My atheism clouded my judgement of what I considered the family’s religion to be—Christianity is what I thought. At the start, I wanted to know nothing about what God or idol they prayed to, but my suspicions are it is to something more sinister. Not once have I seen the sign of a crucifix around the place nor any of the family wearing one. In the woods, queer objects and shapes dangle from the trees—symbols that are not Christian or any other religion I have encountered before in my atheist studies. Triangles, circles, and stars (similar shapes on the crockery we eat from) are etched into the bark of the gnarly trees around the forest. Inside our log cabin, too, I have slowly been uncovering different symbols dotted around the furniture, and when I asked Lucy about these, she pretended not to know what I was talking about.
How I long to feel the warm rays of sunshine on my skin. The days are becoming ever darker, and now we work longer over the flicker of firelight than we do in the gloomy daylight. Food too has become scarce, with no more succulent boar on the menu; Lucy only cooks watery oats. We don’t talk over meals, just sit opposite each other in the faint glow of the log cabin fireside—the light from the flickering embers revealing her disdain for me.
Each day merges into the next, with the same basic routine of cutting wood, eating, and sleeping. The forest is silent, apart from the fall of an axe onto timber while we work. I feel the old, faceless trees are watching, whispering amongst themselves about the foreigner in their land. And sometimes, I can hear voices calling my name from the depths of the forest, tempting me to venture farther and bend the knee to untold riches (tiredness and fatigue are no doubt to blame for all of this).
In the dark I currently write, and confess, I feel different from before. Gone is the person of optimism and vitality, for now, my energy is low and weak, all but a slow ebb of what it used to be.
I have just shed a single tear. I’m crying. I can’t even remember the last time I cried, yet here I am in Canada, meant to be supposedly living the dream on the other side of the world, reduced to weeping.
My dreams are all nightmares; I can’t seem to fight them. Children torture me whilst I am tied to a tree and cockroaches swarm at my feet. Every night, demonic children chase me through the woods, scolding me with molten iron rods, laughing at my howls of pain, and as if I’m self-inflicting these wounds during my sleep, I wake to find fresh bruises and burns have formed on my body.
The other day I searched for other villagers in the community, but the few houses I came across were long abandoned, wild structures that had been battered by the elements for a good age. I stopped searching after the final house I came across. The thick trees surrounded the house, weeds grew from the porch, and much of the exterior wood was rotting. But into the window I glimpsed to see a cloaked figure cradling a large snake. The cloaked figure knew I was peering in the window and greeted me with a twisted smile from its black, gaunt face; the image still resides in my mind. I must have imagined all of this of course and quickly left for home.
Only one more chance will I give this family and the village until I inform Lucy my intentions to leave for England. If she wants to come with me, so be it; if not, I will send the divorce papers in the post. This is not the life she spoke of before we came. If I wasn’t too exhausted from the intense labour, I would probably be writhing with anger, intent to leave this very second.
Come to think of it, how will I escape this place? There isn’t a telephone in the village. The post is collected every two weeks, so maybe you can advertise for a ranger to come and collect me (I would happily pay a small fortune in that event). But has the post even been collected since I got here? The thought is too terrifying to contemplate.
I look forward to when we can all read these letters back together in the future and laugh about my hard start to life in Canada. I hope all is well in Nottingham.
With lots of love,
Michael
Letter V
Dear Family,
Something corrupt and sinister is going on in the village. Very strange things are happening. In the night, I can hear the beating of drums from deep inside the forest, the echo of strange chanting in the distance amongst the trees. Always around 3:30 a.m., there is a brief lull in the chanting and terrifying screams fill the silence.
Only once have I plucked up the courage to venture out into the woods to investigate the activity in the night. The one time, I stealthily made my way through the forest towards a firelight in the distance. Lucy’s entire family stood in a circle around a large bonfire, reciting the following words: lived si ginmoc. I’m clueless as to what they mean, but they had a sinister, evil connotation. The group became aware of my presence when my hand involuntarily snapped a branch nearby. It was like an ulterior force took control of my body to reveal myself. The family became aware of my presence and commanded me to enter the circle, and my body obeyed their orders even though my mind resisted, and into the hot flames I entered. Then I awoke from the nightmare.
I’m becoming an insomniac and haven’t slept in days; my mind lies in a constant state of haziness, as though I were on strong medication. Lucy herself has appeared to age somewhat considerably recently; large wrinkles have formed around her eyes, and I could have sworn her face has changed, less symmetrical, much less beautiful than before. Although I never admitted it, we all knew she was out of my league, and I remember the feeling of elation when this once beautiful individual had taken an interest in me: an average-looking guy in a low-paying dead-end job. None of it made sense. Jackpot: that was the word that sprung to mind when she said yes to my marriage proposal. This angel of a person is the jackpot. How wrong I was.
The woman doesn’t return to the cabin anymore and spends most of her time elsewhere with her family. I haven’t seen her in two days. Yesterday, I went to search for her and met her mother for the first time. Well, I say mother, more like ancient grandma. She sat alone in a wicker chair on the front porch, immune to the cold outside, her eye sockets empty black holes. She sensed my arrival long before I spoke, and her razor tongue and sharp mind didn’t betray her age. My attempts to make conversation were returned with an insult as she remarked what a weak individual her daughter had brought to St Aymon. Apparently, they were expecting someone with more strength and vitality. I asked what she meant by this, but the woman just laughed and told me to begone. To say I’ve waited a long time to meet this lady is an understatement. But now I hope the old bat dies sooner rather than later.
Only Uncle Lou and I go out into the forest to prepare the wood these days. Yet, I feel this is only to keep me away from the village. He never acknowledges my presence, and I once enquired about the fat man that laughed at the welcome meal, but the question was only answered with a cold, hard stare.
Yesterday, when I cut a tree in half, the base was infested with thousands of cockroaches that spilt out around my feet. Disgusting, vile—are these the only creatures that inhabit this land? Not even flies or other small insects have I seen. I long to hear the birds sing in the trees and the sound of life in this forsaken place. To keep my mind sharp and stave off cabin fever, I have begun to write a bit of poetry during my long days, and below is one I have memorised:
If fate deals you a deadly blow,
Only chance can heal the pain.
Through time these wounds may linger on,
Life may never be the same.
The wind may howl,
The dogs may bark,
And hope seems far away.
For in this hour,
When all seems lost,
I say to you,
I will succeed.
My lack of interactions with other humans has given me a lot of time to ponder my own thoughts. You know, I have started to think about the way we live. Life is a system, not a land full of opportunities like we advertise. Every single detail, from the day we are born, is governed by the system, micromanaged by the expectations that by achieving a better job, better car, better wife, we will become fulfilled in
life. At school, the message of education is not one of enlightenment; no, more of it will provide you a better job for more money. Our universities are more like human factories churning out students of the system. We care more about making that extra dollar over the needs of our fellow humans.
The programs we watch on TV create the illusion that beauty brings happiness and education brings wealth. We are slaves to ideas and concepts that have been drilled into us by all those around. Fate, from the day I was born, destined me to write this letter from a pitiful existence. I have never spoken of this, but when I met Lucy, I was already in a relationship with another woman. My greed, and indulgence to the system made me want the more aesthetically pleasing woman over the one with a good heart.
I remember I used to walk past a homeless man on my way home from work, and every day I ignored him and pretended he didn’t exist. How I regret my actions. I looked down on people addicted to drugs, or gambling, or those who were homeless. To me, these people used to be ones who epitomised messing up their lives.
The more time I spend out here, the more I start to appreciate humanity. I was selfish in the past, materialistic, wanting the latest technology, the big house, the trophy wife. Pursuing the trophy wife is how I ended up in this bloody mess. It used to feel normal to look down upon people who were lower statuses than me, yet now, my outlook is changing.
I lied when I said I miss my old job. I won’t go back to the standard 9 to 5 life. No, when I return to England I want to help the poor, the downcast, those who have less than me. I hope this doesn’t scare you too much, but I guess this new life has changed me. Whether for better or worse, we will see.
No more can I take of this. Yes, I am currently planning my escape away from here, back home to England where I belong. Why did I ever think that moving to Canada was a good idea in the first place? I don’t know if this desolate land has corrupted Lucy and her family, or if they were corrupt to begin with. I wish to not know the truth. Tomorrow I’m going to ask them to take me to the nearest place where I can get transport to one of the cities. Hopefully, by the time this letter reaches you, I will already be near to home.
With lots of love,
Michael
Letter VI
Dear Family,
Alas, I have been a prisoner for three days now.
Soon after I finished writing my last letter, Lucy made a rare appearance in the log cabin, so I informed her of my decision to leave for England on the morrow away from this pitiful existence. Her reaction was vile: she spat in my face and called me a whore. I didn’t react, only got out my handkerchief, wiped away the spittle from my eye, and smiled at the fact that this ordeal was finally coming to an end. This angered her further, and she struck me hard in the face, causing my lip to burst. Shocked, I left that very moment in search of an escape out of St Aymon.
According to Uncle Lou, 96% of the 66 people in the village were related to Lucy, which left only a few villagers not in the bloodline, and maybe these people were my salvation and could help me escape. I wandered the forest alone, searching in vain for any forms of life.
Help, help! The voice of an innocent child in distress called in the distance. My instinct kicked in and I ran towards the cry, but as I got nearer, the voice travelled farther into the trees. Help, help! I ran harder; the calls more urgent. The trees began to thin and eventually opened into a wide marshland that spread for miles. The strong smell of decay hung in the air, and condensation rose from the surface of the bog, creating a veil of mist that sat above the water.
Built on one of the islands on the water was a small hut, which was connected to the land by a rickety, wooden bridge that allowed passage between the marsh and the forest. A single line of smoke rose from the chimney of the hut. Silence. The pleas for help had disappeared. I crossed the bridge and approached the hut; firstly, in the hope the child might have found safety inside, and secondly, in the hope that the person or people inside might be able to offer help of some form. I knocked. A voice commanded me to enter.
What I found inside is hard to repeat. Six small children of the village, all Lucy’s little cousins, stood in a circle in the hut torturing a cat. The screams of the poor kitten I can hear in my mind now. Agonising. They stood around the animal each taking turns in a sinister, cruel game, and I was instantly sick on the spot. Their faces were demonic, evil like, and they spoke with adult voices. Come to join our little game have you I see, one of them stepped forward, prodding me with a metal bar whilst I cowered on my knees, crippled by fear.
My energy sapped, I somehow managed to summon enough strength to get to my feet and stumble back towards the log cabin. A fierce blizzard settled around the area, and such was the fierceness of the swirling snow, I was forced to remain inside.
In the night, I heard a banging and emerged from my hiding place beneath the bed to find Lucy’s family were barricading the door and windows. This produced a feeling I haven’t felt in a while, anger, one that had long been lost beneath the self-pity. I ran out immediately and challenged them, but they pinned me to the ground and beat me severely. One of my ankles was crushed in the struggle to return to the cabin.
Now I can’t walk, and the pain is excruciating, although the throb from my ankle pales in comparison to the pain I feel in my heart. I’m alone, tired, and in despair. I feel betrayed, my life in ruins. I remember meeting Lucy on the summer solstice last year near our home in Newstead Abbey. It was late in the evening; the sun had dipped beneath the lake and she appeared out of nowhere to ask about the local history of the place. I will never forget her beautiful face and heart-warming laugh as she told me she was from a small village in Canada. Little did I know on that evening what my future held. She had told me she was staying nearby and asked if I wanted to meet again tomorrow. I thought, incredible, this stunning model asking me out. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Now I am wretched and miserable, a prisoner in a stranger’s home. Far away in a foreign, alien land.
Michael
Letter VII
Dear Mary,
Haven’t slept much since I left Vancouver, and the journey has been slow, boring, and the scenery dull. Many of the roads are still frozen solid from the harsh winter, which severely limits our progress to the remote village in the Northwest Territories. Unexpectedly, I’m joined on the investigation by an American private detective named Johnson: an old, rugged man, with thick, white hair; we have said little else other than a brief introduction when we met. My travelling companion is rather mysterious and a little odd, and possibly the first New Yorker I’ve met who doesn’t like conversation; he just sits in silence, deep in thought, unresponsive to my attempts to chat. I’m still not sure why the Vancouver Police Department allowed him to accompany me on the trip, but as you know, what Lieutenant Sydney says goes.
Once again, many apologies, my love, for the short notice leave. I know you are frustrated at the timing of the mission since it is so close to our wedding day, but I’ll be back home before you even know I was gone. Please remember, I’ll basically be handed that promotion after this job and the house we wanted by the lake will easily be within our budget. No one else from the department wanted the investigation (I don’t blame them), but it is only a simple inquiry because no one really knows, or cares, what happened. It is a familiar report where the foreign tourist (this time a British guy) thinks he has the knowledge to traverse the Canadian wilderness and, finding it more remote than expected, perishes in the bleak conditions. It should be the standard routine of find a body, tick a few boxes, and move on. Even if we don’t find a body, we can tick a few boxes and move on.
The Brit was last seen six months ago, travelling north from Fort Nelson with his Canadian wife, but his family back home haven’t heard anything since. No doubt they ended up on the wrong path somewhere and didn’t make it out alive. Strangely, there have been no reports from the wife’s Canadian family about the couple’s whereabouts, so we’re just tying up some loose ends. These
rural communities never really have an idea what’s going on in the outer world, and therefore, I expect to be the bearer of bad news. Poor souls—just married, that’s what the report says. Who knows, we may find them cosying up in some remote log cabin still!
As is often the case in unresolved disappearances, the British family have specifically hired Johnson to unearth the mystery, and I reckon he is getting a decent amount of money for the mission too. So, I guess both of us are taking the mission out of monetary necessity.
Nearby to Fort Nelson, British Colombia, we stopped by a highway café, and I ate a 12 oz steak with fries followed by toffee pudding. Johnson didn’t eat anything but stood outside in the cold the whole time, smoking a cigar, surrounded by the thick, white vapour. His appetite must be as big as his mouth—nonexistent. All the private detectives I’ve ever come across have been strange, reclusive old men, yet even by their standards, Johnson is an anomaly. Normally the private detectives are retired policemen: often large, more muscular men, not the scrawny Johnson type. He doesn’t carry himself like an ex-cop either. Anyway, the further we travel into this isolated land, the more grateful I am to have another human beside me—even if it is Johnson.
When we set off from the café, the first snowflakes began to fall, slow at first, but then increasing as we passed across the large expanse plains. Thank heavens we have a police force 4x4 vehicle, otherwise you can forget about travelling across these roads. Even though it is spring, some parts are still thick with ice and have already given us problems. Around the border of British Colombia and the Northwest Territories, we hit a patch of nasty black ice that sent us veering off the roadside, narrowly missing a large conifer nearby. A passing trucker kindly helped us back on our way an hour later (after much pushing, in which Johnson offered little help).
St Aymon Page 2
