Taking a break from the usual today on the blog. I thought I’d publish this little bit of fiction I wrote a while ago based on some childhood experiences. It means I don’t have to write anything new, which is great given I had chemo today. I hope you enjoy it!
Sometime before humans were common in the Laurentien Mountains of northern Quebec, beavers were at work, damming a creek and creating Black Lake. It was no doubt christened much later by the locals, an obvious title for a lake whose waters were so murky, you couldn’t see the hand at the end of your arm if you stuck it straight down into the water. Yet, despite the stark name and the stagnant atmosphere it congers up, the lake-and the forest that surrounds it-is teeming with life.
At about a kilometre long and a half a kilometre wide, Black Lake is tiny by any standards, and inhospitable to humans due to the muddy lake bed and the trees growing right down to the water’s edge. The beaver dam takes up the wider end of the lake, camouflaged by piles of brush interspersed with ghostly tree carcasses sticking out all over like some aging rocker’s spiky coiff. The only natural clearing is at the opposite end of the lake from the beaver dam, bedded with pine needles. Here, a few trees were eventually cut down to make a convenient boat launch. A circle of rocks, blackened with soot, shows where bonfires were held. At one time, rowboats were kept in this clearing, to be paddled lazily around the quiet water. Thus the dam had been explored, the fish had been occasionally tempted by hooks and the cool water had opened to allow hot bodies to be refreshed. Those same bodies took refuge under the water to escape the horse flies and mosquitoes, only to be preyed on by bloodsuckers, plentiful and imperceptible in the murky depths.
The humans who used to visit this spot a few decades ago, consisted of a man, his son, and a friend with his daughter. After a prankster burned down his cabin, the man sold the land and moved on. At retirement age, he settled near his friend, who had ended up alone and hard up after several unhappy marriages, and these two old engineers began inventing things. They spent hours arguing over the best designs, and how to make money on the stock market with their meagre funds. When they made a little they’d spend it at the golf course or on supplies for more inventions.
Oblivious of these humans and their petty dramas, the forest started obliterating the signs of their presence as soon as their backs were turned for the last time. Now the clearing is overgrown with new trees to replace the ones that were cut down. An old canoe lies under the trees, rusty and full of holes. A beer can is buried in the grass. Very little other evidence of human existence remains. The lake has no nostalgia for the old days: no anxiety about surviving on its own. The beavers and deer simply grow bolder, the fish more plentiful and the trail leading from the clearing into the woods fades from view.
A black bear sometimes follows the overgrown trail and noses his way towards the old dump, unused for decades, hoping to find something new amongst the bits of ancient trash. The chattering blue jays scold him when he gives up and sits down beside a blueberry bush, emptying it in a few minutes. The cicadas whine in the hot, humid air as he continues wandering further south until he suddenly comes onto another, much larger, clearing. Here he warily looks about him, sniffing the air for signs of danger. Identifying no fresh scent, he wanders curiously towards a decaying structure. It was once a cozy log cabin, but is now only a crumbling, stone foundation with some blackened, mostly unidentifiable objects strewn inside it. He noses around the cabin for food, finding only some clover and berries, which he devours. Feeling sleepy in the hot sun, he lies down under an old apple tree a few feet from the cabin and dozes off.
Suddenly the sound of a motorized vehicle interrupts the drone of bees and cicadas, getting louder as it bumps its way up the overgrown road towards the cabin. The bear jumps up and grumbles a little as he disappears into the bush. A little pick-up comes to a stop about ten feet from the cabin’s remains. The engine dies and an old man and his middle-aged daughter gaze for a minute out the windshield at the forlorn sight in front of them.
The heat soon drives them out of the vehicle and they move forward together until they’re looking through what used to be the front door. They stare at the garbage strewn around, looking for something recognizable from the old days. They’re both feeling sad at the needless waste in front of them. Suddenly, the daughter says, “Oh!” and points at the old black wood stove sitting in the corner of the ruins. “It’s almost intact, I’m surprised nobody’s taken it. I bet it could still work.” Her father nods in silent agreement. He doesn’t want to let on that he has a lump in his throat. He’s usually very reserved and he’s embarrassed at his own reaction. The woman’s mind is flooded with memories and she suddenly takes her father’s hand, overcome with a feeling of closeness to him. She remembers how when they were here, eons ago, she felt loved by him in a way that she’d never known before or since. Why? she wonders. The answer comes with the question.
Her dad had invited her, with no other siblings, to share this place with her; to rough it, to walk in the woods, to build fires, to go swimming, to play cards by lamplight, to enjoy the quiet of Black Lake. To spend TIME. Time that was more precious than any present could have been.
She feels surrounded by love. The trees, the butterflies, and the robins seem to sing it. She let it flood her soul, her eyes closed. Her father holds her hand quietly. He doesn’t understand what’s going on with his daughter, or even with him, but he doesn’t want to spoil it, so he says nothing.
After awhile, there is nothing more to do or say and they move back towards the car. They discuss the possibility of trudging down to the water, but a short investigation down the overgrown path discourages them. Her father isn’t up to it, he’s feeling the heat. The woman regretfully agrees they should head back to town. They get into the truck, she starts the engine, and manages to get them headed in the right direction after a laborious eight-point turn. As the truck disappears down the laneway, the grass, which had been crushed under the wheels, slowly springs back. The whine of the cicadas breaks the stillness.
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