The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North

by Henry J. Olsen

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.”

  “Why not, s —”

  “Hammersnap, son! Will you cut that out? If you’re going to be any help to me, I need you to be a partner, not a subordinate.” He paused to collect himself, then held out his hand. “The name’s John Osborne. Call me John.”

  Nathan fought the urge to grimace as John’s iron grip crushed his hand.

  “Nathan. Nathan Kanno.”

  The wooden bench creaked as they sat down.

  “So, tell me, son — what’s your weapon of choice?” John asked.

  “Weapon of choice?” Nathan wondered aloud. “Ah, I use my dad’s old Remington 870.” The phrase caught him off guard. He thought of the shotgun as a tool, not a weapon.

  “Solid gun,” John said, as he pantomimed raising a gun to his shoulder. “Pump action, plenty of stopping power — you’re a good hand with it?”

  Nathan nodded.

  “Alright. And you understand the risk involved?” John asked. “There’s no shame in having second thoughts.”

  Nathan paused for a moment — no, he didn’t fully know what he was getting into, but did it matter? Nervous as he was, this was something he had to do.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Good. Then let’s talk details. First things first — I’m assuming Sawbill Lake is nearby?” John asked.

  “Yeah — about 10 miles north. We go there tomorrow … then what?” Nathan said.

  “Then we find the kidnappers, maybe shoot a few bullets, and get your sister back,” John said.

  Nathan waited for further explanation. It didn’t come.

  “That’s your plan?” he blurted out. “I could have thought of that!”

  John shrugged his shoulders. “Do you have a better idea? Unless you have five grand sitting around, my plan is the only plan.”

  Nathan bit the corner of his lip, then nodded in agreement. The bearded man had a point.

  “Next, supplies — you have a gun,” John said, lifting his index finger. “Do you have a map of the lake?”

  “I have one at home,” Nathan said. “Do you want me to go fetch it now?”

  “No, it can wait until tomorrow,” John said as he held up a second finger. “How about a canoe and paddles?”

  “Sure, I have an aluminum canoe sitting behind the cabin,” Nathan said. Everyone in Frontier View had a canoe, or at least had access to one. Roads and trails still guided travelers between most towns and villages, but they didn’t go everywhere. Canoeing across lakes often proved to be easier than trying to bushwhack a path through the surrounding woodland and Sawbill Lake was no exception.

  “Great,” John said, raising his ring finger. “Finally, do you have a cart and a … frankenmoose?”

  Did he shudder as he said that? Nathan wondered. No — must’ve been my imagination. This guy doesn’t look like he’d be afraid of anything.

  “A tvapa?” Nathan asked.

  “Yeah, one of those,” John said. “You have one?”

  “No, but given the circumstances, I can probably borrow one from Cynthia. A cart, too.” Carrying a canoe to Sawbill Lake was out of the question. Holding a canoe over one’s shoulders and walking just one mile was hard work — ten was unthinkable.

  “By the way, does their manure always smell so bad?” John asked.

  Nathan thought about it a moment. “I guess you get used to it,” he said.

  John shook his head and let out a deep breath. He raised his pinkie finger, then closed his hand and pumped his fist.

  “Sounds like we’re set. If you have food that’s easy to carry, bring it along, but if not we can do a little hunting along the way. Pack anything else you think we’ll need for an overnight trip — try to keep it light,” he said.

  Nathan rolled his eyes. Does he think I’m the pampered prince of Frontier View? “I guess that means I’ll have to leave my makeup case and pewter collection behind. Woe is me.”

  To Nathan’s surprise, John grinned at the sarcasm. “You got spunk kid. I like that,” he said, pointing his finger at Nathan. Then as if thinking aloud, he added, “Though it’s always the spunky ones that want to shoot me.”

  “You’ve been shot at before?” Nathan asked.

  John merely chuckled in reply.

  Loons over the moon! Who laughs about being shot at? Nathan wondered.

  “Prepare everything on our checklist and meet here at sunup tomorrow. Not a moment later — got it?” John said.

  “Got it,” Nathan replied with a nod and a tired sigh.

  The bench creaked again as John stood up.

  “Keep your head up, kid,” he said, as he sauntered out of the lamplight, back into the darkness.

  Chapter 10

  Hours later, John rested on his unzipped sleeping bag, staring up at the glowing ceiling of his tent, illuminated by the stars and the moon. Not wanting to impose upon Cynthia, he’d set up camp in the woods on the outskirts of Frontier View. Moreover, the thick walls of a cabin dulled the senses and offered a false sense of security — through the thin nylon tent, he could detect any oncoming danger early and act accordingly.

  With his right hand, he massaged the lumpy scar tissue around his left shoulder. It still felt strange to his fingertips, like someone had branded him, separating his arm from the rest of his body. Was the arm a gift? A curse? What was its immense power intended for? Whoever gave it to him probably didn’t think he’d be using it to sucker punch wild game in the wilderness.

  John took a deep breath through his nose — strange, there was something in the air …

  Smoke.

  He poked his head out of the tent. Voices shouted in the distance. With haste, he clothed himself and stepped out to look.

  The shadowy trees loomed over him as he passed through the underbrush, towards the village. Thorns clawed at his jeans and low hanging branches slapped at his eyes. As he approached Frontier View, the voices became clearer. “Fire!” he heard. “Pierre’s chicken coop is on fire!”

  Well, pull my trigger, John thought. He steeled himself and picked up his pace, lurching over the roots and downed logs in the darkness, like a blind man dancing through an obstacle course. A jagged piece of bark clipped his shoulder, claiming a shred of his flannel shirt. He leapt over a final bush and fell to one knee, catching his breath as he tried to determine the location of the fire.

  The smell of smoke was unmistakable now. An aura of flame danced in the distance. Out of the woods and into the firepit, he thought, standing up and dashing toward the light. Every building he passed was constructed of wood. If the fire got out of hand, it would quickly ravage the entire village.

  As he approached, he saw men, women, and children — many half-clothed or in pajamas — scurrying across the village with buckets full of water, like panicked ants defending their hill. Pierre was among them, clearly straining his old body to keep up.

  Embers and ashes flitted through the air, carried by drafts of hot air. Through a gap between the houses, John saw the source of the flames — a chicken coop nestled against the rear of Pierre’s home. He drew himself closer, watching as a villager braved the sweltering heat and tossed water on the fire. Even standing ten feet back, the blaze seared John’s skin.

  “What are you standing around for? Grab a bucket and get to work!” a young man shouted over the crackling of the fire. Sweat dripped from his dark mop of hair as he ran up and thrust a bucket at John.

  No, more water won’t help — this fire is already burning too hot, John thought as he stared into the flames. There had to be another way.

  The man dropped the bucket at John’s feet and barked an admonishment, then spun off.

  John quickly surveyed the chicken coop. It was constructed of thin, roughly cut pine, propped up by half-foot stilts and separated from the cabin by an arm’s length.

  His eyes darted back and forth as he examined the resources at hand. Buckets, trees, dirt and grass, an axe
, a chain — it was like an algebra problem with a multitude of variables, to which there may or may not be a workable solution.

  Pierre ran by John, drenched with sweat. He tossed a bucket of water on the fire and turned back to get more.

  “Pierre!” John shouted.

  The old man slowed and looked toward John.

  “Oh, it’s you!” Pierre said. “Pick up that bucket and help us out!” As he began to take off again, John grasped his shoulder.

  “Listen to me,” John demanded gruffly.

  Pierre looked into John’s eyes for a moment, pursing his lips before nodding anxiously.

  “Your little buckets aren’t gonna put out this fire before it spreads,” John said, pointing to the cabin. The flames from the coop licked at the larger building, as though they were whetting their appetite for the main course. “I have a plan — do you trust me?”

  Pierre paused for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod. “Okay, but make it quick,” he said.

  “Round up two tvapas, put a yoke on ‘em, and bring them over here,” John ordered. “I’ll take care of the rest. We don’t have much time. Go!”

  Still clinging tightly to his bucket, Pierre nodded a final time then took off in an awkward jog.

  “What the hell are you doing standing there! Pick up the bucket and get to work!” a voice shrieked.

  John looked back. It was the same young man from before. John gave him the evil eye — the meanest scowl his bearded face could muster. The man cursed and threw his hands in the air, again running to fetch more water. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be chased out of town by an enraged bucket brigade, John thought to himself.

  Pierre returned sooner than expected, leading two tvapas by a rope in his hands.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “Always,” John said with a smirk. “Just bring ‘em over there, in front of the chicken coop.”

  John ran to the adjacent cabin and reached for a length of steel chain coiled against the outer wall. With both arms, he heaved the heavy chain onto the ground. He grabbed hold of one hooked end and dashed toward the tvapas. The chain links followed behind him, slithering through the grass like a snake after its prey. He attached the chain’s hook to the tvapas’ yoke. The burly creatures stood about five yards from the burning chicken coop. Neither of them looked eager to step any closer to the flames. John hoped the length of chain was long enough to wrap around the chicken coop and attach to the other side of the yoke.

  Darting back to where he started, John picked up the other end of the chain. He eyed the gap between the chicken coop and Pierre’s cabin — it was narrow, trapping the heat like an oven. Suddenly, a watery downpour crashed down on him, drenching him from head to toe. He turned around and saw Pierre, standing with an empty bucket in his hands.

  “I see what you’re thinking — thought I’d help,” he said. “Now go do your thing.”

  John tightened his grip on the chain and ran for the gap. The chain clinked behind him as the coils unwound. He took a deep breath and covered his eyes.

  Out of the firepit and into the pressure cooker, he thought.

  The water evaporated from his skin. The heat scorched his hair. He slammed his shoulder against the cabin, trying to avoid the inescapable flames surrounding him.

  He opened his mouth to breathe — big mistake. Ash singed his throat; superheated smoke filled his lungs. His insides burned; tears welled up in his eyes. With a choking cough, he stumbled a few final steps forward and fell to his knees.

  And the heat was gone — he’d made it through the gap! He opened his eyes and hacked the gritty air out of his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he looked at his hand. The chain was still there.

  That was easy, he thought as he stood up. Looking over to Pierre, he noticed that he had an audience of villagers, all agog to see his next move.

  I can’t let them down now. He lowered the chain, securing it in the space between the chicken coop and the ground, flush against the joint where the stilts met the bottom of the coop. If he latched the other end of his chain to the yoke, the tvapas could pull the structure over.

  He dashed toward the tvapas. The chain links thumped against the rear of the wooden coop. Just a few more steps …

  Without warning, his arm snapped back, jerking his body with it — he was out of chain. The fingers on his other hand could almost touch the tvapas.

  Hammersnap! I’m almost there! he thought. If those frankenmeese would take a step or two back, I could hitch them and complete the circuit.

  The tvapas continued to shy away from the flames, oblivious to his dilemma.

  John gave his end of the chain a tug, hoping the tvapas would get the hint and take a step backward. No dice — apparently they didn’t do “reverse.” What are my options? he wondered. If the tvapas wouldn’t step any closer to the flames …

  He looked at his left arm. How much force could it muster? Time to find out. He secured the chain in his left hand and extended his arm behind himself, setting his feet by digging his heels into the dirt.

  Then he pulled.

  “AAAAAAARRRRGGHH!” he screamed. His heart raced. Sweat exploded from every pore. His feet bored into the ground, anchoring the force of his pull.

  The tvapas stumbled backward from the unexpected surge of power tugging on their yoke, then regained their footing and plowed forward to fight against it. A sharp crack rang out from behind.

  John kept pulling. He couldn’t feel his limbs. His vision grew blurry. Vomit rushed up from his stomach, burning his throat with acid.

  Then he collapsed onto the grass and his vision went dark.

  Chapter 11

  Emiko sat, bound to her chair by leather straps. Dust particles floated around the room like baby fireflies, dancing in the moonlight that beamed in through the window. She sneezed, causing the specks of dust to scatter violently before returning to their aimless hovering. The dry air irritated her sinuses — she couldn’t bear being shut in much longer.

  Her stomach growled. Every time her captors tried to spoon feed her, she spit it back out. If they wanted her to eat, they could untie her first. They were probably afraid she’d escape, or grab her gun and retaliate. She’d never shot a person until Barry, but they didn’t know that. She felt no remorse, and now that she’d done it once she could do it again. Next time she wouldn’t aim for the leg.

  Why were they keeping her here, anyway? She tugged at her restraints, yet they refused to budge.

  Just then, two shadows passed the window. Emiko stopped struggling and listened intently.

  “What we gonna do with the girl?” It was Dwayne, the man who’d knocked her in the head — she recognized his voice.

  “Dunno,” said Jeremiah.

  “Well, I was thinkin’, I never had me an ‘oriental’ woman before …”

  Gross! Emiko grimaced. Another silhouette hobbled past the window — Barry, on a pair of makeshift crutches.

  “That’s ‘cause the only woman you’ve had is your own sister,” he said with a guffaw. Emiko heard a thumping noise — Barry smacking Dwayne with a crutch? She wondered if Barry, Jeremiah, and Dwayne had ever considered forming a traveling comedy troupe. They were more suited to slapstick than soldiering.

  “Ya know that ain’t true, Barry!” Dwayne said. “Why, I had me plenty of —”

  “You can’t have her,” Barry cut in, “cause soldier boy wouldn’t like it.”

  Soldier boy — it was what they called the fourth man, Private Brushnell, behind his back. Emiko hadn’t seen him, but she’d heard him speak. He sounded more intelligent — and likely more dangerous — than the other three. His voice vaguely reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t place it.

  “Reckon this ‘Osborne’ guy is gonna come?” Jeremiah drawled.

  “If he don’t, I got first dibs on the girl,” Dwayne said.

  “Dwayne, I’ll tell you what,” Barry said. “After we reclaim Minnesota, I’ll line up ten virgins and
you can have first pick. I’ll even throw in an Asian or two.”

  “What’ll Brushnell say?” Dwayne asked.

  “Soldier boy will be too busy kissin’ the General’s behind to say anything,” Barry said.

  The trio chuckled.

  “You got yerself a deal,” Dwayne said.

  Emiko shook her head. Just listening to these creeps would kill her before starvation could.

  “I see you’re still awake,” a voice said from behind her. Emiko twisted her neck to see the speaker, but he was in her blind spot. If only she were an owl …

  “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “Long enough,” the voice replied. “I thought I should inform you that this will all be over tomorrow. We’re going to let you go.”

  “What a load of moose crap,” she said.

  “Just as feisty as always, I see,” the voice said. “Emiko.”

  A chill ran down Emiko’s spine. She’d never told them her name.

  “My brother won’t let you get away with this!” she said.

  “Nathan?” the voice said with a scoff. “Done watering the crops with his tears, is he?”

  Emiko didn’t reply … could it be him? she wondered.

  “That’s right, Emiko — I know who you are,” he said. “And there’s something I need you to do for me: tell Pierre and everybody else in Frontier View that I’m doing just fine without them.”

  “Ramses? You’re behind this?” Emiko said.

  Ramses Brushnell! How hadn’t she recognized the voice earlier? She realized she hadn’t heard his surname, Brushnell, in years — everybody in town had just called him “Ramses.”

  “Just deliver the message,” Ramses said. Emiko heard his footsteps, leaving the room.

  “I’d rather put a bullet through your brain,” she said, thrashing at the leather straps.

  Ramses snorted. “Always barking, but where’s the bite?” he asked, as he stepped out and latched the door shut.

  Emiko’s blood boiled with anger. Calm down, Emiko. Save it for tomorrow, she thought. If Ramses was to be believed, her chance would come then, when this mysterious Osborne arrived. She took a deep breath and focused on getting a wink of sleep.