Date: Sun, 5 Feb 2017 16:46:01 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 11

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.

*****

I felt Jim's hand pull back into his own sleeping back and opened my eyes
to see him smell then lick his fingers as he looked at me, smiling. Still
in the grips of that post-orgasm haze, I realised that this part was not a
dream. Jim had returned the favour from earlier and brought me to a climax
the likes of which I'd only dreamed. My lazy eyes moved past him and I
caught the faintest glimmer of Karl's dark eyes, no more asleep than I. As
I faded from orgasmic bliss back into the arms of sleep, blissful and
content in a way I don't think I'd ever known, I wondered what Karl saw,
thought, felt. The rest of my night passed without interruption, but filled
with dreams of sunlight on water, flowers and bumblebees, and the warm
embrace of friends.

***** Canvas Hell 11: Animal Sacrifice

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery; guilt; trust

When I woke the next morning to the explosion of avian joy I despised so
much, Karl was already out watering the beeches. I shook Jim and informed
him of his options as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then exited to
relieve the same tension. I found that I stuck rather badly to my shorts,
which reminded me of Jim's nocturnal liberties. I smiled in bliss, then
frowned as I recalled a glimpse of Karl's dark and shining eyes. What had
he made of what he'd seen? More to the point, what *had* he seen? Karl went
back in and I heard Jim go to the side he'd used. If this pattern continued
(and we continued not getting caught), these would be either the two
strongest beeches in the wood or they'd be dead from ammonia poisoning.

Karl kept looking from Jim to me, a slight frown creasing his brow. He
didn't look upset, just... uncertain. We trooped down to the Hygiene Hut,
early but not so much as the water was still icy. We made short work of the
showers and got to the Mess Hall just before Lloyd rang the triangle.

Today's feature was flapjacks, a bit doughy and chewy but surprisingly
edible. The 'syrup' however was simply and abomination. If any of it had
ever been part of a maple tree, it would have been roots and perhaps dead
leaves. Jim confidently marched over to the toast rack and seized a jar of
blackberry jam. He put a pat of butter and a scoop of the jam between each
layer of flapjacks. Shugging, I followed suit; Karl used the strawberry
preserves professing a hatred of the 'little pit things' in blackberries
that he could never get out of his teeth.

As we passed the adult table, George nodded significantly to the next table
over where two steaming glasses of thick black 'milk' steamed, awaiting
us. We quickly sat and gulped the sludge, smiling beatifically at George in
appreciation and thanks.

Jim demonstrated when we got to the table, smearing the warmed butter-jam
mixture between each thin pancake, then cutting down across the layers. We
tried it was were both amazed, and looked at the ever-astounding Jim with
even more respect.

I couldn't resist praising this culinary marvel: "Wodjacumpwidish?
Swongrfl!" Boy-at-Food-Troughese for "Where did you come up with this? It's
wonderful!"

"My parents took me to France last year; actually they took my sister who
turned 16 and I got to go. They had these things called crepes. They're a
lot thinner and not nearly as sawdusty as Chef's flapjacks, but it seems to
work!"

Work it did. We got some seriously suspicious looks from men and boys alike
when, against all precedence, we went for second helpings. Chef scowled at
us, trying to figure out how we'd foiled his food-degradation plot. We were
in fine fettle as we made our way down to the dock for our double-lesson of
canoeing and fishing.

We had missed Wednesday; everyone had as the we were ministered to and the
rest of the camp laid the boardwalks. So today we were set of perform
animal sacrifices to Gods of Fishing. We sat on the dock, legs over the
side, and leaders moved among us with three pails. One contained worms, the
next had minnows and the third held {ERG! They're ALIVE} real shimps
swimming around.

I will tell you that there is nothing worse than going from the nice, neat,
peeled, de-headed, formerly-frozen shrimp carcasses to these energetic and
spiky little monsters who, quite understandably, had no real interest in
being impaled on barbed hooks.

By the end of the first part of our lesson, the waters around the dock were
afroth with fish who apparently had learnt long ago that a serious buffet
was on offer certain days during Camp Sin's curriculum. I did distinctly
hear one boy, perhaps 13, whisper, "Go on! Be free!" as he 'accidentally'
dropped his third minnow. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I saw a
distinctive flash of pearly white; I had a sneaky suspicion that Karl's
white bass was quite pleased with the outcome of the boy's sensitive
nature.

20 minutes of this had us all slime-handed with various bait excretions. We
were given a bucket of each of the three baits along with a tacklebox per
canoe and a rod-n-reel per boy and sent forth to wreak havoc on the fish
population of the Sinnemahoning River.

Karl very subtly made sure that I was again steering but that Jim was at
the fore with Karl taking the middle seat. His curious explanation was that
with his strength, middle-paddle make more sense now that Jim had the hang
of rowing. His dark, liquid eyes gave nothing away, but my stomach iced at
the thought that he might believe Jim had to be protected from me.

It was a sullen and sultry afternoon. The rain was well gone, but the
clouds stayed and the slowly-drying forest left the air like warm soup. It
matched my mood, and apparently that of Karl whose brows glowered much like
the clouds above. Even Jim seemed subdued. We put leaders and hooks on with
little conversation and less attention. Karl fished mainly with minnow. Jim
had a way with the shrimp that was oddly disturbing. They seemed to simply
sit there patiently as he threaded the hook into them. I kept to the worms,
as they at least couldn't stare at me as I sentenced them to a painful and
watery demise.

I have to tell you, I was probably more shocked than the fish when my line
shot straight up the river! Apparently my squirmy little victim was just to
the taste of some extremely angry and extremely fast denizen of the
deep. Jim leapt and hooted as if he'd sat on a buzzer as his own shrimp was
snatched off in the opposite direction. That left Karl to frantically reel
in his minnowless hook (It had either escaped of fell victim to a
stealthier predator).

Jim and I fought the fish. His seemed to like circles, whipping back and
forth across the bow. Mine just decided to run for it. When I finally got
the line stopped, it went slack so fast that I cussed at losing the fish. I
reeled in sullenly when WHAM it shot off again. Apparently, where Jim's was
trying to shake off the hook, my fish was trying to outrun it, either up-
or down-stream. Sea noticed the commotion as Karl tried valiantly to keep
the canoe upright, pointing the general direction we each needed, and
splitting difference between the two fish.

With the bizarre run-to-me-then-away, I was able to wrestle my opponent
near the boat much faster than Jim. Sea's agile kayak darted in and grabbed
the pole-net from the gunwale. Just before it went for the keel of the boat
(where it would likely have escaped as the rough boat sawed the line, Sea
swung down into the murky river-water and came up with a blazing-mad mess
of massive teeth in a jaw that seemed to run down half the body. A dull
greenish-white with dark black 'chain' markings, the pike-thing was furious
at his predicament.

Careful to avoid the murderous dentition, Sea hooked a pocket-scale on my
leader and lifted the thing out. "Quite a catch, Red! And good thing you
used the steel leaders." I did? Really? "A nice gunfish unless I miss my
guess. [Ed: chain pickerel for anyone who actually cares] If he'd stop
thrashing, I could get a good read, but looking at this he's probably
around two and one half pounds and, oh, 21 or 22 inches long. If you
looking for one, this qualifies as a trophy fish! You want it mounted,
son?"

I flashed back to the taxidermy station in the Activates Pavilion and
quickly shook my head.

"Good man! Let someone else have a shot at this monster. Cory! Come over
and get a picture of the victor, here, while I help at the other end of
this very impressive canoe!" Another kayak arrive with the same leader who
had gotten a picture of Karl on our first foray onto the river. He guided
me on holding the vicious beast who relentlessly tried to bite any part of
me, the leader or the canoe he could reach, and quickly snapped two
polaroid pictures. He snipped the barb off the hook and slipped the shaft
of it out and suggested that, unlike other fish, I just toss it to avoid a
mean bite. I was more than happy to do so and watched a single tail-flick
send the mean little bastard into the depths.

While I was thus distracted, Jim was wrapping up a battle royal of his
own. Sea's kayak dipped alarmingly when he pulled the net up. A sunset glow
below and dark-speckled body let Sea make an instant identification.

"The always-keen Mr Conner had hauled in an increasingly-rare brook
trout. Well done, young man!" The trout seemed to have given up entirely
when netted, and hung obligingly from the pocket scale. "Four pounds, Mr
Conner! And probably close to 18 inches!" A similar conversation to my own,
with identical results, saw a couple of polaroids snapped with Jim and his
catch (which was nearly too big for him to hold) preserved for
posterity. He reverently lowered the catch into the water. It suddenly
sensed its reprieve and flashed away, a very disgruntled but relieved fish
who, henceforth, might do well to remember that shrimps are *not* common
delicacies in the rivers of Pennsylvania unless there are hooks in.

It turned out that the overcast and sultry day was just what the fish of
the river liked. Seven other boys got nice-sized catches and most others
got at least one fish to the boat. None as long as mine or as heavy as
Jim's, though. Karl hooked a small, shiny, mercury-coloured little thing
but threw it back before the leader came over. He was the only one in the
boat to get two catches though, but it was arguable. Karl insisted that he
had two catches; Jim and I teased he'd caught the same fish twice.

We returned when Sea's voice rang out calling us in. We got to the dock and
returned tackle and bait. Washed up. Washed again (slimy bait and fish goo
is stubborn stuff) and gathered around Sea for awards. It turned out that
they'd been debating amongst the leaders and were still arguing when we
finished up.

"All, right, men and boys alike, settle down. Settle DOWN!" That final word
roared forth and I think even the cicadas shut up in startlement. "We have
an unusual situation today for Best Catch! Mr Conner and Mr Kennedy, both
of the *same boat* no less, caught remarkable fish today. Mr Kennedy's was
clearly longer, faster and meaner; Mr Conner's was clearly fatter and
harder to land. Since they also apparently share the same TENT..." several
boys oo'ed and ah'ed and a few whooped about the unfairness, "we have
decided to award today's Best Catch to them JOINTLY!"

A cheer went up as Jim and I accepted the beautiful (small, plastic and
tacky) trophy cup.  The triangle rang to announce the end of the session
and, having just washed thoroughly, we decided to head straight for the
Mess Hall, even though we had 15 minutes free time. We sat nearby on an
unused pallet under a tree, smiling and joking. We told Karl that if he'd
caught that fish eleven more times, it just might, MIGHT had a cumulative
length and weight that would allow him to share it the glory of our
trophy. We all laughed as he tried to be grumpy and failed miserably.

About five minutes before the triangle was to ring, Jim jumped up and
brushed himself off, announcing that, as per usual, he was lunching with Dr
Eaglas and the Amazing Camp Stove. He just laughed as Karl and I glared
daggers at him. When he was out of earshot, Karl rounded on me with a look
that froze me.

"What did I see last night?"

Do you have any idea how hard it is to bluff when you have Nuclear Blush
Syndrome? I spluttered and tried to look anywhere but at Karl. He was
having none of it and simple made a growl; I knew I was cornered. I looked
at the leaves stilled embedded in the dried mud from the rains.

"What do you think you saw?" I asked in a very small voice.

"I *think* that I saw someone who promised to take care of Jim take
advantage of him," he growled.

"NO! Karl, no, never! I would ne n never!" He just glared.

"Karl, really, no! I swear to God that I was asleep. Yeah, I was dreaming
of, well, stuff. But I was all the way asleep until I, um, well, I, I, um,
blew?" I knew that I had reached the blush stage where my freckles began to
glow with a spectral light. "When I woke up I was, you know, already, um,
in the middle of, you know! It felt so good and I saw Jim's hand go back
and he smiled at me and I really liked that and he had my mess on his hand
and I watched as he..." I screeched to a halt like Road Runner and watched
my friendship with Karl, like a live-action Coyote, keep right on running
off the cliff.

Karl simply glared at me as the triangle rang out.

"We're not done with this. You know that, right?" The growl was still quite
evident.

"I know," I informed my shoes.

We went into lunch. Oh dear god. It was Friday. Why oh WHY don't
miscellaneous Christians *not* know that Catholics only have to eat
disgusting fish shit on Friday in Lent and Advent? Why torture us the whole
rest of the YEAR? Chef was smiling over a vat of presumed fish sticks. I
was in luck, though, as he had fries beside them. Admittedly, the fries
were as limp and greasy as the fish sticks were overcooked, but they help
some promise. He also had soup (tomato) which was surprisingly not bad; I
liked the taste of warm, watery ketchup.

We got to the table and I suddenly realised, overcooked *fried* fish sticks
and undercooked *fried* French fries. Every fry tasted like it was being
haunted by the ghost of fish-sticks past. I snuck back over and grabbed a
stack of crackers and proceeded to make ketchup-and-cracker soup. Karl
didn't have my aversion to fish, but clearly shared my opinion of Chef's
culinary prowess. He ended up eating about eight fish sticks and three
apples.

I met Jim on the way to Leatherworking and watched as Karl, frowning,
wandered off in the direction of the dell I'd found that first fateful
day. We finished the prep on the coin holder and were given scraps of
leather to practice stamping and decide on the pattern or design we
wanted. Jim and I collaborated more than most, sharing tips and pitfalls we
discovered and often admiring and criticising each other's work. I found,
quite by accident, that one of the chisels laid flat made a striking and
interesting impression if lightly pounded into the leather. I worked for a
while with angles and such, ending with something that, when over a wider
area, would look like an MC Escher print. Jim was impressed, but his was
shaping up into a spike-petal flower with a striking centre made by the
impression of the groover.

We left, both quite pleased with the work. Jim headed to Wilderness
Survival and I decided I just didn't feel like doing the Tent, or wandering
the woods. I found myself inexplicably in from of Dr Eaglas' office and
stared at the door. I knocked softly, hoping that he would not be in at the
moment, and was surprised when the door opened quickly.

"I was wondering when I'd see you, Patrick. I've seen both Karl and Jim,
but I left them little choice in the matter. I did want to see if you'd
come to me on your own, however."

I gaped at him, utterly at a loss. He chuckled in a friendly and relaxing
way.

"Sit over here, young man." He guided me to the couch and I settled into
the nook between the back and armrest, a typical teen pose. "Skooch down,
Patrick, lay back against the armrest and relax a bit." He sat in the
armchair next to me. I could clearly see him if I turned my head, and he
disappeared if I stared straight ahead. I was stiff, frightened and
worried. Why the HELL did I come in here? He would SEE things about me. He
was SMART. He could TELL. I found that I was shaking.

"Let's start with the simple stuff, okay?"

I just nodded stiffly.

"Tell me about this morning's session. You went fishing, right?"

I relaxed as I recounted our epic battled, Jim and I. He chuckled when I
talked about the joint award. He asked about after and laughed when I told
of taunting Karl about twelve of his fish equalling either of ours. He
asked about Jim coming to see him and asked what Karl and I talked about
afterwards. My voice.... vanished.

"So let me try. Karl asked about something that worries you a lot." I
nodded, looking at the ceiling.

"You are confused and worried, right?" I turned to look at his soft, kind
eyes and just nodded.

"Because of how you feel about Karl and Jim, and maybe how you feel about
yourself?" I dropped my eyes but nodded again.

Dr Eaglas sighed deeply. "Patrick, there are things I can tell you and
things I can't. Of the latter, there are two types: things that I honestly
don't know, and things that I am sworn never to tell. Do you understand me
so far?" My eyes returned to his face. I nodded.

Another deep sigh. "Son... no, that's not fair, you have proved that you
are as much a man as most adults I've known. Patrick, you need to loosen up
on yourself. You are a good man. You are a good, compassionate and *fierce*
friend to others around you, and they know that." I squeezed my eyes shut
and let a tear roll.

"Don't go there, Patrick. Yes, I do know some of the things that you are
tearing yourself up over." My breathing stopped, my blood left my face and
I felt a tremor in my hands and lip. I couldn't look at Dr Eaglas and let
his calm, deep, loving voice flow over me as it simultaneously slashed my
heart open and shredded my soul.

"I'm not giving anything away by saying that you have two friends who are
really worried about YOU. Perhaps as much as you worry about them. Just
from what you told me, and *didn't* tell me," there was an amused tone
there; I cringed realising that he knew so much more than I had wanted him
to, "I know that you have put yourself, your idea of who you are, your ego,
in 'harm's way' for two friends several times, and you really did help
them. You keep thinking that you're doing wrong, or doing the right things
for wicked reasons."

I finally got up the nerve to look at him from the corner of my
tear-distorted eye. He seemed... sad. Like he knew a magic spell to help me
but was prohibited from casting it.

"I need you to trust me for a minute, Patrick. Can you do that and not ask
me why or who or how?" I nodded.

"You put yourself on the line and saved two wonderful people. And you keep
hurting yourself for doing so. Please. Be honest and tell them how you
feel. Tell them WHY you think what you do is wrong." I was openly crying
now, silent but chest shaking. I shook my head over and over and over.

"Other people want to help you, just not me. But there are two basic rules
in my business: No one can help you if you don't let them; and no one can
help you unless you want to be helped. I'll give you this: You are
torturing yourself over what people will think about you if you say what
you mean. Has it occurred to you that other people might, just *might* be
desperate to tell you things but are afraid how *you* will think about
*them*?" My eyes snapped open and I got a kink in my neck from turning so
sudden.

"If you keep torturing yourself, I need you to understand that you are
hurting other people too. People *care* about you, son. People *want* to
stop the way that you are beating yourself up. You make a real difference
in peoples' lives; not just Karl and Jim. A lot of kids have been hurt by
'The Buggers'," he laughed openly at the name, "and things you did helped
get rid of one, and directly got rid of the other two. I was in the Mess
Hell, um, Hall, when the Major dragged Winston off. You heard how many
started clamouring as the Major dragged him out. Many of those, perhaps
most, sleep now without nightmares (or at least with different ones) since
he and his cohorts are gone, son.

"Patrick, give your friends a chance, okay? I want to help you and want you
to let me. But they *need* to help you and *need* you to let them do
that. Can you understand how important it can be to help someone you care
about? I think you do because I think you've done it. Just, oh hell, just
give someone else the benefit of the doubt, son. Please? Just try?"

I finally met his eyes. I was shocked to my core when I saw there were
tears welled there. He saw me looking and grabbed a tissue. "Damned
allergies," he smiled as he dabbed his eyes. I thought back to the allergy
excuse I offered Karl. How much did this man know? I snatched some of the
tissues myself and set about repairing my own countenance. I stared at Dr
Eaglas for a while and he, well, he let me. He didn't avert his eyes or act
shy or act worried. He just let me look at him. Somehow, that did so much
for my own confidence.

Could I follow through and open myself up to Karl and Jim. No, never. The
consequences were too dire and the upside was, well, non-existent. Could I
loosen up and ask for help? Maybe; probably not. Could I let them know that
I was ready to be helped? I honestly did not know. It seemed so... alien to
the Manly Code as I understood it. Would I think about it? Would I try. It
took me a moment to realise, yes, I could should and would do that. More
for my friends than for me, but so-be-it. I left Dr Eaglas office drained
of energy but also buoyed by a new and strange confidence. Maybe his spell
*had* been cast, and I thought about the next few hours and how to use this
temporary power his spell had given me.

<eof>

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Jim and Karl are coming off some serious shit. Does Patrick
have the confidence? The finesse? I am not sure myself how Karl will react,
or whether Patrick (or Karl) can 'deal' with how Jim might react. Your
correspondence has literally changed the course of this story. Let me know
YOUR thoughts.

One last comment: If you care enough to have read this far, why haven't you
given a few dollars to Nifty? This story exists -- all my stories exist --
because I have a place like Nifty to post. Is it really unreasonable to ask
that you help pay the rent for Camp Sin's existence? Please visit
donate.nifty.org/donate.html.

Stories so far, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 11 chapters, more coming, .../camping/canvas-hell/
Karl & Greg: 12 chapters, more coming, .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Beaux Thibodaux: 2 chapters, LOTS more coming, .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
Mud Lark Holler: 2 chapters, more coming, .../rural/mud-lark-holler
The Heathens: 2 chapter, more coming, .../historical/the-heathens
Off the Magic Carpet: 1 chapter, not sure yet, .../military/off-the-magic-carpet
Temple Street: 5 chapters, currently on hiatus, .../authoritarian/temple-street/
Virtual Master: 1-off, .../authoritarian/virtual-master