Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

Maybe Emiko is looking up at the stars, too , he thought. If only she could give him a sign … a signal that she was near.

A shooting star whizzed across the skyline, leaving a long, hazy trail in its wake before fading completely. Nathan shook his head. The stars were beautiful, but they couldn’t help him. He raised his hands to his mouth.

“Emiko!” he called out. It’s no use, he thought. His sister wasn’t out here, and even if she were, he wouldn’t find her searching alone by moonlight.

What did I do to deserve this? he wondered, sighing deeply, as he fell to his knees in exhaustion. He closed his eyes and knelt in silence, drifting in the space between sleep and meditation. His mind went blank and time slipped away.

Emiko, where are you? he silently pleaded. I can’t do this without you. If only he had respected her more — known how to deal with her, like his father would have …

Nathan slowly opened his eyes. The sky was brightening and the stars had already begun to fade. Had he really searched all through the night? Gathering his strength, he found the will to pick himself up off the ground and began the trek home, carefully avoiding the branches and rocks underfoot as they scraped at his heavy boots.

Frontier View would send out a search party soon, but he knew it would be in vain. He was alone now. The Desolation had claimed his mom, his dad had succumbed to cancer, and now he’d lost his sister. Who would leave next? Best not to think about it , he thought. Mindlessly, he continued putting one foot in front of the other. Frontier View was just around the bend.

A few minutes later, he could see the cabins. Keeping his head low, he trudged toward home. The crest of the sun was just visible above the trees as he reached his door.

As Nathan entered, he eyed a folded sheet of paper, unexpectedly lying in the middle of the cabin’s main room among the other clutter. It looks like a herd of cattle stampeded through here, he thought, making a hazy mental note to tidy up in the morning. After veering left into the bedroom, he collapsed forward onto his bed, still clothed. His head hit the pillow and his body refused to move another inch.

What now? He didn’t know what he could do anymore …

“I can’t do this alone,” he mumbled to no one in particular, before falling into a long, dreamless sleep.

“Hold your horses! Don’t you at least want your clothes back?”

John stormed out the door, ignoring Cynthia as she called after him. A light breeze passed through his loose fitting gown and tickled his underside.

The last time he’d woken up in an unfamiliar bed, he’d found himself alone in an abandoned underground military hospital. He’d surfaced, only to discover a godforsaken version of the world he’d remembered. This , however, was something entirely different. He reached for his gun, but his hand found only white linen. Of course — they would have removed his gun belt when they took off the rest of his clothes.

“What the hell is this place?” he asked, turning back to Cynthia. “A set for Little Town in the Big Woods ?”

“How about you come back inside and get yourself decent — I’ll explain everything,” she said.

Well, she does have my gun and my pack , John realized. That left him no choice.

“Fine,” he said, begrudgingly allowing Cynthia to usher him back inside.

***

“This is the best soup I’ve had in ages,” John said. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d tasted anything so thick and velvety. As he ate, his memories gradually came back to him, from the voracious hunger to his encounter with the frankenmoose. After he finished the bowl of soup, he set it down on the table and turned back to his hostess.

“So, who found me?” he asked.

“A neighbor of mine — a girl named Emiko,” Cynthia said.

“Emiko?”

“It’s Japanese. Her father was second generation Japanese-American, I think,” Cynthia said as she sat back in her chair. “Emiko told us about you, and so we sent a little rescue party to help.”

As he listened to Cynthia explain everything, John finally began to feel at ease. Fortunately, he hadn’t woken up in a hospital — he hated everything about them, from the stark white walls to the pervasive smell of death that lingered in every nook and cranny. The cozy cabin made him feel much more at home. As for the village outside … well, it wasn’t the first one of its kind that he’d seen, but it was certainly the most rustic. Every home built in log cabin style? Even considering the state of the world, the village was an anachronism.

“Get many visitors up here?” he asked.

“Occasionally we get traders in from Duluth, but no, other than that not many people make it up this way,” Cynthia said. “This area used to be a government protected wilderness — as far as I know, there isn’t another village north of here until you get into Canada.”

“Wish I had known that before I crossed the border,” he said.

“You know, there’s this thing called a map ,” she said with a tiny smirk. “What led you down here, anyway?”

John shrugged.

“A drifter, huh? Where from?” she asked.

It seemed the farther west he came, the more ridiculous people found his answer to be. Still, he had no reason to hide the truth.

“I’m from Maine,” he said.

“Maine?” she asked. She sounded only slightly surprised. “That’s a pretty long hike, isn’t it?”

“You bet,” he said with a nod. It had taken him nearly two years to get this far, though for someone walking directly and purposefully, it wouldn’t have taken more than a few months.

“By the way, I have a personal question, if you don’t mind …” Cynthia trailed off, waiting for his assent.

“Go ahead,” he said, reluctantly. He didn’t much like talking about himself.

“How did you get the scar around your left shoulder?” she asked.

John scowled — he’d forgotten that Cynthia had changed his clothes and undoubtedly had seen his replacement arm. Outwardly, it could have passed for the original, if it weren’t for the thick ring of pink scar tissue that circled around his shoulder.

“You don’t wanna know,” he muttered.

“A real man of mystery,” Cynthia replied with an easy smile. “So, what’s your plan now?”

“Keep walking, I suppose,” he said.

“Where to?” she asked.

“South, I guess,” he said with a shrug.

“Well, don’t rush yourself out the door — stick around for a while, until you’re at one hundred percent. I’m still not sure why you fainted,” she said.

John mulled the offer over. She had a point — why he had collapsed was unclear, and he wasn’t on a deadline to arrive at any particular place. Maybe it would be best if he stayed put for a bit …

“I’ll consider it,” John replied. “In the meantime, I’m gonna get some fresh air,” he said, pointing to the door with a grin. “Now that I’m fully clothed and all.” Just to be sure, he felt at his holster — the Colt was there. He picked it up in his hand and swung open the cylinder. It was loaded with six shells. He pointed the muzzle toward the ceiling, letting one shell slide into his lap as he held the other five in, shutting the cylinder afterward. He pocketed the sixth bullet.

“Who gave me the ammo?” he asked.

“Oh, just a gift from the people here,” Cynthia answered. “We have plenty in storage. Just ask if you need more.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” John said, as he stood up and headed for the door.

***

Once again, John stepped outside, this time examining the little hamlet more closely. It looked like men with axes had come through and cut a giant, rectangular swath out of the forest, creating space for the cabins. The entrance to Cynthia’s home faced southward; from what he could tell, all of the cabins faced each other in two rows running east-west. On either end of the rows he could see where the forest began again, separating civilization and the wild. The long, wide area between the homes served as a main street, covered in a mixture of grass, weeds, and dirt. It was much like he imagined a town from the Old West would look, with lush green trees and heavily insulated log cabins substituting for the arid desert and thinly constructed buildings.