Date: Mon, 16 Jan 2017 10:20:37 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell: Canvas Hell 7

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell) for
warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is
against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if
you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to
Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

Karl looked at me with hope, fear and longing; my heart shattered. I
cradled this boy-man in my arms and began to weep, cuddling and soothing
both of our souls. Would he hate me? I didn't care. Would he blame me? I
didn't care. What would others think? I DIDN'T CARE! I rocked him until
sleep came, both his and mine. Repercussions, recrimination and regrets
were for the morning; now I took and gave what we both needed so badly.

***** Canvas Hell 7: What is a Man?  By Bear Pup

T/T/T; self-discovery; no sex; being a man; abuse and recovery; the
comradery of men

I awoke first, likely because most of my limbs were either screaming or
asleep. The world was in that pearlescent not-quite-light and soft silence
that precedes the birds starting the day in song. My heart simply stopped
beating when I realised that I was still cradling Karl. My right leg (the
asleep one) was hanging off the cot. The other, along with my left arm,
were pinned beneath Karl's curled form. At some point in the night I had
obviously tugged the flap of my sleeping bag over us.

Karl was by no means small, just shorter than me. His body was curled, not
in a foetal position but close, his lower legs straight across my thighs
and his head on my chest. His arms were held close and tight, and his right
hand was in the thumb-sucking position but the thumb was tucked into his
fist. A wave of, I dunno, affection? surely not love? washed over me. A
close friend had been unmercifully-teased when we were younger; a group of
older boys caught him in a moment of distraction with his thumb in his
mouth. He'd done the same thing from then forward -- any time his hand was
at rest, he made a conscious effort to ensure that his thumb was locked in
his fist.

I knew that there was no way this would end well. If Karl woke up in this
position, even though it was not by the choice of either of us to have
fallen asleep during the storm, he could never forgive himself or me. He
would wake humiliated about his panic during the storm itself. Add his
curled and cowering pose, plus having slept with (ON!) me all night
long. It would devastate him.

Ooookay. Option A: lift him like a child and put him in his own bunk like
my dad used to do with me? I couldn't even move my own limbs; like moving
*him* was going to work. Okay, Option B: wriggle myself out from under and
move him (or me) to his bunk? See previous objection. Option C: um, well, I
could, let's see, um...

Karl started to move a little and his breathing changed. I knew that I had
about ten seconds before this whole thing exploded. AHA! Option Z: I
lurched to the side, pitching the not-quite-asleep Karl onto the floor
between the cots.

BAM! Rattle, curse, slide, scramble, slide, BAM (head up into cot), new
curse word (I took note of that one for later use), slide, BAM (head again
into cot), "Whaddawhad? HUH?" scramble. Karl's head emerged and I rubbed
the pretend sleep from my eyes.

"Man! You just fell outta bed! Whaddya do that for?" Karl's eyes were wide
with shocked wakefulness as he stared at me. Various brain cells came
online slowly. First were legs, and he got up enough to fall back onto his
cot. 'FUCK! His cot is cold and he'll have to notice!' Luckily, the next
neurons in queue for launch were the boy's eternal standby, stuttering and
blushing.

"What! No! I, I, um, I tripp... I..." Next was another in teen's greatest
hits, confused blame and deflection, "WHAT DID YOU DO? I was asleep! Why
did you wake me like that?"

Having had many more brain-startup minutes on Karl, I was ready. "What are
you talking about? I was asleep until you shook the whole tent!"

I could see the lights coming on slowing in Karl-World. Inevitably, the
next most-horrifying thought was sexual. 'Did I have an erection and did
anyone see it?' The answers were half-assuring. 'Yes, duh, I always have a
fricking boner but no, Patrick couldn't see it with all the covers, right?
Right?'

Now fully conscious (or as much as a teen boy can be before noon), Karl
finally got his breathing under control and his body fell 'back' onto his
sleeping bag. I breathed sigh of relief.

"Okay. Okay. Okay. Um. What happened?"

"After the storm," I was indescribably careful with my tone and stress here
where I knew most of the landmines were waiting, "I fell asleep. You musta
got back in your cot funny and when you went to wake up, you fell." Hey!
Actually, that wasn't bad for extemporaneous desperation!

"Oh. Okay. Okay." Karl's brow furrowed deeply. "Storm. Right. A bad
storm. Big lightening, *really* loud." His eyes went wide and all I could
see were whites. "Did, um, di, did I, um, you know, say anything?"

I *thought* that I had this one in the bag, having planned the line since I
woke up. "I don't really know. I was yelling I was so scared. I might have,
you know, grabbed onto you?"

I could see that I'd blown it. His eyes narrowed; he knew better and
remembered more than I'd counted on. But I could also see Karl churning
through options. He inserted this into the range of humiliating and
emasculating scenarios and the total came up 'not bad.'

"Yeah, I remember us *both* yelling," his blush was now nearly as bad as
some of mine. "And, um, and I think I jumped up and when you grabbed
hold. I, um," a pleading look that wracked my soul accompanied the words,
"fell into your cot? And there was a Leader? Asking if ev, um, everything
was o, okay and you said yeah and then?" I just sat and nodded, "yeah,
then, then, the rain came up and you, yeah, you went to sleep and I got,
got into my cot. Yeah."

No matter how still I held my face (more likely because I held my face so
still), I could see Karl knew that I knew and was so deeply ashamed that he
wanted to die. I could not stand that look.

"Karl," my voice low and grateful, "thank you for being there. I was really
scared." After the looks of terror and panic last night, then the fear and
self-loathing on Karl's face this morning, I could not have cared less if
that made me into a pussy. I could not imagine letting Karl go on feeling
like that, no matter what I made myself sound like. It would have been more
than wrong; it would have been evil. "Let's hit the Hygiene Hut before the
crowds, okay?"

We grabbed our kit including fresh clothes and walked (slid and sloshed)
down the muddy ravine that had previously been our trail. We really DID get
a lot of rain last night. If we hadn't needed a shower before, we sure did
now!

We were the first ones in the HH. So early, in fact, that the water was
still ice cold. We therefore headed to the latrine part to take care of
those needs and brushed our teeth as we heard the pipes bang and pop and
the water came above frigid. It was merely screaming cold when we
showered. It felt like we set a speed-shower record. Much later, I'd come
to call that a Schtinkenshowe Shower. You wash what might stink (pits,
crack, crotch) and show (face, neck, hands, forearms) then run like hell
for the towels.

We got to the Mess Hall before any of the kids and lots of the leaders. The
Major, George and couple of other adults looked up from a planning session.

"Sorry, sir. We can come back. It's just so muddy we didn't want to go back
to the tent."

"No need, son, no need. George, get each of them a cup of nasty. If you men
wouldn't mind sitting over there while we wrap up, it would be appreciated,
though."

We sat as far as possible away and George really did bring us each a cup of
the vile sludge that, deep (DEEP) underneath, hid the nectar of the
gods. Caffeine. Chef was making a racket, apparently inventing new ways to
do unspeakable things to unsuspecting foodstuffs. We caught snatches of the
conversation as more adults and leaders trickled in. It looked like the
front that had pushed through last night was both more powerful and less
predictable than expected. The radio weathermen said it would push back
across us, or perhaps stall right over us. We had at least two days of ugly
in store. Karl and I stared at each other. Could this day GET worse?

As the tent filled up, a short and rather scrawny mud monster stumbled over
to the table with a tray. I just stared, but at least Karl had a *guess*,
"Jim?" Jim squelched onto the bench opposite us and just wilted. I watched
his hand fumble for a napkin; he used it to hold a piece of toast, but
moved no further. His head hung straight down. "Jim? What the hell
happened, buddy?"

Jim looked up and I could see that he'd been crying enough that rivulets of
tears had washed the mud from streaks of skin below his eyes. Every muscle
across Karl's back and arms tensed and his hands curled into fists. Between
clenched teeth, he hissed, "Who, Jim? And what did he do?"

Jim mumbled at his shoes and I reached across and tilted his head up
again. In a tiny voice, Jim said, "Them. Not he, them. They..." Jim froze
and seemed to shrink into himself. I looked over my shoulder at what had
turned my little friend into a statue. The two remaining Buggers had just
entered, Mikey and Bobby, laughing and smiling. Their hands and boots were
muddy, but nothing else. They spotted Jim and the look of predation they
gave our friend sent shards of ice through my heart. It was obvious why Jim
looked like he'd rolled around in mud and muck; that is just what the
Buggers had done to him.

Jim had gone from immobility to tremors, still unable to move his wide,
terrified eyes. I grabbed Karl's belt and held down hard as he tried to
jump out of his seat and confront the bullies. I thought Karl was going to
slug me, his eyes were red with rage and he was snorting like a bull. I had
never seen anyone (outside a movie) with that out-of-control rage. He
started to pry my hands away from the grip I had when I whispered. "Not
here, Karl. Not here. Not now." Knowing it was a low and unfair blow, I
continued, "Who is gonna protect Jim if you get sent home, Karl? Do you
really want to leave him to *them*? DO YOU?"

A flash of sanity entered Karl's eyes, but the smouldering murder still
lurked there, banked but not extinguished. His eyes went from me to Jim,
then tried to look again at The Buggers. I got up and kept myself blocking
his line of sight and started chivvying him toward the door. As I passed, I
snagged Jim's shoulder with the hand not locked in Karl's belt and dragged
him into our wake. A light drizzle had started. Considering Jim's
appearance, I herded both of them to the Hygiene Hut. The triangle had
begun to ring a strong and sustained racket, drawing everyone to the Mess
Hall for an all-camp meeting. I ignored it. The HH was empty when we got
there. I pushed the two of them in, then leant against the door, blocking
it.

Karl finally erupted. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING! Look what they did! Why did you
stop me? You SAW! They DID THIS! Them! Them! I will DESTORY them." I
watched Jim closely whilst Karl continued to rage and bellow, voice rising
and spittle flying with his fury. Jim had cowered against the wall when we
entered; as Karl's voice grew, Jim sunk, shaking and weeping silently to
the floor, eyes wide, dilated and fixed on Karl.

"Shut up, Karl," my voice calm, steady and low.

"SCREW THAT, PATR..."

"Shut up," I hissed, and made him look at Jim.  The boy was staring at Karl
like one would a monster from the worst possible dream. A demon made flesh
come to rend and rip. Karl moved to comfort him and Jim wailed, scrabbling
the boards in an attempt to crawl along the wall. I grabbed Karl and flung
him by the belt to the latrine side of the Hut, then crouched and moved
slowly, speaking low and soft.

"It's okay Jim. It's okay Jamie." Reverting to his safer and accustomed
childhood name seemed to help. "You're safe. No one will hurt you. No one
will yell anymore." I finally reached him and he recoiled from my touch.

With that same soft, nearly sing-song voice, I motioned to Karl, "Stay
behind me and go into the showers. Turn on the taps as hot as they go. It's
okay, Jamie. It's okay. Do it now, Karl." I never let my eyes leave Jim's,
but felt Karl move past me and I heard the water start. The concept of
'hot' at Camp Sin was laughable, but at last I could feel some warm
moisture. I coaxed Jim forward, making sure that Karl (his own eyes
horrified and ashamed) stayed in the corner where Jim was unlikely to see.

I gradually got Jim into the spray and started to rinse off the worst of
the sticky muck, thick with leaves and slimy mud. I could see a bruise was
forming on his left cheek. When most of the water was running clear from
his matted hair, I reached out gently to undo the top button on his shirt.

I recoiled and Karl yelped at the piercing wail of fear and horror that
erupted from Jim. He scrambled into the farthest corner of the room, a
petrified and cornered creature, wailing and panting. I heard the door
explode inward as two adults entered. The lead grabbed me and locked my
arms.

"What are you doing to this boy?"

Karl and I began babbling together, each trying not to yell and hurt Jim
even more. I don't know who said what: "N, nothing!  "Please!  "He's hurt!
"Help him!  "Jim!  "Don't touch him!  "They hurt...  "They did...  "Jamie!

George had hold of me and Dr Eaglas stood between Karl and Jim. The
Doctor's voice, a deep and irresistible rumble, silenced us. "Neither of
you hurt him?" We shook our heads. "You know who did?" We nodded. "Are you
his friends?" We nodded even more vigorously. "Then stay there and stay
still for me, okay, sons?"

He slowly and gently sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, facing Jim
and establishing eye contact. "You're Jamie Conner, right?"

Jim got quiet and nodded. "It's fine, Jamie. You're safe and no one can
hurt you here. Just listen to my voice. You know it's safe. You know it's
okay. I'm here to help. George is here to help. Your friends are here to
protect you and keep anyone else away from you." Jim's frantic breathing
slowed and some of the mindless terror faded from his eyes. Without
breaking eye contact, the doctor said over his shoulder, "George, turn off
the showers over our friend Jamie. Leave the other side on, please.

"I know you're hurt, Jamie. But none of us will hurt you any more in any
way. We won't do anything that you don't want us to. You are safe. Everyone
is safe. Can you point to what hurts worst?" Jim started to shake
uncontrollably, but one hand reached out and held his stomach and
ribs. "Where, else, son?" Jim's head fell forward and his crying resumed,
but his hand tentatively moved down to his crotch. Karl growled and I
gasped. We'd both thought they'd just tormented our friend and rolled him
in mud. Apparently, they'd done much worse.

"It's okay, son. It's all right. We're gonna stop it from hurting. I need
to know more, though. No one needs to know what happened but me and George,
but I don't want you to feel afraid and alone either. Do you want your
friends, um, Karl and, um..." I whispered, 'Patrick', "Patrick to leave
while we talk or do you feel safer with them here?"

The voice was a cowed rabbit, faint and stiff and quick, "Please! Make them
stay. Oh, please!"

"We are here to do whatever you need and want, Jamie." Doctor Eaglas turned
to us, "Can you handle, this, men? Your friend needs you, but if this is
too much, don't stay." I scowled at the doctor as if to dare him to try and
make me leave Jim alone, and I think Karl had a similarly-fierce expression
judging from the doctor's reaction. He turned back to Jim.

"I need to know who hurt you, son. I don't want you to be afraid
anymore. Jamie, no one outside this room will ever know what you do or
don't say and I think your friends already know." Both Karl and I started
to speak and George silenced us with a gesture. Apparently, this kind of
rescue was not new to either of the men. "Who hurt you, Jamie? Can you tell
me?"

In that same breathy voice, Jim replied, "Th, th, the, b'b'Buggers."

This time, the doctor had a genuinely bemused look when he turned to us;
George made sure we understood to stay silent, but both of us nodded to the
doctor.

"Do they have other names, Jamie? Do you know them?"

In a whisper, so faint as to be almost inaudible, "M'm'm..." Jim swallowed,
"Mikey and, and B'Bobby." The doctor and George shared a look. It was
abundantly clear that this was not unexpected news.

"When you say Mikey, son, you mean Mikey Reynolds? His first name is really
Muriel?" Jim's eyes still locked to the floor, he nodded. "And is Bobby
named Robert? Robert Marconi?" Jim made a sound that had to be, 'maybe,'
but was inaudible. "Okay, that's all I need for now. We have to clean you
up, Jamie. And we have to find out if you need to see the real Doc or if
George and I can get you fixed up. You understand me, Jamie?" Our friend
nodded miserably and in pain. Karl and I yearned to do anything to help,
but there was nothing to be done.

"Okay son, you're fine. I need to come over and help you get cleaned up. Is
it okay if I come over there?" Jim nodded again, but now brought his
anxious face up to stare in trepidation at the doctor. Slowly, with Jim
hawkishly watching every move, the doctor unfolded himself (replete with
popping and cracking reminiscent of the popcorn of the previous night) and
took a crouching step forward. Jim pulled back a bit and the doctor
stopped. "I'll wait here until you're ready Jamie. No one will hurt you, we
just want to help get the mud off and get your hurts fixed." When Jim
relaxed, the doctor eased forward. Each time the panic returned to his
eyes, the doctor froze again. In fits and starts, the doctor eventually
reached Jim, but didn't touch him.

"You're doing great, young man. You're being really brave and that's
great. Now reach out and take my hand. I am not going to grab you, but I
just want to help you over into that nice warm..." even the doctor couldn't
suppress the doubt in his voice, "um, warmer water. I won't do anything
until you reach out to me, okay, sport? You with me, young man?"

Jim reached out much less hesitantly than I expected and grabbed hold of
the man's hand, apparently quite strongly from the flinch in the doctor's
shoulders. "You're really strong, son. That's good. Let's move over here."

The doctor moved Jim over to the other wall where the showers were still
running. George heard a noise and turned to close a door we didn't even
know was there, blocking the shower area from the rest of the Hygiene Hut;
apparently, the meeting had broken and the facilities were needed. The
doctor helped guide the water over our friend, then touched Jim's
shoulder. When the boy didn't pull away, the doctor started to pet and
rinse Jim's hair and hands.

"George, some help, please. Now, Jamie, we have to get the clothes... shh,
shh! Son, it's okay. We have to get under the clothes to see how bad you're
hurt. Gentlemen," turning to Karl and me, "can you excuse us? We need..."

"NO!" Jim's voice was firm and, though laced with fear, quite
certain. "They STAY."

The doctor was taken aback but said nothing. Karl and I were rooted to the
spot, neither of us really breathing and both heartbroken at the sight of
Jim's torment and pain.

With plenty of murmured reassurances, George and Doctor Eaglas slowly and
gently eased Jim out of his shirt. The skin was encased in mud and muck;
Karl and I shared a look as we realised that Jim had been stripped when The
Buggers had muddied him. When the mud washed away, we could see the start
of a huge bruise on his belly; his ribs looked funny and he bend to that
side. George sucked in a hissed breath at the sight. They worked to rinse
off the worst.

Jim started to shaking when the doctor's hands began to unbutton his
jeans. With the care of a surgeon, George and the doctor peeled away the
flaps on Jim's pants and let the water run freely inside. A river of slimy
muck ran out the bottom of the legs as the water rinsed out the dirt. They
slowly pulled down the pants and even Karl and I could see that Jim had a
welter of bruises around his abused and swollen package. Karl choked and
turned away. I thought I'd be sick even as I heard Karl quietly sob.

"You're incredibly strong, son. They hurt you and you're still standing
here. You're a good man.

"George, head over to Doc's office and bring that bathrobe for Jamie..."

A whisper, "Jim."

"What's that, son?"

"Call me Jim. My real friends," his voice shook but was strong as he looked
from Karl to me, "call me Jim." For the first time, the doctor softened and
perhaps even smiled.

"...for Jim, here to wear. Let Major Bachgen know that everything is fine
and that I will talk to him in an hour or so, and ask Doc to meet us in my
own office because we have a man who needs his care. Then head to cabin,
um, four? yes, four and get Jim here a change of clothes, loose, please."
George was gone like a ghost.

"Jim, do you know how to sit like and Indian Warrior?" The sudden shift in
topic clearly brought Jim closer to his senses and further from his
suffering.

"An India Warrior, Jim, needs to be ready for anything, so he sits like
this." Doctor Eaglas moved himself so that he was on his toes, feet
touching, crouched with legs akimbo and elbows resting on his knees. "You
see how balanced that makes you. Try it, young man, go ahead and try it."

Jim couched and swayed a bit, but was suddenly in exactly the position the
doctor assumed, looking for all the world like a young brave missing only a
loincloth and war paint. He could have been the young Viscount Greystoke,
raised by apes, or perhaps Mowgli, the whip-chord and agile youth of
Kipling. Jim looked down and seemed to gain some sense of strength from the
balanced, centred and warrior-like pose.

The doctor knew a lot about boys and men. In a stroke, he'd gotten a tiny
shred of confidence back into Jim whilst positioning him perfectly to
provide access for the doctor to wash and closely examine parts that no boy
ever wanted exposed. His touch was firm but careful, that of a doctor or
parent, not a lover or molester. It was business-like and methodical, but
also thorough. He had Jim completely clean and rinsed in the minutes it
took George to return with a very fluffy, very James Bond masculine robe.

He also had a few towels. Karl and scowled at each other. All this time,
real, actual towels were within the walls of this place and we'd been
scrubbing and drying with worn napkins? All the best for Jim, we silently
agreed, but adults (as all boys knew) were nothing but a bunch of stinkers
for keeping the good stuff hidden!

George and the doctor made short shrift of drying Jim and getting him
robed. It was then that Karl and I realised we were wet as well. I was
soaked from the early attempt to help our friend, and Karl had been
splashed plentifully. The doctor was a sopping mess and George not much
better, but none of us really cared.

The low and constant chatter ubiquitous around boys stopped suddenly when
we emerged. Perhaps a dozen boys were in this part of the Hut, some
obviously awaiting the showers, all now staring widely at Jim, Karl and
me. Jim froze and started to shake, but George calmly refastened the
previously-unknown door turning it back into part of the wall and said,
"Nothing to see here, boys. This young man just mauled a bear. We're
working to revive the bear but it should be fine after a nice rest. Nothing
to see here." Several boys laughed and others goggled, but Jim lost his
shaking and blushed shyly as the five of us exited the Hygiene Hut.

Three offices, one for George, one for Doctor Eaglas and one for "The Doc"
formed the far side of the Hygiene Hut. We went around the corner, noticing
that someone had laid down pallets to create a sort of impromptu
boardwalk. Doctor Eaglas hustled us into a nice, rustic room well-lit from
windows running the length, high just under the eaves. A desk, a small
table with chairs, a couch and two armchairs completed the furnishings,
along with shelves attached to the wall with innumerable books. My quick
glance saw a lot of textbooks and such, but also the distinctive spines of
Hardy Boys mysteries and a number of paperbacks. Needless to say, the four
Tolkien tomes were instantly recognised by both Karl and I.

Doctor Eaglas settled Jim on one end of the couch and us at the table. He
sat in a stuffed chair next to Jim. "Over the next few days, Jim, we're
going to talk a lot just to make sure you're fine. You are one tough and
strong young man, but everyone needs to talk about it when bad things
happen. Just like soldiers at war, we need to make sure you understand that
you are going to be okay.

"Now, you might not remember, but Major Bachgen introduced me the first
night. What he said about me was right. NO ONE will ever know what you say
to me unless you tell them. I don't tell the Major. I don't tell George. I
don't tell other campers, councillors or the police* or even your
parents. What you say never leaves this room. You understand me, right?"
Jim nodded.

[*AUTHOR'S NOTE: A decade later, failure to report something like what
happened to my friend Jim would be vilified as a cover-up; a decade after
that, it would be a felony. At the time, and to my own mind in retrospect,
every adult at Camp Sinnemahoning wanted one and only one thing -- to help
Jim and do what was best for him then and in future. Were they right back
then and wrong now? I don't know. I do know that Jim grew into a really
amazing and caring man.]

A knock sounded at the door. The short, stuffy man that the Major had
introduced as The Doc coughed politely and came in. He was stocky and
almost prissy. The best way to describe the man I met as The Doc at Camp
Sin is an image from much later in my life; he was a scruffy version of
Hercule Poirot as played decades later by David Suchet. He spoke with an
appropriately-stiff and high-pitched voice.

"I am Doctor Akatadexia. My first name is Epilektikoi which is no
better. Now you know why everyone calls me The Doc. You can do that to. You
are Jamie..."

"He's Jim, now, Doc," there was a twinkle in Doctor Eaglas' eye as he said
it.

"Of course. You are Jim Conner. You have been injured. I can see bruising
already upon your face and George tells me you otherwise may be injured. We
will go now next door to my exam room."

Jim's eyes flew wide and he looked for me and Karl in panic. The Doc was
smooth if a bit snippy.

"No, we must be alone. You are to be examined medically. You have done
sports, no? You would not want your friends with you for such an exam?" Jim
blushed and shuddered at the thought. "We may have to be even more thorough
since I am to believe that you may have been injured in very sensitive
places." Jim's blush moved towards purple. "You will excuse us gentlemen. I
will return with your friend and our patient shortly." He collected Jim in
his wake and swept out the door and into the drizzle.

Doctor Eaglas turned to us. He simply stared as we both got more and more
uncomfortable. We knew that a dressing-down was coming, just not how bad it
would be. Finally, he broke the silence. "Men, you did really good today."
Karl and I looked at each other, shocked. We both felt we had deeply failed
our friend. We didn't protect him in the first place and when we tried to
help, Karl terrified him and I made him scream. The doctor could see the
reasoning.

"No, you did. I saw some of what happened in the Mess Hall. You, Mr
Kennedy, stopped one friend from getting in more trouble and got Jim out of
harm's way quickly and effectively. You, Mr Mueller, were about to go to
town on a couple of bullies that hurt Jim. Don't think that he won't
remember that. There is very little as important to any man than to know
other men care for him and have his back." Doctor Eaglas nodded.

"Yes, you both did good and acted like friends, and frankly as men far in
excess of your years. Sadly, no one but the three of us and Jim will know
about it all. I wasn't kidding that nothing that happens in this office
leaves it. Now, I can't force you to do what I say when you leave, but I
think you know what it would do to Jim if what happened to him became the
thing to define him. You understand me?"

We both nodded. I cleared my throat and spoke for the first time in what
felt like days. "Jim is a good kid, um, man. He'll bounce back. He
will. And we'll help." Karl just nodded. I could see tears drip from his
down-pointed nose.

"Okay then. I think Mr Mueller needs a few minutes, so I'll start with you
Patrick." He obviously saw the alarm in my eyes. "What? You think that Jim
is the only one who needs to talk about this? The only one hurt? No. Each
of you was hurt by what those two did! To help Jim, both of you need to
talk. Both of you need to release the pain. Let it out so it can heal. You
man enough to handle that?"

Okay, cheap taunt to poke a 17-year-old's masculinity, but it worked. I
felt steel in my spine and my voice was suddenly stronger. "Yes sir."

"Alright then, Karl. I'd like you to sit on the bench outside. It won't be
long." Karl shuffled out like a man off to the gallows and I turned back to
the doctor. "Come over here and relax a minute. Let's just chat."

I moved to the other overstuffed chair, opposite from the doctor. He asked
a few questions and suddenly I really was chatting, happy to be talking to
someone, anyone. With a deft hand that amazes me to this day, he worked me
round to what had happened this morning, then back to the first time that
Karl and I had "met" Jim, that first attack of The Buggers. He didn't make
notes and his voice was always warm, neutral, interested, friendly. It just
all flowed out. Tissues were involved to a great extent as more than words
flowed from me. After fifteen minutes or so, I felt like a balloon of evil
inside me where I'd kept the horror was slowly drained (or nearly so; there
were pocket of my own shame and fear that were left untouched).

"You're a good friend, young man, to both of them. Blow your nose and ask
Karl to come in, and we'll be done by the time Jim finishes with The Doc."

I found the waiting so much worse than the talking. I second-guessed every
word I said and I fretted over every one I didn't. I worried about whether
I'd hurt Jim or Karl. I worried about what I'd felt for and about each of
them. How I'd treated them. How I'd acted or failed to act. How I felt
about Karl. What I felt about Karl. How I got breathless around Karl. How I
thought and thought about Karl. Felt, Karl. Thought, Karl. Felt, Karl.

I had gotten into a loop and nearly crapped myself when the door opened to
my right and Jim came out, dressed in fresh clothes complete with
waterproof windbreaker, with The Doc. Jim was steady if a bit grave.

The Doc knocked and waited a few minutes, exuding impatience but
understanding that Dr Eagals' speciality was not one that could be rushed
or interrupted. Karl finally emerged and joined Jim and I on the
bench. None of us spoke. We each just stared at our shoes and kicked our
feet, afraid to speak. All of us jumped again when The Doc came out and Dr
Eaglas asked Jim to join him, telling us that he'd ask for us shortly.

Karl and I watched the gathering rain as it moved from drizzle to drops to
splashes in puddles. It was as if the universe had decided to accept and
reflect our mood. Hushed, dreary, dark, cool, damp. Each of us started to
speak and fell silent before the words formed a couple of times, and we
caught each other glancing occasionally out of the corners of our eyes, but
could not really think of anything to say.

Dr Eaglas opened the door far sooner than either of us expected, taking
maybe half the time he'd spent with us. We moped in, unable to meet Jim's
eyes, both thinking that, regardless of the doctor's words, that we'd
failed him.

"Men, we need to make some decisions. Jim got beaten up pretty good by the
thugs who are already one their way to meet their parents." All of us
perked up a bit. That WAS good news. "But all three of you need some
healing, and Jim needs plenty. Jim has made clear that he has several
friends here," Karl and I dropped, "but none like you." From desolation to
elation like a light-switch. "You told me you would help. That still true,
gentlemen?" We both nodded spastically.

"So, first thing. Jim lives in Cabin Four. They are younger than you, but
it's not that uncommon to lodge boys of different years, like you and Karl,
together with younger friends."

"No." I was shocked to find the voice that had spoken was mine. "Jim should
be with us in Tent Ca... Tent Nine." Jim was looking at me in awe and hope,
and Karl in admiration.

"That would be very irregular, and very cramped. Why...?"

It was as if Karl and I were reading from a script. In perfect unison,

Karl: "I need to be there to protect Jim. I am not going to let him be hurt
or bullied."  Me: "I need to be there to help Jim. I am not going to let
him be alone or bullied."

So maybe not the *exact* same script. The doctor, eyebrows all the way to
his hairline, stared from one of us to the other. Jim's quiet voice
quavered a little. "I can't. I won't let you. I'll be in the way."

This time we were in near-absolute sync,

Karl: "Bull! I won't let you out of my sight and that's final!"  Me: "Bull!
We won't let you out of our sight and that's final!"

The doctor's lips were pressed so hard together that I thought he'd bust
with the effort to suppress a laugh. He managed, barely.

"Well. Okay then. Hmm. Actually, I just recalled something. Yes, I might
have just the thing. Wait here a few, if you please." Dr Eaglas left us.

Jim's small-scared-rabbit voice was back. "But why?"

Karl spoke first, "Because," his voice steady, deep and commanding, "it is
what you would have done for me or Patrick. It is what you would have done
for a stranger, and that makes you better than either of us. You are twice
the man we are and there is nothing, NOTHING that I am going to let hurt
either of you, ever."

I found that I was crying. Jim, quivering like a leaf, came between us and
grabbed our hands. "Y, you. You are the best friends I ever h, h, had."
Then we were all crying. When the doctor returned a few minutes later, we
were back in our seats but I am certain that a man who'd dealt with so many
tears from so many boys and men knew precisely what he'd missed. The nearly
perky sound of his voice confirmed it.

"Excellent! All settled. You have to do something, though. Go back to Tent
Nine and collapse the cots."

We looked at him bewildered. "Um, how?"

"Don't worry, men, no one knows. We found that the actual instructions
invariably end up with snapped fingers and frequently an embarrassing
groinal strain. Now we just have each young man make it up as he goes. It
seems safer."

Suitably dismissed, we left the office to find the rain had turned into
dismal and desultory dribbles. Unlike drizzle, with fine and misty drops
that, in poor light, might look ethereal or charming, this spitting,
pissing shit just looked wet and miserable.

We found out later that the horrors of our day had a silver lining. The
rest of the boys had spent the wretched morning carting and laying out
pallets, the ersatz boardwalk we'd noticed earlier near the Hygiene Hut,
across all the main paths. Most of the campers were either soaked, grumpy,
muddy or miserable (many were all four). We, in contrast, had only had a
half-dozen yards from the nearest pallets to Tent Canvas Hell in the wet,
and it was through some leaf mould so we actually got very little raw mud
on us.

Karl and I stripped the sleeping bags off the cots whilst Jim crawled
beneath and called commentary out on what seemed attached to which other
parts. We set to work. I'd love to describe the raw, Three Stooges comedy
of the event, but I honestly have no idea what we did. At one point, Jim
got trapped inside one of the cots when it folded in half unexpectedly,
leaving him wrapped like an army-green victim of Shelob. True to the
doctor's warning, both of my hands got SNAPPED at one point; at another,
Karl spend several minutes speaking in a high soprano and clutching his
most treasured body parts.

Eventually, we did manage to beat the cot monsters into submission. Jim
forcibly prevented Karl from setting them alight (I was a neutral party but
not at all opposed), mainly by reminding him that the tent would go with it
and he'd end up back in a cabin filled to overflowing with bored-stupid
15-year-olds. He whispered a smiling aside to me, "Anyway, the cot was the
first non-relative to ever give me a real hug!"

Two of the leaders arrived with a tarped-covered something and told us to
go gather Jim's kit, then head to lunch at the Mess Hall. Karl and I had
grabbed our own slickers, but we ran across the boardwalks to Cabin Four on
the theory (incorrect) that we'd hit fewer raindrops that way. When we
arrived, the Cabin Four leaders were trying with little success to
interrupt a pillow war. There was little laughter but a lot of cursing;
apparently one group had lobbed some fatal and emasculating slurs at the
others and it was now a match to the death. Oddly, none of the boys seemed
to know who was with which group, nor even what group he himself
represented. There were, therefore, about 20 boys and 30 sides to the
battle.

We quickly gathered and escaped with Jim's kit, doing up the bag and
accoutrement on the sheltered porch out front as we listened to pillows
gradually give way as the weapon of choice, replaced by packs and sleeping
bags. By this point, all three of us were laughing, part in superiority to
those "silly boys" and part in simple comradery united against the rain and
the rest of the world in general.

We arrived at the Mess Tent just as the triangle announced
lunch. Apparently, the oppressive rain had also doused Chef's evil
genius. There were wienies and brats, grilled and delicious, with various
'fixins' including a sauce that is widely called chili but bears no
resemblance to the yummy stew of the same name and inedible without a dog
beneath. Tater tots were the primary side, with an obligatory salad, now
drenched in an unidentifiable, creepy-red dressing. The 'hot' option was a
beige sludge purported to be 'chicken casserole' to the horror and shame of
chickens everywhere.

We finished and made our way to Tent Canvas Hell. On the way, Jim
(inevitably) asked what I almost said before I called it Tent Nine. I
blushed furiously and explained that my first day was less than stellar and
I mentally dubbed it Tent Canvas Hell. Karl collapsed on the boardwalk
against a tree in giggles at that, and Jim started whooping with delight. I
just blushed harder and smiled. When Karl regained control of his
diaphragm, he said, "What a frigging perfect name. Tent Canvas Hell!"

We giggled our way back to the tent and stood, agape, at the change. A
thick pad or mattress, arm green and lumpy in odd places, perhaps two
inches and just the height of the Tripping Bar, filled the space from side
to side. Karl's kit was shifted to the back and left, mine to the back and
right. The centre obviously had been left for Jim. Cots, a couple feet
above the ground, had left us with barely a foot between Karl and I. Take
that height away, and there was easily room for three bags abreast. We
stood and stared.

The other transformation was the perception of depth. The cots had been
about seven feet long, leaving a little room for our kit at the back. The
lumpy green mattress, though, was less than six feet in length and pushed
back against the edge of our kit, leaving a foot or more of 'balcony' at
the front of the tent. As one, we pivoted and sat, asses on the mattress
and legs just sheltered by the tent, staring out into the dreary rain, Karl
on the far side with Jim between us. Without conscious thought, Karl and I
draped an arm each over Jim, who seemed to bask in our attention. We said
nothing, watching and oddly content with what had brought us to this point.

<eof>

Author's Note: These boys seem to have saved each other. Is this where the
story should end, each at peace within himself? Or does Patrick need more?
Let me know. Karl, Patrick and Jim seem to be writing this story; let me
know if I should ask for them another chapter.