Once inside the lock, Mac helped slip the rope from the ferry’s prow around the cable running from the top of the lock wall to below the water. She ran her real fingers along the corded steel. It was cold and wet, slimed with algae, utterly practical and simple. She experimented with her new fingers, trying to detect any differences in sensation. None. The cable and its predecessors had been here, doing their job, since before humanity achieved orbit. Her new hand would probably outlast her, too, Mac decided, amused.
The gates closed behind them and the lock began to fill. Mac and one of the cottagers at the stern guided their respective ropes up the cables as the ferry rose. The operator, meanwhile, was lying back in his seat, hat over his eyes. After a few moments, a gentle snore began to compete with the gurgling of water around the hull. A little early in the season for the novelty to have worn off, Mac thought, then yawned herself.
Little Misty, despite its name, wasn’t small. It was one of those long and convoluted northern lakes, deep and cold, filled with rocky, tree-bearded islands. Its shoreline was a sequence of points and hidden tiny coves, making it possible to surprise a moose or otter every few minutes.
The ferry operator paid attention here. May meant deadheads in plenty—floating logs, often marked by little more than a twig dimpling the water’s surface. There were rocks below as well. Mac could see them from her perch on the bow. Great jigsaw pieces of basalt loomed from the depths like the broken pavement of a giant’s road or the ruins of a vast city. Fish cruised every edge, hovering over drops so deep the bright rays of sunlight faded to black. Other times, the ferry slid past uplifted stone whose eroded surfaces kept a painted score of past collisions at low water.
They put the cottagers ashore first. All were on Heron Island, the second largest on the lake. Someone’s son had come a week earlier to set out the floating docks. Mac helped carry belongings and construction materials from the ferry to land, amid numerous, earnest pleas to visit sometime. Having seen the amount and quality of food these particular cottagers were laying in, she didn’t say no.
Mac’s destination was at the far end of the lake. She was as eager to reach it as the ferry operator, who reminded her, several times, that he’d have to be back through the lock by twilight or sleep over.
Around a final string of islands, ranging from bare rocks with the requisite possessive gull on each, to a stunning tower crowned by gnarled white pine. An osprey watched them from the skeletal tip of the tallest tree. Then, another cove, so much like the others the operator gave Mac a doubtful look.
“That’s it,” she assured him, tying her boots to her bag and making sure that was secure on her back.
No dock here. The operator brought his boat in until the keel kissed the sandy bottom. “Thanks,” Mac told him. She hopped over the side, sucking air through her teeth at the bite of chill water on her warm feet and ankles, and waded to shore. She waved good-bye as the ferry headed home, not that the operator turned to look.
Mac dropped her bag on a flat stretch of rock and let out a sigh.
“Been a while,” she whispered.
Behind her, forested hills, deep lakes, and flat marshes marched north until the tundra began, an expanse of wilderness punctuated only by small quiet towns and isolated camps. To live here year-round was to accept seasons, value solitude, leave doors open for strangers and, above all, depend on oneself. Preparation and habits mattered here, helping you survive when civilization wasn’t around to help.
Cottagers—those summer migrants—who wanted only to play, party, and unwind didn’t come this far, and certainly not to lakes like Little Misty where you couldn’t zoom around on skims or have every modern convenience delivered to your door. To come here . . . to stay here, Mac thought, perching comfortably on that piece of driftwood the size and shape of a dragon’s head, the one which had waited for her here as long as she could remember, you had to let yourself assume another shape.
She lay back along the wood, soaking in sun and silence, and let her tears flow.
Before the shadows lengthened too much more, Mac put on her boots, grabbed her bag, and headed up the hill. It was a steep slope, slippery with last autumn’s leaves, but there was a stair of a sort. Where the winding path didn’t take advantage of natural rises in the rock—themselves treacherous when wet, short pieces of wood had been set sideways in the slope to provide a foothold. Surprisingly, most were still intact, though Mac stepped carefully and, near the top, had to avoid eroded sections where the path had become steeper than the hillside.
She climbed past the cedars, through arrow-straight white pines, until a glint of reflection ahead marked her goal. A red squirrel, tail flailing back and forth, scolded her from a branch overhead. “Is that any way to welcome someone?” Mac told it. Unimpressed, the squirrel cussed louder.
The cabin sat within a circle of pines whose tops met far above. For a wonder, nothing seemed to have fallen on the roof besides pine needles and cones. It was a rambling structure built to take the weather, nothing fancy or pretty about it except the aging logs of its construction, and more bunkhouse than home. The senior Dr. Connor had routinely brought up students and visiting peers as well as family. Family, particularly Mac’s brothers, had used it for the occasional party, inviting numerous friends. As far as Mac could recall, they’d found room for everyone. Somewhere.
The long building was T-shaped due to an addition tucked on the back, and had a second floor that was mostly slope and tiny, web-coated windows. It did boast that essential northern convenience, a covered porch which circled the front and sides. Visitors were usually taken aback to learn there was a separate outhouse farther into the forest. Not that there wasn’t indoor plumbing, but it saved having to power up the cabin in winter.
Otherwise, the landscape was as it had been, a hush of moss and pine.
Mac climbed the five steps to the porch and unlatched the outer screen door, ready to jump to the side if any recent occupants made a run for the woods.
Nothing large, anyway. She opened the door to the cabin proper and could hear a rustle or two that likely meant squirrels in the rafters or mice under the floor. Stepping inside, she gazed around, admiring the abundance of right angles. Pod Three was home, but she’d developed a positive hunger for the perpendicular.
The first floor was divided in thirds, with sleeping quarters to the left and right. In the center was the common room, an expanse of dark wood and scattered couches, shelves and tables, with braided rugs tossed here and there on the floor. The massive fireplace on the back wall had been cobbled together from loose stone from the lake itself, glints from embedded crystals of pink, white, and amethyst now catching the low rays of sun entering through the porch and windows. Two narrow doors stood open on either side of the fireplace, one to the kitchen and the other to stairs leading up.
Other than the scurrying of four-footed houseguests, the cobwebs curtaining the windows and hanging from rafters, and the truly remarkable paper wasp nest hanging from the eaves outside, the place did look in “great shape,” as Blake had stated. Not bad, considering Mac’s father hadn’t been up for at least ten years and Mac herself—
She hadn’t set foot on the shores of Little Misty Lake or in this cabin since Sam had left for space and died there.
“On the bright side, Em,” Mac said aloud, “I finally cut my hair.”
While finding someone new to obsess over. Mac put her bag on one of the tables. She’d come for peace and quiet. It wasn’t going to happen if her heart gave a peculiar lurch at the mere thought of Nikolai Trojanowski being here with her. Of being alone, just the two of them. Of what it would be like, to discover each other. To . . .
“He probably prefers cities, Em. And blondes. Curvy blondes who giggle and wear sequined nail polish.” Mac giggled herself at this. Though the idea of being here had merit. Physical attraction, however intense, was one thing—cheerfully sharing an outhouse quite another.
Though, maybe, being a spy, Nikolai like
d his women dangerous and full of secrets. Maybe . . .
Mac snorted. “And maybe I should get to know the man better before letting him in my head, let alone through the door. There’s the difference between us when it comes to relationships, Emily Mamani,” she said as she went to the kitchen. “I don’t want any surprises in mine.”
Not that getting to know Mr. Spy better was likely to happen.
There were, as Mac had expected, a few nests scattered through the cabin, the most palatial where a chipmunk had hollowed out a down pillow in the upstairs bedroom. All were abandoned, their occupants awake from hibernation and scattered to greener—and mate-filled—pastures. The pantry cupboards had kept out any non-Human guests, though many of the supplies were newer than the rest, implying others had used the cabin and courteously replaced what they used. Others who weren’t Blake, Mac chuckled to herself.
Mac made a quick supper of self-heating stew and then took a cup of cocoa out to the covered porch, making room for herself among the cobwebs on the swing. She sat down with care; the old chains and wood held.
A loon called urgently in the distance, a spring arrival eager for company.
“Better you than me,” Mac told him peacefully.
Compared to the vastness of mountains, ocean, and rain forest offered by Castle Inlet, or the glaciers, canyons, and powerful rivers of the inner ranges, the view from the porch wasn’t much. A small sweep of dark blue lake, a couple of rocky islands, the approach to the cove below, all framed by pine branches, several bare of needles. If Mac went upstairs and bothered to clean a window, she could see a bit farther. Catch the osprey on its perch during the day, spot the Milky Way at night.
Yes, there were more dramatic vistas, but this one offered an intimacy she’d experienced nowhere else. With the exception of the stars, she could be part of everything she saw. She could climb the trees and smell sap on her fingers; lie on the rocks and be warmed by the sun; swim to the islands and hear her heart in the waves. She could cup lake water in her hands and drink, feel it trace the inside of her throat to become part of her.
And having been to the stars, Mac decided, she’d take this anytime.
Her father had picked this spot for its owls, several species calling this forest home year-round, the rest visitors in season. Tiny, opinionated screech owls, hopping through the bush at night. Curious great horned owls, who’d stare down from their perches, heads pivoting almost full circle to follow what Humans were doing. Busy barred owls. Arctic owls, alien and elusive. More. Mac planned to hike to some of the old nest sites while she was here. There had been three within a few hours’ walk, ten more if they camped out at night. Some would likely still be occupied and Mac would record what she could. Her father’d be pleased to catch up with his “old friends.”
Recording. Mac frowned. She’d left her imp on her desk at Base. Partly by accident during the rush to elude her keepers, partly consciously. She’d seen no reason to stay connected to the world or to her work while she was away on this forced rest. Okay, maybe some petulance in there, she admitted to herself. The Ministry hadn’t wanted her input when she was accessible.Why make it easy for them to contact her now?
It wasn’t as if she was hiding. Or could hide if she wanted to. Thanks to the nans injected into her bloodstream by Nikolai Trojanowski, her DNA signature had been replicated and concentrated in her liver and bone marrow. As a result, finding Mackenzie Connor—or her remains—anywhere on Earth took only the right equipment and motivation.
Mac shrugged. Old news.
Of course, right before the injection, which had hurt like hell, there had been that kiss. She traced her lower lip with a finger, imagined a tiny scar. There had been anger. Blood. Perhaps passion. Certainly, regret.
More old news.
She focused. Owls. There might be a recorder stored somewhere in the cabin. Or she could buy one when she went for supplies. Fresh-baked bread would be nice.
Mac pushed the swing into motion with one foot, having made enough plans for one night.
May in the great boreal forest shared one thing with the same month in Castle Inlet. Life, getting on with life. Mac shut the screen door on a horde of disappointed black flies and shook the remaining hitchhikers from her hair. It never failed to amaze her how the insects all seemed to emerge, ready to feed, on the same day. At least it meant hummingbirds and swallows wouldn’t be far behind.
“Mackenzie? Mac? It can’t be! Bienvenue, ma petite!!!! I can’t believe it.”
Mac was swept into a tight hug every bit as warm as the voice. “Bonjour, Cat.” For an instant, she let herself indulge in feeling safe, of being known and loved without question, then pushed gently to free herself. There was no safety, even here.
But there was Cat Palmer.
The proprietor of Little Misty Lake General Store stepped back to study her with those bright blue eyes. Joke was that Cat could not only see in the dark, she could see a kid “thinking” how easy it would be to tuck that chocolate bar or fishing lure into a pocket. Kind eyes, with the puckered corners that sun, snow, and frequent smiles left behind.
Kind eyes that began to frown at what they saw.
“Place hasn’t changed a bit,” Mac said, looking away.
Cat shook her head, its tight curls barely up to Mac’s shoulder, and grinned. “Who wants it to?”
The General Store sat where a point divided two coves. Sand and pine needles competed to cover the real wood of its porch and steps, while a gentle shoulder of granite sat companionably close to the east end of the one-story building, so those inclined could clamber up and eat fresh-baked pie while watching for loons. From the doorstep, a zigzag of uneven boards led to the water’s edge in either direction. Going west brought explorers to where a small river entered the lake, sandbars and isolated clumps of reed grass framing its mouth. Moose wandered out at dusk, leaving plate-sized footprints in the sand below the water. Going east, a rickety dock floating on barrels stretched out in welcome to where the water was dark and deep enough for diving. It was presently owned by a pelican and several mergansers.
In deference to the waterfowl, dozing in the morning sun, Mac hadn’t used the dock. Instead, she’d run her canoe on shore, then lifted it out to lean against the logs set along the beach for that purpose. Accommodating birdlife was tradition here. Any day now, swallows would start colonizing the roof overhang. Cat would fuss and pretend to chase them away, all the while keeping track of how many returned and how well they built their nests.
Inside, the store was a maze of too-close shelves, some filled until they appeared ready to fall, others half empty, as if they’d forgotten what they were to hold. Tourists dropping in to buy bug repellers, ice cream, or tent mem-tape invariably stayed longer. Their children found treasures. Maps to the best fishing holes, eyeballs painted on stones, balls and archery sets in brilliant colors, those card games no one bothered to play at home that kept everyone up at night here, gadgets that must be useful, if only you knew what they were. Cat would offer homemade cider and conversation while the children—and, truth be told, most adults—explored in fascination.
There were local crafts as well, fruits of those who spent the long, short-dayed winters here. Russell Lister, Cat’s husband, couldn’t say no to any budding artist. Some of those mercifully one-of-a-kind items had been on the shelves as long as Mac could remember.
She picked up a dusty ceramic pig, the eye that wasn’t winking aimed at the ceiling, and grinned. “Still here?”
“I don’t think Russ could bear to sell her after so long,” Cat chuckled. “Now come. Millie sent over a batch of her Chelsea buns. They’re still warm.”
“Extra walnuts and cranberries?”
“Mais oui!”
Mac followed Cat to the end of the store where three handmade tables competed for window space with a stuffed black bear. The bear was so old its fur had started falling out; years ago someone had taken pity on the beast and applied a sticker to a bald spot. The w
himsy became tradition and now the bear’s glass eyes peered wistfully from a coating of funny slogans, comic book characters, beer ads, and sparkly place names from all over the world.
And beyond. As Cat grabbed mugs of cider to add to her tray, Mac squinted at the bear’s left ear, now covered in a pale yellow sticker inscribed with lettering that looked faintly hieroglyphic.
“Imported,” Cat confirmed proudly, taking a seat. “We’ve started to get a fair amount of traffic from ‘out there.’ Good spenders. Some of them, anyway.”
Aliens. How small they’d made the world. Mac traced the sticker with a finger. “Ferry brings them?” she asked curiously, trying to wrap her head around the non-Human making the trip through the locks in that little boat. Once the ice broke up, Little Misty Lake, and the other rivers and lakes associated with this watershed in the heart of Ontario could only be accessed by canoe or on foot. An essential part of its allure.
“No. We take them tripping from here.” Cat pushed over a plate barely wide enough to contain the bun, let alone the syrup and melting icing that oozed down its sides. The confection smelled even better than it looked.
Mac’s mouth watered, but her fork paused in mid-assault. There had been only one kind of trip leaving the General Store when she’d last been on the lake. “As in canoeing and camping?”
A brisk nod. Cat was already into her first bite. Around it, she continued: “Russ worked out a deal a few years back with the IU, letting us advertise. He and Wendy—that would be Wendy Carlson, you haven’t met her yet. Wonderful girl. Comes up each season. We let the consulate make sure whoever’s coming can physically sit in a canoe, walk up paths, be out in full spectrum sunlight, breathe the air—the basics. Russ and Wendy pack whatever odd things have to be in the diet, but that’s all the fussing we do. Portage with their own packs, paddle with the rest, sleep on the ground.”
Migration: Species Imperative #2 Page 11
