Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

The paper was folded in half. Nathan picked it up and looked it over. It was a wide-ruled page from a spiral notebook. No factories mass produced notebooks anymore, yet they were easy enough to find, cluttering shelves and desks unused. He turned the paper over and unfolded it, revealing a handwritten note. His eyes grew wide as he read the words, clenching the paper with his fingernails. What!? After taking a deep breath and relaxing his hands, he carefully went through the message again.

To Whom It May Concern,

We have the girl in our custody. If you want her back, bring $5,000 to our outpost on the north end of Sawbill Lake, tomorrow by sundown. We take the money, you take the girl — no problems.

P.S. Come alone — keep Osborne out of this.

Ransom! What the Desolation had Emiko stumbled into? He was relieved to know she was alive, but two new questions plagued him: Where could he get $5,000, and who was “Osborne?”

He crammed the note into his pocket and ran out the door, grabbing his cap on the way out to hide his disheveled hair.

The only activity outside was a group of kids playing ball. A few years ago he would have joined them, but the time for games had passed. He was an adult now and he had to act like one.

A few steps out the door he realized he had no idea where his feet were taking him. Focus, Nathan , he thought. Who can help you with this? Deciding Pierre would be as good as anyone, Nathan dashed off to find the old professor.

***

“So, you don’t know anything about this?” Pierre asked, jabbing at the paper with his finger.

“Nothing,” John replied. Why couldn’t he ever enjoy a drink in peace?

Not that Loon’s Landing was much of a place. He’d have trouble enjoying a drink there even without Pierre badgering him about the note. Mildew crept up the walls and it was so dark he could barely see his whiskey glass. Presently, the bartender was circumnavigating the room, lighting oil lanterns in each corner. About damn time , John thought.

“Let me see the note,” he said. “I’d like to know what it is I’m being accused of.”

Pierre handed it to him with a reluctant sigh.

The note felt crisp in John’s hands. He tilted it until he found the best angle to capture the lamplight. The penmanship was clear, the message brief. And there it was — his name mentioned in the postscript.

“They used my name — so what?” John said, shrugging it off. The appearance of his name did concern him, but for now he wouldn’t let on. “The more important question is: how are you gonna deal with this?” He turned to the boy — Nathan.

“This is your sister?” he asked.

Nathan nodded. “Emiko is the one who found you in he road,” he added, softly.

“Is paying the five grand an option?” John asked.

Nathan shook his head.

“Can Frontier View come up with $5,000?” John asked Pierre. It didn’t seem like an outrageous sum.

Pierre shook his head. “Impossible,” he said. “Hmm … you said you came in from Canada, right?”

“From Maine through Canada, yeah,” John said.

“Then I suppose you aren’t familiar with our currency,” Pierre said, as he reached for his wallet and pulled out a blue bill. “The kidnappers aren’t asking for greenbacks — their value collapsed along with the U.S. government. We use these now.” He handed the banknote to John.

John scanned the features of the strange blue bill. The number five occupied each corner and a proud black bear adorned the center of the front face. He flipped it over, looking at the image that spanned the backside. The rising sun hung in the upper right corner, its light radiating down upon a lone man in a canoe, as he paddled toward the dawn of a new day. John turned to the front again and noted the fine print:

THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE

Followed by:

ISSUED BY AUTHORITY OF THE REPUBLIC OF MINNESOTA — DULUTH, MN

The imagery all looked very professional — on par with pre-Desolation paper money, though it seemed to lack any of the advanced security features that twenty-first century U.S. currency had been known for.

As John continued looking over the bill, Pierre began to explain.

“You could knock off a bank in Duluth and you might not find 5,000 MND,” he said, assuming a professorial tone. “You see, the people have been slow to readopt fiat currency, a problem owing itself to numerous factors. First, after the rampant inflation that plagued the US dollar — even before the Desolation — the populace is hesitant to put its trust in paper money.”

The old man paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued, “Furthermore, when the population was suddenly reduced one-hundred fold, it greatly diminished the need for ‘stores of value.’ Now that we no longer have the energy infrastructure to support the opulence of an overbearing aristocracy, the superfluous sums of money that the market formerly distributed unevenly to signify the divide between rich and poor no longer serve any purpose. Thus, the need for currency has contracted exponentially with the reduction in population rather than linearly, and the Republic of Minnesota has acted accordingly, leading to the predicament we now find ourselves in.”

John raised an eyebrow at Pierre, silently returning the five-dollar bill. He’d lost the thread of Pierre’s mumbo jumbo after the first sentence.

“Excuse me, acute case of the rambles.” Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. “You can leave academia, but it will never leave you …”

“Alright then,” John said, picking up the ransom note from the counter, “what’s the plan?”

Pierre pursed his lips, offering no reply; Nathan stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact — not exactly the response John had hoped for. He waited for a moment, then offered his plan.

“Here’s the deal,” John said, looking at Nathan. The boy didn’t take his eyes off the floor. “I don’t know who delivered this, but I think they’re using your sister to get to me — that’s not fair. Also,” he said, turning to Pierre, “your people gave me a hand when I needed it — I owe you one.

“So,” John said, setting the ransom note on the counter, “I’ll take care of this. I’ll find out who delivered this note and I’ll get your sister back.” The words invigorated him — it felt like he was taking on a critical mission from HQ, though this time he was acting of his own volition.

“You will?” Pierre sounded relieved.

“Sure thing. I’ll get her back faster than you can unload a six-shooter.” He patted at the ivory-plated handle of his Colt.

Nathan picked his eyes up off the floor, finally ready to speak.

“I’m coming with you,” he said, standing with tense shoulders and his fists clenched at his sides, as though he was mustering all of his will to force out the words.

“I don’t think so, son,” John said. “I work better alone — no sidekick necessary.”

“But she’s my sister,” Nathan said.

“So?” John said, shrugging his shoulders.

Nathan narrowed his eyes.

“I entrusted my dad’s life to an ‘expert’ — I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he said.

John paused to think it over. He took a long look at Nathan, taking him in from head to toe. The kid was scrawny, like a beanpole with arms sticking out of a grimy white t-shirt. Probably knew how to shoot, but not likely to have any combat experience. His eyes, however, flared with determination, and John wasn’t one to underestimate a rookie.

“Fine, you win,” John said. “Meet me in front of the Co-op in five minutes and we’ll talk shop.”