St Aymon
By
George Gordon
Gin Lane Books
Sic transit gloria mundi.
CONTENTS
St Aymon
Letter I
Letter II
Letter III
Letter IV
Letter V
Letter VI
Letter VII
Letter VIII
Letter IX
Letter X
Letter XI
Letter XII
Letter XIII
Letter XIV
Letter XV
Letter XVI
Letter to the reader
Letter I
Dear Family,
Greetings from the Canadian wilderness! I arrived yesterday safely from the long (very long) journey. Even to repeat the journey in writing is exhausting; thus, a brief summary is all you shall get: Nottingham to Heathrow (3-hour drive); Heathrow to Vancouver (10-hour flight); Vancouver to Fort Nelson in northern British Colombia (15-hour drive); and, finally, Fort Nelson to Lucy’s family’s village in the Northwest Territories (a further bloody 16-hour drive). No doubt one day you will experience the trip and share in my misery of sleep deprivation, boredom, and disappointment of missing a weekend’s worth of football. Thank heavens we arrived at the start of autumn, for many of the roads are soon to become impassable and closed until the spring.
Lucy’s family all send their regards. Her father explicitly told me to tell my dear brother Francis he still owes him £20 for a bet they had at the wedding, something about a beer competition? He aims to claim it the next time he sees him, so be warned. Of course, as we only met a select few of her relatives at the wedding in England, I’ve spent the last day being introduced to the extended family, and they have all been very welcoming. Fun fact: the population of St Aymon equals 66; the percentage of St Aymon’s population related to Lucy is around 96%. That is a statistic her uncle Lou proudly boasted over the welcome meal (much to her embarrassment and my amusement). The old boy was fairly smitten from a local speciality of Canadian pine vodka they produce here in the village. Very strong stuff, upwards of 60% alcohol. Being a shrewd businessman and all, I discussed with one of her uncles (too many names to remember) the potential opportunity to export the liquor back to England; something, I fear, the logistics of this remote location will make near impossible.
During the meal, we ate wild boar freshly caught from the boreal forests that morning. The tender, red meat still dripped with blood from the beast and was served onto crockery containing local Inuit inscriptions of some sort: triangles, circles, stars—very strange carvings indeed. The dense woods from where the animal came surround us for mile upon mile, silent and unforgiving in their isolation. And when we arrived yesterday, I lost count of how many hours we drove into the forest. Each tree stood a guardian by the roadside, tall and imposing; the thicker they grew, the deeper we travelled. I know I’ve only been here for a day, and I anticipate my opinion will change in the coming months, but this place feels like the edge of the world—a timeless, secretive land where nature still rules. The total opposite to life in busy Nottingham.
I bet you’re all laughing reading this, reminiscing how I used to claim I knew how to survive in the wilderness. Well, I regret to admit, my knowledge is a mere drop in the ocean to what Lucy’s brothers and uncles seem to know about the forest. Over the meal, they shared some of their stories about the woods: some light, some more dark and disturbing, which I won’t go into over a letter. But, yes, they are rather eerie and scare me a little, and I got the sense that everyone respects the woodland as one should with Mother Nature: treat the forest lightly at your own peril.
Unfortunately, I’ve yet to meet Lucy’s mother as she is still bedridden from the disease that stopped her from attending the wedding. Her illness appears to be a sensitive topic with the family, and they forbid me from even introducing myself. Hopefully, we will meet soon.
Her father has granted us a small log cabin on the edge of his land to share for now. Small, cosy, and comfortable, the cabin was built in the local Sitka spruce and meets all our needs. It contains a small department for our bedroom, a basic kitchen setup, and a fantastic wood burner. The burner is much needed at night, and probably soon to be needed during the day too I guess, for as our favourite book saying goes: winter is coming. And for sure it is going to be the harshest cold I have ever felt. Uncle Lou scared me with a story about a man who was lost in the snow last year, a foreigner like me apparently. He went deep into the woods, and nobody has seen him since. I think the old boy was jesting though, as everyone laughed at the expression on my face and joked about my pending doom.
St Aymon is not an actual village as such, only a contingent of 21 houses within the boreal forest that count as a municipal by the state government. The only public building is a circular meeting hall the villagers have constructed, but apparently, only for the odd religious celebration is this used.
One thing I have found very strange was Lucy’s confession to me late last night that she is a deeply religious person. As you all know, I have been an ardent atheist for a long time now, and this admittance can only be described as a major shock. My disappointment may not come across in my writing, but there was never any mention of this back home in England, and what’s more shocking is none of her family’s complaints of the wedding not being held in a church. I categorically made it clear to her I wouldn’t get married in a church, and she had not contested this in the slightest. Lucy even came to the national atheism conference a few months before we left. Anyway, I told her what will be will be, and I still love her for who she is.
It is good to write to you all. Know that I am healthy and in good spirits and ready to start my new life in rural Canada. Today is a new chapter in our family’s history, and I hope you are all well and are coping without me. I miss you dearly and will write again soon.
With lots of love,
Michael
Letter II
Dear Family,
Apologies for not writing sooner, but the last three weeks have been busy to say the least, what with the fastidious preparations for winter. We all knew my choice of careers out here was severely restricted. Well, I can now report my new employment is in the commercial forestry industry, which is a glorified way of saying I cut down trees nonstop all day.
I confess, if my handwriting is illegible, it is because my hand shakes from the intense use of an axe. Blisters grow on both of my palms whilst my lower back muscles constantly ache from the 12-hour days we work. I don’t wish to sound too downcast, but the long days begin to take their toll. We rise at 6 a.m., enter the forest at 6:30 a.m., and finish somewhere between 6–7 p.m. that evening. Lunch breaks are minimal at 15–20 minutes (if that) and consist of a portion of oats and a cup of weak Canadian tea. There are no chainsaws or technology whatsoever to aid our work. That’s right, everything around here is old school: the common axe sharpened with a stone. My slim, short frame was never designed for intense manual labour, so through the days I toil in agony, eager for the arrival of darkness when we leave for home.
On the contrary, Lucy’s family are animals; the intensity and pace they work at is on another level compared to me—a feeble, weak Englishman used to the comforts of the city. At least, that is what my new family’s faces convey they think about me. Whilst it takes me a day to cut down a tree, divide, and quarter it, in the same time they have gone through six or seven trees. Yet, never do the family offer advice on my technique or give any suggestions at all (they don’t make the greatest co-workers).
And what’s more, they speak between themselves in a rural language (another major shock). I didn’t know Lucy could speak another language! Let alone some old Canadian dialect. Though, unlike
Lucy’s claims, the origins are not Canadian—that much I do know. The tongue is harsh and bitter, what one could imagine ancient Hebrew or Aramaic sounds like; totally different to any language I have heard to this day. You all know I consider myself a boffin of many things, but from where this strange tongue originates is baffling.
The only time my family “colleagues” do interact with me is either when they mock me for being exhausted after a couple of hours working or stare accusingly at me to work harder. Not that I understand what they are saying, for they seem to have lost the ability to speak English, or worse, refuse to speak to me in English. Very rude, not the typical Canadian hospitality that greeted me a few weeks ago.
Yes, this letter is an admission I miss my old 9 to 5 job crunching numbers. Much I would give for one day off to sit at my old desk again and procrastinate most of the time. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, and let me tell you, having no TV or any form of modern-day technology begins to take its toll. Incredibly, this place is so remote, there is no electricity in the village at all. Can you believe it? In this modern day, no electricity! I thought I was going to be living in Canada, not eighteenth-century Canada.
And to make matters worse, remember how I told you about Lucy’s religious beliefs? Well, since we arrived I have barely seen her, for she is always off in “prayer.” Her routine conflicts with my working hours. She leaves early in the morning before I go to work, and when I arrive home, she disappears again until I’m asleep. Very strange. I’ve pulled her up on this over the last few days and expressed my annoyance that I have barely seen my newlywedded wife. All she did was laugh and tell me I can’t handle the intense labour out here and made a snide remark about my lazy English heritage. To my detriment, I exploded at her and released my pent-up frustration about the things she didn’t tell me in our wedding vows. Lying to your husband is something you shouldn’t do, I said, especially not when you mean for him to travel to the edge of the earth to be with you and your family. But all she did was give me a cold glare before going off to “pray.”
My life as an atheist appears to have taken an ironic twist as I’ve married a religious fanatic. The boys back at the secular society wouldn’t believe it if they could see me and would probably be laughing into their pints, no doubt. Know this though: I take pleasure in the knowledge the family are all wasting time in their prayers. And the more they pray, the more time I have to rest, for her brothers and uncles regularly take an hour leave during work for “prayer”—the only time I’m free to sit and nurse my sore muscles. I do hope there are some holy days around the corner (that is a feeble attempt at humour, something I have been majorly starved of).
What I do find curious is that I haven’t seen any animals in or around the village since I arrived. Lucy’s family have no dogs, cats, or any pets for that matter, and you remember I spoke about the forests being dark and secretive? Well, they seem to lack all forms of life. No birds sing in the trees, no squirrels play amongst the branches, and no insects roam. Nothing. How does a forest even exist in the presence of no ecosystems? No, there must be animals here (after all, we do eat meat hunted by the family). One insect I did spot was a cockroach on a rotting piece of wood, which is very unusual for they only exist in much warmer climates.
Anyway, it is getting late, and the night draws in. The days are rapidly becoming shorter and colder, and the snows are soon to arrive. I hope you receive this in good spirits and laugh saying I’m being overdramatic. Know I miss home and Nottingham much.
With lots of love,
Michael
Letter III
Dear Family,
A terrible fever has crippled my body.
Around twelve days ago, a weeks’ worth of rain fell overnight turning the forest floor into a swamp. In every direction the putrid, stagnant water stretched, and much to my dismay, the hazardous conditions didn’t falter my new family’s work ethic. A “little rain” was to be expected around these parts. And so, through ankle-deep water, we trudged towards our destination as a new weather front arrived from the north. Dark clouds gathered above the trees like an apocalypse setting—black and terrifying. They loomed overhead waiting to burst, and when they did, the fierceness of the rain that lashed down is hard to put into words. My inadequate clothes failed to keep out the beating rain for more than a minute; the monotonous fell of my axe swung in sync with the lightning flashes in the sky, and the crackle of thunder above was deafening. To make matters worse I was forced to stay two hours longer by my so-called family to sharpen the axes for the morrow. Madness.
On the journey home, my weak body began to shake violently, and a crippling nausea took hold. I collapsed upon arrival beside the kitchen table and for the next week, remained bedridden, delirious from the headaches and burning temperatures that purged my body. The core of my bones throbbed painfully in unison alongside my fatigued heart, the bedding dampened by my cold, pyretic sweats. At least four times an hour I would puke up whatever contents remained in my stomach, which was often no more than a small amount of black bile. Whatever wretched bacteria or virus it is, the blasted sickness is nastier than any illness I have suffered before, and surely, I would be hospitalised if there were any close by. But alas, there aren’t, so I am secluded to the cabin to wait it out.
Lucy has little sympathy, and in her own words I should “toughen up.” For days I lay in bed, decrepit, oblivious to the world, dependent on the mercy of others. But she just complained about my ragged moaning and named her father, brothers, and uncles as strong men she can look up to. Not one of her family has visited to wish me well either (or see that I am still alive). This does not surprise me in the slightest as I am sure they share Lucy’s cold perspective on things. Thus, during the worst of the illness, I suffered alone, a world away from the comforts of home and care I needed.
My dreams of late have been rather vivid and repetitive: a large, black dog with red eyes watches me in the cabin while I cower underneath the bed. The strange thing is I often wake up dripping with sweat in the same position as the dream. Even thinking of the nightmares makes me shiver they are so real. In my head, the dog speaks to me, reminding me of embarrassing times during my life and other painful memories too. I am sure (and hopeful) these are aftereffects of the illness.
Often, I call for Lucy in the night, but she either doesn’t hear me or ignores me completely. I’m ashamed to say we don’t sleep in the same bed anymore, and because my constant moaning keeps her from sleeping, over the last few nights she has stayed at her parents’ place.
The rain, at least for now, has abated somewhat, for it carried on for much of the last week, battering the walls of the cabin with a vicious intent. Luckily, the cabin hasn’t flooded, thanks to its position on top of a raised bank. But large patches of the forest remain underneath the stagnant water, which has begun to release a foul odour that lingers over the woods.
The illness has left me a former shell of myself, and I now resemble a pale, skinny human manikin; gone is the healthy complexion of my skin, and my hands tremble constantly like a person who suffers from arthritis. Large parts of my hair have fallen out, and the black puke has stained my teeth yellow.
I am in the first stages of recovery and now able to keep down small meals. I write this letter in the depths of the night as the wind howls outside. Yesterday, I tried to write down a few happy memories from my childhood, but my brain is so foggy these days, I can’t remember half of my cherished ones. In particular, I can’t remember any of my grandparents’ names. Forgive me, I am sure this too is due to the sickness, but please, when you write next, tell me what they were called (it will give me strength of some sort).
Speaking of writing, I am disappointed none of you have written back yet since I have made every effort to keep in contact. I know it is hard keeping touch in remote places like this, but a single letter from the family would really help. Hope all is well back home and you have me in your thoughts.
With lots of lov
e,
Michael
Letter IV
Dear Family,
Dark times—brace yourselves, for I do not write lightly. Firstly, Lucy’s father recently passed away from an unknown cause. The last time I saw him he looked in relatively good health; though, most people now look healthy compared to me after the rotten illness. One moment he’s fine, and the next we are burying him beneath the frozen earth. We had to soften up the solid ground by lighting two large bonfires, but this still only allowed us to dig a grave three feet deep.
The early winter has arrived, bitter and unrelenting; the cold bites at the bones beneath your skin. Each morning I wake to a strange phenomenon. The sky is blood red, and from it, snow falls at a monotonous rate, never forgiving for a moment as the flakes mount upon the ground. This spectacle is something I have never heard of before (the family say it is like the aurora borealis, but I’m not so sure).
Unfortunately, the death of her father is not the worst news. One of Lucy’s brothers and I got into an argument on the day of the funeral, and he lashed out, breaking my nose with a sucker punch. Alas, I am at my wit’s end. He wanted me to go into the woods to continue collecting timber whilst the others rested, but I refused and insisted on remaining at my wife’s side in her time of need. His twisted, pitiful being could not accept my refusal, and his pride saw that I paid the price. Now my face is a bloody mess, and this crooked nose I will have for the rest of my days.
The worst part of it was Lucy’s reaction. She looked at me as though I deserved the punishment—my refusal some kind of shame on the family honour. The reaction was one to be expected from her, for I feel the Lucy of England—the one I married—is not the Lucy in this village. Gone is the young, warm spirit, who cherished laughing and cavorting on a summer’s evening. Was that all a lie? Is the real Lucy the one I witness now: distant, cold, absent most of the time, and constantly praying with her family?
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