Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“What, this?” John said, grimacing in pain as he tried to raise his right arm. “Nothing a little bit of Cynthia’s soup won’t fix.” He walked over and leaned against the desk.

Moose pie! thought Nathan. How were they going to get home in this condition? He just hoped none of Barry’s shotgun blasts had punctured the canoe.

“Can we go now?” Emiko whined.

With a groan, John stood up straight from the desk.

“She’s right — we should go. That frankenmoose won’t wait all day,” he said.

“Frankenmoose?” Emiko snorted.

“He means a tvapa,” Nathan said.

“Whatever. Either way it’s a freak on a yoke,” John said.

The trio began heading back through the outpost toward the entrance. A chicken clucked somewhere in the distance.

“We should probably do something about the chickens,” Nathan said. “I have a feeling they’re Pierre’s.”

“Well, we can’t bring them back with us,” John said.

Emiko smiled. “Then let’s set them free.”

“Sounds good to me,” Nathan said, shifting his attention to John. “By the way, can you paddle with your arm in that condition?” He still wanted to know what Ramses meant … how could someone design John’s arm?

“Can a woodchuck chuck wood?” John said.

Nathan replied, “You know, woodchucks actually can’t — ”

“I know. Let’s go,” John said as he stepped outside.

***

Emiko sat on a log, listening to the crackling of the campfire as she gazed into the hypnotic orange and red embers. The group had set up camp at the south end of Sawbill Lake, as it was too late to head back to Frontier View that night. She cradled the Ruger 10/22 in her arms, like it was a part of her. She didn’t ever want to part with it again.

Discreetly, she shifted her eyes to look at John. He was ripping off a strip of his plaid shirt to bandage his wounded right arm. Her eyes turned to his left arm. It looked like … well, it looked like an ordinary arm.

After much prying on Nathan’s part, John had finally divulged what little he knew about his arm. He’d lost his real arm in combat, before the Desolation. Then he’d fallen into a coma, and awakened after the Desolation with a new arm attached to his shoulder. The hospital where he woke up was empty — not a single person remained, leaving him with no one to describe the nature of the new limb. He quickly discovered the bionic arm had nearly boundless strength, but beyond that he had no idea how it worked.

And now, he also wondered how Ramses knew about it. John hadn’t told a soul about the arm, meaning Ramses must have heard about it from someone who knew more. John was determined to find out who that someone was.

Continuing to mull over John’s dilemma, Emiko turned to look at Nathan, who was snoring as usual. She’d never seen him act so bravely. Where he had gotten the courage from she couldn’t say.

Contentedly, she looked up at the stars and picked out the constellations her dad had taught her — Andromeda, Hercules, Ursa Major. Their twinkling glow was reflected in her eyes.

Emiko smiled. Nathan, I knew you’d come for me , she thought to herself.

With a yawn, she again stared at the flickering embers of the campfire. As much as she loved the wilderness, right now she wanted nothing more than to wake up early tomorrow and return to Frontier View.

The dull twang of fingers striking rusty guitar strings carried through Loon’s Landing. John stood in the back corner, alone. He lifted his glass and let the harsh scent of moonshine whiskey hit his nose before taking a quick gulp. The liquor triggered his gag reflex and he nearly spit it back up before forcing it down. They should just call it what it is: frankenmoose piss, he mused, setting the glass down on the nearest table.

Thankfully, the music was better than the booze. The guitarist — a young man, wearing a dark plaid shirt and a black beret — sat in another corner, strumming an old song John vaguely recognized and singing, “Don’t stop believing, just hold on to that feeling.” A small crowd stood around him, clapping between songs and chatting all the while.

John thought back … how long had it been since he’d played guitar? Not since high school. He held his left arm out, examining it as he wiggled his fingers, imagining the crunch of a rosewood fretboard splintering underneath his superhuman grip.

Cynthia stood among the audience, her long white skirt swaying gently back and forth with the music. She looked back and smiled at him, then tilted her head toward the guitarist, encouraging John to join. John shook his head, then looked down at the grimy wooden floor. Despite the dim, flickering lamplight, the dust accumulation on the floor was readily visible.

“No drink for you tonight?” a voice asked.

John swung his head upward to find Pierre approaching with a beer mug in hand. The old man eyed the abandoned whiskey glass on the table.

“Maybe you should try a beer,” Pierre said. “It goes down a bit easier than the whiskey.”

“Yeah?” John said with a smirk as he leaned back against the wall.

“How’s the arm?” Pierre asked.

John looked at his right arm, bandaged and in a sling. He thought the sling was overkill, but Cynthia insisted that he wear it for a few days.

“Just a scratch,” he said. “It’ll heal faster than you can rebuild your chicken coop.”

“Think so?” Pierre said. “Say, did you hear the truth about the coop?”

John raised an eyebrow — last he’d heard, the villagers thought Ramses had burned it down.

“Turns out,” Pierre continued, “that my neighbor’s kid was playing with an old Zippo lighter inside and accidentally started a pile of wood chips on fire. Confessed to it this afternoon. He’s gonna make it up to me by doing some chores and field work. Claims he wasn’t the one taking the chickens though.”

“I think the boys on Sawbill Lake were responsible for that,” John said.

“That right? Say, wanna lead another rescue team?” Pierre said with a wink.

John groaned, shaking his head.

“Sounds like fun to me,” Nathan’s voice exclaimed as he strolled over to join the conversation, ceramic mug in hand.

“Aren’t you too young to be drinking?” John asked.

“Oh, this?” Nathan said, raising his mug. “Just water.”

“Is Emiko doing alright?” asked Pierre.

“Yeah, she’s still … Emiko. Still making messes, still leaving her bed unmade, still …” Nathan trailed off with a sigh. Then he perked up and looked at John. “Say, when are we heading to Mallard Island?”

“We?” said John. He hadn’t planned on bringing company.

“Won’t you need a guide?” Nathan asked. “I found the island on a map — looks like it’s best if we cut south through Duluth before heading north again.”

“I work better alone.” John said. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“Gotcha,” Nathan said, slumping his shoulders and hanging his head. The three stood in silence for a moment, listening to the guitarist’s heavy strumming.

“But what if you lose consciousness again?” Pierre asked John, breaking the silence.

That’s a good question, thought John as he rubbed his bearded chin. He hadn’t passed out recently, but he still didn’t fully understand the nature of his blackouts.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

Silently, Pierre tilted his head sideways, toward downtrodden Nathan.

He wants me to bring the kid? John wondered. Did Pierre understand the danger involved? Nathan was certainly brave — braver than he gave himself credit for — but he wasn’t much of a fighter. Then again, John considered, the old man told me that at the beginning, right here in this bar. Maybe he knows something I don’t …