by Morgan Rice
Once, when I was young, my Dad got it into his head to take me on a nature outing. God knows why, he decided to take me to tap Maple trees. We drove for hours to some godforsaken part of the country, me carrying a metal bucket, he carrying a spout, and then spent hours more roaming the woods with a guide, searching for the perfect Maples. I remember the look of disappointment on his face after he tapped his first tree and a clear liquid oozed out into our bucket. He had been expecting syrup.
Our guide laughed at him, told him that Maple trees didn’t produce syrup—they produced sap. The sap had to be boiled down to syrup. It was a process that took hours, he said. It took about 80 gallons of sap to make a single quart of syrup.
Dad looked down at the overflowing bucket of sap in his hand and turned bright red, as if someone had sold him a rotten bill of goods. He was the proudest man I’d ever met, and if there was anything he hated more than feeling stupid, it was someone making fun of him. When the man laughed, he threw his bucket at him, barely missing him, took my hand, and we stormed off.
After that, he never took me out into nature again.
I didn’t mind, though—and actually enjoyed the outing, even though he fumed silently in the car the whole way home. I’d managed to collect a small cup of the sap before he’d taken me away, and I remember secretly sipping it on the car ride home, when he wasn’t looking. I loved it. It tasted like sugar water.
Standing here now, before this tree, I recognize it as I would a sibling. This specimen, so high up, is thin and scrawny, and I’d be surprised if it holds any sap at all. But I’ve got nothing to lose. I take out my knife and strike the tree, again and again, in the same spot. Then I burrow the knife into the hole, pushing deeper and deeper, twisting and turning. I don’t really expect anything to happen.
I’m shocked when a drop of sap leaks out. And even more shocked when, moments later it turns into a small, trickling stream. I hold out my finger, touch it, and raise it to my tongue. I feel the sugar rush, and recognize the taste immediately. Just as I remembered. I can’t believe it.
The sap leaks out at faster now, and I’m losing much of it as it drips down the trunk. I look around desperately for something to hold it in, a bucket of some sorts—but of course there is none. And then I remember: my thermos. I pull my plastic thermos out of my waistband and turn it upside down, emptying it of water. I can get fresh water anywhere, especially with all this snow—but this sap is precious. I hold the empty thermos flush against the tree, wishing I had a proper spout. I cram the plastic against the trunk as close as I can, and manage to catch much of it. It fills more slowly than I’d like, but within minutes, I’ve managed to fill half the thermos.
The flow of sap stops. I wait for a few seconds, wondering if it will start again, but it doesn’t.
I look around, and spot another Maple, about ten feet in the distance. I rush over to it and raise my knife excitedly and strike hard this time, envisioning myself filling the thermos, envisioning the look of surprise on Bree’s face when she tastes it. It might not be nutritious, but it will sure make her happy.
But this time, when my knife strikes the trunk, there is a sharp splitting noise that I don’t expect, and this is followed by the groaning of timber. I look up to see the entire tree leaning, and I realize, too late, that this tree, frozen over in a coat of ice, was dead. The plunging of my knife was all it needed to tip it over the edge.
A moment later the entire tree, at least twenty feet, falls over, crashing down to the ground. It stirs up an enormous cloud of snow and pine needles. I crouch down, nervous I might have alerted someone to my presence. I am furious with myself. That was careless. Stupid. I should have examined the tree more carefully first.
But after a few moments my heartbeat settles, as I realize there’s no one else up here. I become rational again, realize that trees fall by themselves in the forest all the time, and its crash wouldn’t necessarily give away a human presence. And as I look to the place where the tree once stood, I do a double-take. I find myself staring in disbelief.
There, in the distance, hiding behind a grove of trees, built right into the side of the mountain itself, is a small, stone cottage. It is a tiny structure, a perfect square, about fifteen feet wide and deep, built about twelve feet high, with walls made of ancient stone blocks. A small chimney rises from the roof, and there is a small window on each of its walls. The wooden front door, shaped in an arch, is ajar.
This little cottage is so well camouflaged, blends so perfectly with its surroundings, that even while staring at it, I can barely pick it out. Its roof and walls are covered in snow, and the stone that’s exposed blends perfectly into the landscape. The cottage looks ancient, as if it were built hundreds of years ago. I can’t understand what it’s doing here, who would have built it, or why. Maybe it was built for a caretaker for a state park. Maybe it was home to a recluse. Or a survival nut.
It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I carefully scan the forest floor, looking for footprints, or animal prints, in or out. But there are none. I think back to when the snow started falling, several days ago, and do the math in my head. No one has been in or out of here for at least three days.
My heart races at the thought of what could be inside. Food, clothing, medicine, weapons, materials—anything would be a godsend.
I move cautiously across the clearing, checking over my shoulder as I go just to make sure no one is watching. I move quickly, leaving big, conspicuous snow prints. As I reach the front door, I turn and look one more time, then stand there and wait for several seconds, listening. There is no sound but that of the wind and a nearby stream, which runs just a few feet in front of the house. I reach out and slam the back of my axe handle hard on the door, a loud reverberating noise, to give any animals that might be hiding inside a final warning.
There is no response.
I quickly shove open the door, pushing back the snow, and step inside.
It is dark in here, lit only by the last light of day streaming in through the small windows, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I wait, standing with my back against the door, on guard in case any animals might be using this space as shelter. But after several more seconds of waiting, my eyes fully adjust to the dim light and it is clear that I’m alone.
The first thing I notice about this little house is its warmth. Perhaps it is because it is so small, with a low ceiling, and built right into the stone mountain itself; or perhaps because it is protected from the wind. Even though the windows are wide open to the elements, even though the door is still ajar, it must be at least fifteen degrees warmer in here—much warmer than Dad’s house ever is, even with a fire going. Dad’s house was built cheaply to begin with, with paper-thin walls and vinyl siding, built on a corner of a hill that always seems to be in the wind’s direct path.
But this place is different. The stone walls are so thick and well-built, I feel snug and safe in here. I can only imagine how warm this place could get if I shut the door, boarded up the windows, and had a fire in the fireplace—which looks to be in working shape. The inside consists of one large room, maybe fifteen by fifteen feet, and I squint into the darkness as I comb the floor, looking for anything, anything at all, that I can salvage. Amazingly, this place looks like it’s never been entered since the war. Every other house I’ve seen has smashed windows, debris scattered all over the place, clearly picked clean of anything that might be useful, down to the copper wires for the light bulbs. But not this one. It is pristine and clean and tidy, as if its owner just got up one day and walked away. I wonder if it was before the war even began. Judging from the cobwebs on the ceiling, and its incredible location, hidden so well behind the trees, I am guessing it was. That no one’s been here in decades.
I see the outline of an object against the far wall, and I make my way towards it, hands in front of me, groping in the darkness. When my hands touch it, I realize it is a chest of drawers. I run my fingers over its smooth, wood surface and
can feel them covered in dust. I run my fingers over small knobs—drawer handles. I pull delicately, opening them one at a time. It is too dark to see, so I reach into each drawer with my hand, combing the surface. The first drawer yields nothing. Neither does the second. I open them all, quickly, my hopes falling—when suddenly, at the fifth drawer, I stop. There, in the back, I feel something. I slowly pull it out.
I hold it up to the light, through the open window, and at first I can’t tell what it is; but then I feel the telltale aluminum foil, and I realize: it’s a chocolate bar. A few bites were taken out of it, but it is still wrapped in its original wrapping, and mostly preserved. I unwrap it just a bit and hold it to my nose and smell it. I can’t believe it: real chocolate. We haven’t had chocolate since the war.
The smell brings a sharp hunger pang, and it takes all my willpower not to tear it open and devour it. I force myself to remain strong, carefully re-wrapping it and stowing it in my pocket. I will wait until I am with Bree to enjoy it. I smile, anticipating the look on her face when she takes her first bite. It will be priceless.
I quickly rummage through the remaining drawers, now hopeful I’ll find all sorts of treasure. But everything else comes up empty. I turn back to the room and walk through its width and breadth, along the walls, to all four corners, looking for anything at all. But the place is empty.
Suddenly, I step on something soft. I kneel down and pick it up, holding it to the light. I am amazed: a teddy bear. It is worn, and missing an eye, but still, Bree loves teddy bears, and misses the one she left behind. She will be ecstatic when she sees this. It looks like this is her lucky day.
I cram the bear in my belt, and as I get up, I feel my hand brush something soft on the floor. I grab it and hold it up, and am delighted to realize it’s a scarf. It’s black and covered in dust, so I couldn’t see it in the darkness, and as I hold it to my neck and chest, I can already feel its warmth. I hold it out the window and shake it hard, removing all the dust. I look at it in the light: it is long and thick—not even any holes. It is like pure gold. I immediately wrap it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt, and already feel much warmer. I sneeze.
The sun is setting, and as it seems I’ve found everything I’m going to, I begin to exit. As I head for the door, suddenly, I stub my toe into something hard, metal. I stop and kneel down, feeling for it in case it’s a weapon. It’s not. It’s a round, iron knob, attached to the wooden floor plank. Like a knocker. Or a handle.
I yank it left and right. Nothing happens. I try twisting it. Nothing. Then I take a chance and stand off to the side and pull it hard, straight up.
A trap door opens, raising a cloud of dust.
I look down and discover a crawlspace, about four feet high, with a dirt floor. My heart soars at the possibilities. If we lived here, and there was ever trouble, I could always hide Bree down here. This little cottage becomes even more valuable in my eyes.
And not only that. As I look down, I catch sight of something gleaming. I push back the heavy wooden door all the way, and quickly scramble down the ladder. It is black down here, and I hold my hands in front of me, groping my way. As I take a step forward, I feel something. Glass. Shelves are built into the wall, and lined up on them are glass jars. Mason jars.
I pull one down and hold it up to the light. Its contents are red and soft. It looks like jam. I quickly unscrew the tin lid, hold it to my nose and smell it. The pungent smell of raspberries hits me like a wave. I stick a finger in, scoop it and hold it tentatively to my tongue. I can’t believe it: raspberry jam. And it tastes as fresh as if it were made yesterday.
I quickly tighten the lid, cram the jar into my pocket, and hurry back to the shelves. I can already feel, in the blackness, that there are dozens more. I grab the closest one, rush back to the light, and hold it up. It looks like pickles.
I am in awe. This place is a gold mine.
I wish I could grab it all, but my hands are freezing, I don’t have anything to carry it with, and it’s getting dark out. So I put the jar of pickles back where I found it, scramble up the ladder, and, as I make it back to the main floor, close the trap door firmly behind me. I wish I had a lock; I feel nervous leaving all of that down there, unprotected. But then I remind myself that this place hasn’t been touched in years—and that I probably never would have even noticed it if that tree didn’t fall.
As I leave, I close the door all the way, feeling protective, already feeling as if this is our home.
Pockets full, I hurry back towards the lake—but suddenly freeze as I sense movement and hear a noise. At first I worry someone has followed me; but as I slowly turn, I see it is something else. A deer is standing there, ten feet away, staring back at me. It is the first deer I’ve seen in years. Its large, black eyes lock onto mine, then it suddenly turns and bolts.
I am speechless. I’d spent month after month searching for a deer, hoping I could get close enough to one to throw my knife at it. But I’d never been able to find one, anywhere. Maybe I wasn’t hunting high enough. Maybe up here is where they’ve lived all along.
I resolve to return, first thing in the morning, and wait all day if I have to. If it was here once, maybe it will come back. The next time I see it, I will kill it. That deer would be enough food to feed us for a week.
I am filled with new hope as I hurry to the lake. As I approach and check my rod, my heart leaps to see that it’s bent nearly in half. Shaking with excitement, I scurry across the ice, slipping and sliding. I grab the line, which is shaking wildly, and pray that it holds.
I reach over and yank it firmly. I can feel the force of a large fish yanking back, and I silently will the line not to snap, the hook not to break. I give it one final yank, and the fish comes flying out of the hole. It is a huge Salmon, the size of my arm. It lands on the ice and flip-flops every which way, sliding across. I run to it and reach down and grab it, but it slips right through my hands, and plops back on the ice. My hands are too slimy to grab a hold of it, so I lower my sleeves and reach down and grab it more firmly this time. It flops and squirms in my hands for a good thirty seconds, until finally, it settles down, dead.
I am amazed. It is my first catch in months.
I am ecstatic as I slide across the ice and set it down on the shore, packing it in the snow, afraid it will somehow come back to life and jump back into the lake. I take down the rod and line and hold it one hand, then grab the fish in the other. I can feel the mason jar of jam in one pocket, and the thermos of sap in the other, crammed in with the chocolate bar, and the teddy bear on my waist. Bree will have an abundance of riches tonight.
There is just one thing left to grab. I walk over to the stack of dry wood, balance the rod in my arm, and with my free hand grab as many logs as I can hold. I drop a few, and can’t take as many as I’d like, but I’m not complaining. I can always come back for the rest of it in the morning.
Hands, arms and pockets full, I slip and slide down the steep mountain face in the last light of day, careful not to drop any of my treasure. As I go, I can’t stop thinking about the cottage. It’s perfect, and my heart beats faster at the possibilities. This is exactly what we need. Our Dad’s house is too conspicuous, built on a main road. I’ve been worrying for months that we’re too vulnerable being there. All we’d need is one random slaverunner to pass by, and we’d be in trouble. I’ve been wanting to move us for a long time, but just had no idea where. I haven’t seen any other houses up here at all.
That little cottage, so high up, so far from any road—and built literally into the mountain—is so well camouflaged, it’s almost as if it were built just for us. No one would ever be able to find us there. And even if they did, they couldn’t come anywhere near us with a vehicle. They’d have to hike up on foot, and from that vantage point, I’d spot them a mile away.
The house also has a fresh water source, a running stream right in front of its door; I wouldn’t have to leave Bree alone every time I go hiking to bathe and wash our clo
thes. And I wouldn’t have to carry buckets of water one at a time all the way from the lake every time I prepare a meal. Not to mention that, with that huge canopy of trees, we would be concealed enough to light fires in the fireplace every night. We would be safer, warmer, in a place teeming with fish and game—and stocked with a basement full of food. My mind is made up. I’m going to move us there tomorrow.
It’s like a weight off my shoulders. I feel reborn. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t feel the hunger gnawing away, don’t feel the cold piercing my fingertips. Even the wind, as I climb down, seems to be at my back, helping me along, and I know that things have finally turned around. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I know that now, we can make it.
Now, we can survive.
TWO
By the time I reach Dad’s house it is twilight, the temperature dropping, the snow beginning to harden and crunch beneath my feet. I exit the woods and see our house sitting there, perched so conspicuously on the side of the road, and am relieved to see that all looks undisturbed, exactly as I left it. I immediately check the snow for any footprints—or animal prints—in or out, and find none.
There are no lights on inside the house, but that is normal. I would be concerned if there were. We have no electric, and lights would only mean that Bree has lit candles—and she wouldn’t without me. I stop and listen for several seconds, and all is still. No noises of struggle, no cries for help, no cries of sickness. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A part of me is always afraid I will return to find the door wide open, the window shattered, footprints leading into the house, Bree abducted. I’ve had this nightmare several times, and always wake up sweating, and walk into the other room to make sure Bree is there. She always is, safe and sound, and I reprimand myself. I know I should stop worrying, after all these years. But for some reason, I just can’t shake it: every time I have to leave Bree alone, it’s like a little knife in my heart.
