Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

John could see a few children, shouting and kicking up dust with their heels as they played a game — baseball, perhaps? One kid was throwing a small ball; another swung at it with a crude bat. John looked on as the pitcher, a boy about ten, wound up and hurled the ball toward the hitter. The hitter’s stick connected with the ball, driving it into the air. John lost track of it in the sun’s glare, then heard it hit the ground somewhere behind him. He turned around to find it.

“Home run!” the hitter called out. John spotted the ball, obscured by the grass, and trotted over to pick it up. It was a crude approximation of a baseball, round and wrapped with leather.

By the time John turned around to toss it back to the group, the pitcher had already caught up to him. The pitcher looked at John’s unfamiliar face with curiosity.

“Did you kids make this baseball on your own?” John asked, as he gave the ball a light toss to get a feel for it.

“My dad made it. Cut a wood core and then wrapped some deerskin around it. Works just like the old ones, he says,” the boy replied.

I’m not sure about that, but it is surprisingly well made, John mused to himself.

“You’re the man they found a couple days ago, aren’t you?” the boy asked, squinting warily at the bearded man.

“That’s right, son,” John replied.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” the boy said.

“No, I’m not,” John said as he gave the ball another toss. “I’m from out east. Just passing through.”

“East? You mean like, Grand Marais?” the boy asked.

“Nope, try again,” John replied. “Farther east.”

The boy looked slightly puzzled, then his eyes filled with awe. “You’re from Thunder Bay?”

John chuckled. The world sure has become a whole lot smaller.

“Nope, farther east yet. Have you heard of Maine?” he said.

The boy shook his head.

“Well, if you start here and keep heading east,” John directed, pointing opposite the western sun, “you’ll get there eventually. Can’t say I’d recommend walking there though — there’s a lot of rough country between here and the eastern seaboard.” He turned back to the boy. “Ask your parents about it when you get a chance. They’ll know something about Maine.”

“Sure thing, mister,” the boy said, his eyes drifting down toward John’s hand. “Can I have my ball back now?”

“Sure,” he said, handing the ball over, “here you go.” The kid thanked him and ran back to rejoin the other children. As John meandered past the group, he couldn’t help but smile at their conversation.

“It’s somewhere in Canada, I tell ya!”

“No way, I bet it’s just past Grand Marais!”

“Don’t you guys know your history? Maine was one of the fifty states, before the Desolation.”

History? Referring to Maine in the past tense still felt unnatural to John. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the salty Atlantic air and hear the mewing gulls along the shoreline. He imagined the smooth, creamy texture of clam chowder tickling his tongue. Not even Cynthia’s pork bone soup could match a hearty bowl of chowder.

Maine was still where it had always been. Only the cities and villages stood empty now. John’s friends and family? All gone, as far as he knew, which left him with no reason to return to the coast. The wilderness was his home now.

Continuing through the village, he noticed that two larger buildings end-capped both rows of cabins. Curious about their purpose, he walked toward the one on the southern row, opposite Cynthia’s side.

Despite being only one story, the building felt massive compared to the cabins John had just passed. A sign above the door read “Frontier View Co-op,” printed in thick, green uppercase letters. To the side of the door sat a small bench. A sharp V-shaped roof rested on top of the building, constructed from assorted pieces of sheet metal. It was haphazardly screwed and nailed onto the wooden frame, giving it the appearance of a patchwork quilt.

A fence sat to the building’s right side. The overpowering smell of animal dung suggested it was a stable. John walked over to take a peek. Then he saw it — the frankenmoose! No, three of the buggers! They turned to look at him. He stumbled backward in surprise, swallowing a gasp. His arms crawled with goosebumps.

“What the hell are those things!” he exclaimed.

“Never seen a tvapa before?” a man’s voice responded. John’s body jerked in surprise, turning to meet the voice. A white haired man with glasses was standing beside him. The man wore a long-sleeved green shirt and khakis. John took him to be about seventy.

“Oh, I’ve seen one alright,” John said. “Had myself a little sparring match with him.”

The man raised an eyebrow at John, quizzically.

“Sparring match?” he said.

“You heard me. These franken …” John hesitated. “Frankenmeese? I just don’t trust ‘em. Something about their eyes.”

The old man blinked, then paused for a moment, as if searching for the correct response. Then he shrugged and offered his hand.

“I’m Pierre.”

“John. John Osborne.” The two shook and then released hands.

“Cynthia cleared you to get out of bed?” Pierre said, leaning closer to carefully examine John’s eyes.

John scowled in reply.

“Hey, just making sure!” Pierre said, raising his hands defensively as he took a step back. “Sorry, I’ve just never known tvapas to be violent creatures.”

“Well,” John said, “it didn’t exactly attack me, but …”

Pierre chuckled. “No worries — I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Better, I think,” John said, stroking his beard. Not that I have the slightest idea why I collapsed in the first place.

“I like the beard, by the way,” Pierre offered. “Definitely not a style that’s encouraged these days, but to me a beard evokes the great American heroes of yore. You know, Lincoln, Grant, Lee …” He paused, shaking his head. “I bet most kids these days don’t even know who Lincoln is — truly a shame.”

Lincoln, huh? he thought. He’d never heard a compliment about his beard — not a one — until now. He stood in silence, mulling it over.

“There’s a tavern, Loon’s Landing, up this way,” Pierre said, pointing behind the Co-op. “How about we grab a drink? I’d love to hear what’s going on elsewhere in the world.”

“Sure,” John said with a shrug. “I could use a hearty glass of whiskey.”

Nathan rubbed his tired, swollen eyes as he sat up in bed. Bright rays of midday sunlight streamed in through the window. Glancing over at the other bed, Nathan remembered that Emiko was gone; her bedspread remained tidy and undisturbed, just as he’d made it for her three mornings ago.

With a groan, he swung his feet off the bed. Searching through the night had left his body exhausted. He sighed, realizing he hadn’t taken off his boots; their muddy soles had stained the bedspread. Just another mess to clean , Nathan thought. How had the cabin become messier without Emiko around? After all, he always cleaned up after her , not the other way around.

His stomach growled, like a bear coming out of hibernation. When was the last time he’d eaten? Not since yesterday morning, at least. He wandered out of the bedroom, past the front door and the rocking chair, and into the kitchen. Looking through the cupboards, he found only a few potatoes — he’d have to get more food soon.

As he walked over to the cast-iron stove to start a fire for cooking, a sheet of paper lying on the floor caught his attention. Ah, right — he’d spotted it last night … no, this morning, when he’d come home.