘n China ‘n down in sou’ren America. Brit’n’s sent a whole chunck’a money o’er, but the supplies’ve been all from New England. Good’on yah, hon,” she adds, smiling at Boston, who raises a hand and nods shyly. She pauses a second, then turns to her brother. “Joel, y’heard from On’dario ad’all?”
Nova Scotia shakes his head stiffly, and a piece of ice snaps in his fingers, flicking past his head. PEI frowns and continues, “Well’m sure he’s on th’way; e’eryone else’s been workin’ m’selves into a flurry o’er you, Hal. Ah worried m’self sick when Ah found out what’d happened, ‘n Ah called Joel right up, ‘cause y’know we’ve got those fancy telaphone things since Caber-”
“How’s the… death count?” Halifax interrupts quietly, feeling tiredness creeping up on him and anxious to know. PEI stops, her mouth working slightly but without sound, then drops her eyes to the mattress. Halifax glances at Boston, who seems to be fascinated with something across the room (or otherwise asleep, for his breathing is awfully slow and his face is turned away), and then at New Brunswick, who just stares at him sadly. Nova Scotia finally speaks up, his voice rough and worn.
“Almost two t’ousand.” Halifax can feel his throat catch, and closes his eyes painfully as the man continues, hissing, “O’er nine thousand injured, hundreds ah’m blinded. Ah’m damn glad y’can’t see oud’side’a here, Hal, ‘cause there’s nod’n left o’da city. S’just miles’a black wrecks’a wood. ‘N we can’t go’n fix anythin’ because the goddamn snowstorm hasn’t finished it’s wreck’a hell yet!” The whole group cringes as Nova Scotia punches at the window, clinking disapprovingly but staying whole due to the thick layer of ice outside it. PEI raises a finger as if to speak, but New Brunswick lays a hand on her shoulder to stop it. Even the air seems to stand still.
In the stretching silence Halifax can feel Boston nudging his knee, and he turns to see the city’s finger pointing towards the bed beside them - the girl it holds shifts slowing to look at them with one eye, the other wrapped tightly in blood-stained gauze. She smiles tiredly upon spotting her brother, breathing slowly, and Halifax can feel his eyes water, relieved. He makes to call to her, but the provinces notice her awareness and all attention turns; New Brunswick frets over the city while PEI coos and Nova Scotia stands still, his hands clenched. With Dartmouth blocked from his view, Halifax turns back to watching his brother, who is breathing shallowly and glancing from one bed to the other, his eyebrows knotted.
“S’all th’fauld’a the Germ’ns!” Nova Scotia shouts suddenly, and pushes past the startled group to pace, “M’people’ve been sayin’ thad, ‘n fer the lov’va God, I believe’m! We’d never’ve had this… problem in’a first place if it weren’t fer’m! S’nod my ships tha-this shouldn’ve happened, Bonnie! The go’damned war’s nod mah fauld’n id’s not yers ‘n ah dun’even know why we’re in’nit in th’firsd place!” Halifax can see Boston twitching hesitantly as the people around begin to slow, listening.
“Ah’d half a mind d’jus’ take all m’boys oudda friggin’ Europe ‘n bring’m home, but we’re jus’ too go’damn loyal, ‘n id’d jus’ bring d’fight back here, wouldn’it?” his voice is becoming pitchy and ever louder; “Nod that that really madders, now, does it? Th’friggin’ basdards brought this go’damn war d’my shores, t’Halifax, ‘n there’s nothin’ sayin’ thad every friggin’ German livin’ here isn’t helpin’m oud! Ah’ll arrest th’ go’damned bastdards ‘n have’m hanged for all they broug-“
They hardly see the slap that attacks Nova Scotia's face, the hand whipping up from New Brunswick’s side and making a harsh arc to his cheek. His neck turns with the movement, the sound echoing even in the noise of the room. But just as quickly, New Brunswick slips her fingers up into his hair and pulls his face into her collarbone, whispering in quick Acadian. Their faces are turned away from the bed, and Halifax's head swims as he tries to understand what she's saying -- he never did quite get the hang of French, and he picks out only a few words; something about Germans and ships and he hears his own name quite a few times. Nova Scotia's hands have come up to grip her wrists, his shoulders shaking as he presses his eyes against her neck, and he begins murmuring back to her in the same clumsy language, his words low and shuddering. Halifax is startled, having no recollection of his brother ever speaking Acadian in his presence. He almost laughs at how strange it sounds; how his voice, laden with something of a Scottish accent, slips over the slurred words.
Halifax glances at the room behind the two provinces, at the blurred shapes of people who rush around with handfuls of steel objects and carts of bandages and makeshift slings carrying bodies. His stomach twists and he turns his eyes away, finds Nova Scotia staring at him, his fingers still tight on New Brunswick’s. In a quick movement the province marches over to him, his strides heavy and purposeful, his face contorted in some form of pain, kisses Halifax quickly on the forehead, and then turns on his heel and near runs outside. Halifax lets his head lull to the side, sleep wafting over him, and foggily wonders about the blood-coloured cloth he had seen under the shirt of his brother.
---
He waits silently on the faded old couch, running his fingers over the pleats in the cloth, printed with hideous cream-coloured flowers. Boston had always been a bit of a pack rat, refusing to throw anything out unless it was completely useless, and as far as he was concerned the dated furniture was perfectly fine. Granted, the ugly couch was comforting, familiar. It had been here every time he had come to visit, and always clear of clutter, the perfect size and length to use as a bed when he slept over. And it smelled good, like the rest of the house only stronger, closer. Halifax can feel himself slouching, his fingers stinging from the friction where he keeps rubbing the lines in the cushion, his eyes warm from staring out the window, unblinking. Snow flutters outside, each flake catching his attention like a single memory.
He can hear Boston stumbling down the stairs even before the boy says anything. His friend smiles at him from behind a wall of folded blankets, then launches them from his arms and onto Halifax’s head. They smell faintly of wood, mould. The couch sinks as Boston jumps into it.
“Ya shoa ya wanna stay ovahnigh'? Ah main, no' thah ya could ge' home very quickly nahw, but ya usually bring the tree ahleah an' Ah thaht mebbe ya'd wanna be home foi... ahhh... t'dahy."
“Won’ really madder where I am, Tom,” he replies casually, flicking out a familiar green comforter and pulling it up over his shoulders. “Your house is friggin’ cold, y’know that?” Boston frowns, staring at him, then reaches around his arms and pulls Halifax against him, pinning him in the wrap of the blanket. In the same movement he leans back, relaxing against the arm of the couch, shuffling until he’s comfortable. His arms are effectively trapped, but thankfully warmer; sighing exasperatedly, Halifax thunks the side of his head against his friend’s chest. Boston laughs.
They lie silently for a few minutes, and the clock on the wall ticks gently like the conductor of the symphony of falling snow outside the window. The heartbeat beside him thunks irregularly along with it, clumsy, but Halifax is grateful for it, because it does not match the steadiness of the countdown and the unrelenting fall of white. He closes his eyes to it, listening. Boston mumbles quietly to him, hesitant.
“Ya goinna be ahble d'sleep?”
“Pro'lly not,” he whispers back, shy, ashamed that after ninety-three years he still can't spend this December night by himself. His face grows warm, embarrassed, and he presses it against Boston's sweater so the boy won't see.
“Ah'm stayin' heah, thayn.”
Halifax's heart beats painfully against his chest, and he smiles, cringing. First to arrive, last to leave.
------------
- During WWI, Halifax was a major international port, a shipment and receiving point for war supplies, hospital ships, troops, convoys, and munitions between Europe and North America. All neutral ships bound for North America had to report to Halifax. Halifax has one of the world’s biggest natural harbours, but it has a flaw - there is a narrow passage where today’s A. Murray MacKay bridge stands (affectionately called “The New Bridge”, built in 1970).
Two ships, the Belgian Imo and French Mont Blanc, were both trying to pass through it at the same time. The stupid thing is that despite the name, there is plenty of room in the narrows for two ships to pass each other -- the captains of the Imo and Mont Blanc essentially played Chicken that December day. Both blew whistles over and over to tell each other that they weren’t altering their course and the other should. At the last second, the French captain, Le Medec, decided it might be a good idea to get the hell out of the way, and moved towards the centre of the channel. Unfortunately the captain of the Imo decided to throw his ship in reverse, and it altered her course as well… right back into the centre of the channel and again on a collision course with the Mont Blanc.
At about 8:45AM, they collided. The Imo’s prow hit the Mont Blanc’s starboard side, generating sparks, and then pulled away, generating more sparks, and the act set the Mont Blanc on fire. The crew fled to Dartmouth. While firefighters both in boats and on land tried their best to put out the flames, their efforts were essentially useless - the Mon Blanc drifted towards shore, where people were crowding to watch, and eventually exploded.
- “S’all th’fauld’a the Germ’ns!” -- During the reconstruction of the city there many greiving peoples began blaming the Germans, who had started the war that brought the Imo and Mont Blanc into Halifax's harbour, for the explosion. Innocent German citizens of Halifax were thrown in jail and harassed for months.
- “Stop trains. Munitions ship on fire. Approaching Pier Six. Goodbye.” - Vincent Coleman was a fourty-five-year-old train dispatcher working at the Richmond train station during the Halifax Explosion. When he got word of the explosive cargo on the flaming SS Mont Blanc, he and his colleagues made to run for it, but he turned back to the dispatching office and sent a telegraph to all trains inbound for Halifax, warning them to stop. Luckily they did; the closest was a train from Saint John, New Brunswick, a mere 6.4 kilometres (4 miles) from the downtown station (especially considering everything within a 2 kilometre (1.2 mile) radius of the harbour was completely decimated). He was instantly killed in the explosion, but his sacrifice saved hundreds of lives. His telegraph key, watch, and pen are on display at Halifax’s Maritime Museaum of the Atlantic.
- Halifax is primarily an English-speaking city. While other parts of Nova Scotia had been settled by the French and became Acadian, the Halifax harbour was settled by the English. It is said that the French crew of the Mont Blanc tried to tell Haligonians to flee the area when they reached shore and booked it inland… but no one understood them.
- “Sha's alrah', Hahl. Ya gah' the wois' a' the damahge.” - Dartmouth is the sister city directly across the harbour from Halifax. Despite being a fair distance from the blast site Dartmouth did suffer heavy damage; windows shattered, buildings collapsed, and about 100 people died.
- “Help’s been comin’ in from all o’er the place, far as Austral’a ‘n China ‘n down in sou’ren America. Brit’n’s sent a whole chunck’a money o’er, but the supplies’ve been all from New England.” - Instant news of the explosion traveled over train telegraph lines, thanks to Vince Coleman, and local towns immediately reacted. The first help came from Truro, Nova Scotia, and soonafter Moncton, New Brunswick, but British naval officers coming into t he harbour also set up improvised first response hospitals on their ships. The first physical help from the United States came from Boston, and financial help came from as far as the southern states. Britain gave the most money, but huge sums came in from all over the world and the rest of Canada as well.
- “An’ anyone who didn’ jus’ used theah hands.” / “First to arrive, last to leave.” - The first help from America came from Boston on trains, laden with supplies and medical personnel, just one hour after the explosion. The action was delayed with heavy snowfall over and over, the tracks blocked by avalanches and ice. The doctors and nurses aboard, however, would not let that stop them, and emptied their suitcases to use as shovels. Many suffered frostbite and sickness and yet still worked tirelessly in makeshift hospitals to help the people of Halifax. Every year around Christmastime the province of Nova Scotia sends Boston a massive Christmas tree, wild and usually donated willingly. The act of finding and sending the perfect tree to Boston is so important to Bluenosers that people have “cried over it, argued about it, even penned song lyrics in its honour.”
- The Halifax Explosion is today considered the world’s second most devastating man-made explosion after the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. A mushroom cloud rose over two kilometres (1.2 miles) into the air and everything within everything within 2 kilometres (1.2 miles) of the blast site was completely destroyed. An 18 metre (60 foot) tsunami followed. Black carbon rain fell for ten minutes after the blast. The explosion caused lamps and furnaces to tip and spill, setting fires over the north end of Halifax. Windows as far as 16 kilometres (10 miles) away shattered; hundreds of people were blinded and killed by flying glass. A piece of the Mont Blanc’s anchor, which weighed 517 kilograms (1140 pounds) was thrown 3.7 kilometres (2.3 miles) into the Northwest Arm of Halifax, and a gun barrel flew over 5.5 kilometres (3.4 miles) into Dartmouth. A piece of wood was driven into the wall of St. Paul’s (creepy-ass) Church, where it remains today, and all the windows of the church were blown out save one, which shattered into the side-profile silhouette of a man.
1630 homes were destroyed, and 12000 were inhabitable. The day after the explosion, a blizzard dropped 40 centimetres (16 inches) of snow on the city - the largest blizzard in the decade -- and the cold lasted for another six or so days. People who hadn’t been found froze to death.
Overall, about 2000 people died, 1600 of them almost instantly. 9000 or so were injured, 6000 seriously. The explosion killed more Nova Scotians than World War I itself.