Simon Valerya walked down the street, among the old buildings where they narrowed almost to a point. The looming brick and mortar pushed against Simon from above. He felt claustrophobic. He could not shake the uneasy feeling that dogged him since he arrived two days before. His footsteps echoed through the quiet street until he turned the corner. A crowd of tourists milled outside the little hotel he was staying at. Simon frowned. He looked at his watch. It was late, almost 4 pm then he remembered that his brother Marin, who worked as the concierge at the hotel had told him a large group would be leaving that afternoon for the mountains. They were waiting for the tour bus to arrive. Simon cursed his luck. He had hoped to arrive well after they left. Simon avoided looking at them as he walked by, keeping his head down low. He despised them even though technically he was also one in his own country.

Inside the hotel, the lobby was overflowing with people too. Simon craned his neck to see the desk, but his brother was busy talking to an American couple. Simon could tell they were American from the shrillness of the woman’s voice as she protested. Marin was explaining to them that there were no rooms left for them. They had not booked in advance and there was nothing that he could do. Marin’s face was like glass, but Simon knew what seethed underneath. The tourists brought much needed cash with them, but Marin doubted that they were worth the trouble that they caused. Marin shrugged as Simon walked by the desk. His eyes flickered to Simon and then back to the couple. The woman was crying and the husband was red-faced and shaking a doughy hand at Marin.

Simon leaned against the heavy dark wooden doors that led to the lounge. The wood acted like insulation as the doors closed behind him, blocking out the noise of the lobby. Simon breathed a sigh of relief. He sat down at a small round wooden table tucked in the back corner of the room, sliding his long legs underneath while shrugging his coat off at the same time. The girl, Simon couldn’t remember her name, appeared at his elbow. She had a pale, sour face framed by a mass of black curly hair. Her white blouse seemed lost on her equally pale skin. She was almost translucent. She looked at him expectantly waiting for Simon to order.
“Beer – for now.” He said gruffly. The girl evaporated to the kitchen like mist. Simon ignored her when she returned seconds later with his beer. She brought him some bread and cheese without him asking. Simon grunted in thanks. The smell of the fresh bread made him realize he was famished. He tore off some bread from the loaf and ate hungrily. Simon looked out at the room as he ate a second piece of bread. The lounge was practically empty. It was early for people to be coming to eat, and with the tourist group leaving for the night, Simon was optimistic that he would have a quiet night. Marin was working and would not be looking to go out. Simon turned his attention back to eating. The goat cheese was fresh too. He devoured the rest of the food and gulped some more beer. Simon dug around for his jacket which had slipped to the floor in his haste to take it off. He bent over to retrieve it, and felt a nudge on his back.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” The voice said. Simon sat up abruptly. A young man stood beside him. Simon looked at him surprised. Simon guessed that he was a tourist. The man’s fair hair and fine features were European in nature, but there was something foreign about him that made the man stand out like one of them. Simon nodded.

“Yes?” he asked. The man hesitated before speaking again. Simon watched him. The girl came by and asked if the man was staying. He shook his head.

“No, I just was wondering if there were any taxis that I could hire to take me to..” he said, rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper that he unfolded and read. “The Descu” Simon and the girl both looked at him surprised.

“You are a priest?” Simon asked. The man nodded.

“Father Markus. I am due there to study for the next few months.” The man said. Simon nodded not knowing what else to do. The man wasn’t orthodox, not in the least, he thought. Simon wondered what exactly he would be studying but didn’t ask. The girl looked nervous suddenly.

“I will find you a taxis.” She said. Her voice was light and airy, which also surprised Simon. He was expecting her voice to be different somehow. Father Markus nodded gratefully. The girl left them abruptly and went into the lobby. Simon offered the priest a chair. Father Markus sat down.

“Where are you from?” Simon asked. He took a drink of beer and then thought better of taking another. He set the glass down, and began to play with the circle of condensation that the glass had made before.
“Canada.” He said. Simon’s head snapped up and stared hard at his new companion.
“Canada? Where in Canada?” Simon asked. His skin prickled.

“Winnipeg.” Father Markus said. Simon breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded.
“That is a long way to come.” He said. The priest nodded.

“Yes, it is but it was a journey that I had to make.” Father Markus said mysteriously. He looked at Simon with curious eyes.

“Is this your home?” he asked. Simon swallowed uncomfortably and shifted on the hard wooden chair.
“Yes and no.” he said. Father Markus looked at him curiously.

“It used to be my home, but I have been living in Montreal, going to school there. I am just home for a few weeks.”

Simon said. The priest nodded. Simon looked around for the girl to come back to tell them the taxi had arrived. Simon didn’t want to explain anything more about his life. He felt the cold prickle of regret inching its way up his spine.

“I see. Montreal is where I did my seminary work, then I was stationed in Winterpeg.” Father Markus smiled as he finished. Simon smiled in spite of himself. The colloquial pet name for the city was so familiar to Simon, he felt suddenly more at home than he had when he first arrived in town. Father Markus chuckled.
“You have come a long way as well.” Father Markus said. Simon nodded. He took another gulp of beer instead of elaborating. The girl came back as the priest was preparing to speak again. She touched him gently on the shoulder. He jumped because he had not heard her arrive behind him.

“Excuse me. The taxi waits.” She said. Father Markus stood and thanked Simon.

“I hope that we get to talk again soon. If you are in the area of Descu, please stop in.” he said, shaking Simon’s hand. Simon nodded.

“Nice to meet you Father. Good luck with your studies.” He said. Father Markus smiled strangely.
“Thank you… uh, I’m sorry I did not get your name.” he said.

“Simon. Simon Valerya.”Simon said. The priest nodded and seemed to chuckle as he turned to follow the girl out to the doors of the lounge. Simon frowned and wondered why the priest found it amusing to know Simon’s name, then he shrugged deciding he didn’t care that much. He went to the bar, not waiting for the girl to return and ordered another beer to erase the unsettled feeling he had in his stomach.
~

“Simon” Marin called to him from behind the desk. Simon stepped off ancient elevator into the lobby. He walked over to his brother and leaned on the counter.

“When are you done?” Simon asked. The clock behind Marin’s head blinked 11pm. Marin looked at his watch instead of looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t be off until 1am.” Marin said gloomily. He shuffled some papers in front of him.
“Where are you going?” he asked Simon. Simon shrugged.

“Out. I need to walk, do something.” He said. A concerned look flashed across Marin’s face.
“Hey, you shouldn’t go out, not at this time of night. Are you crazy? Things are very different now. It’s not like when we were kids here.” Marin said. Simon shook his head. Someone came out from the lounge. Simon noticed the music for the first time. The violins and throaty voice of a familiar old song wafted through. Simon looked at Marin.

“Since when do you have live music here?” Simon asked. He didn’t wait for Marin to answer. Simon walked to the lounge doors.

“Only when the tourists are gone.” Marin said calling after him. “Why don’t you stay here, watch the band. Sorina is going to be singing soon.” Simon stopped and looked back at him.

“Sorina?” he asked. Marin laughed.

“You don’t remember her do you? She’s grown up a lot since you left.” Marin said. The lobby doors opened and a group of people entered. They went to the lounge without a word to Marin. Simon stepped out of their way as they went in. Marin shrugged and waved to Simon to follow. He walked in after the others, just as the doors began to swing closed. The lounge was surprisingly full of people. Simon skirted the outside wall, looking for a table to sit down at. Almost every table was occupied. Simon spied one small table in the back corner that sat empty. He began to make his way slowly through the maze of bodies and chairs to it. Simon stepped out of the way of the way of a large drunk man who lumbered passed him.

“Hey watch it!” a voice shouted in his ear. Simon blushed and ducked his head

“Sorry.” He said and pushed on. Simon lost sight of the table at one point, having been diverted around a throng of young teens. He wondered how the hell they had gotten in, but then remembered that the hotel didn’t employ any bouncers, not the way they did in Montreal. No one cared really what age came in. One of the girls, Simon noticed, had piercings along the rim of each ear. He marveled briefly at how it would feel to have that many holes in the cartilage there, then turned away to search for the elusive table he was trying to reach. Simon felt a tug on his arm that pulled him backwards.

“Hi there beautiful.” a clearly drunk young blonde clutched at his arm; her eyes are lined in black charcoal. She grinned sloppily at Simon before stumbling into someone else. Another guy grabbed her around the waist and hauled her to his lap. Simon gently shook her off his arm and moved on. He finally arrived at the table, relieved to find it still empty and out of the way. The music from the band thumped through the room. Simon could feel the beat through the soles of his shoes. He watched the stage. Several of the musicians were rocking back and forth with their violins firmly wedged under their chins, arms flailing in time with the others. The guitarist stood back against the wall, contorting his face with each note. Several girls danced in the small space in front before the line of tables and chairs. They twirled frantically waving their arms. Simon vaguely recognized the melody of the song, an old traditional one that had been changed and modernized. Simon looked for one of the servers. He was suddenly very thirsty. As though reading his mind, a girl with a tray appeared beside him. He nodded to her and held up a finger. It was too loud to talk. She understood him and disappeared back into the crowd.

Simon watched the crowd from the corner, glad to be away from the mass as they moved with the music, fueled by alcohol and probably much more. There was a sudden movement as someone started to push and shove, but the crowd quickly swallowed them up again, like a swarm of insects. Simon shrugged off his jacket and leaned forward on the table. The heat in the room was starting to get to him. He felt the sweat bead between his shoulder blades and trickle down his back. The girl brought his beer and he drank it quickly. The warm foam lingered on his lips. He still could not get used to having warm beer after all his years away, but after a few gulps, Simon no longer cared. The band finished the song, and the crowd cheered loudly. They took a break to set up other instruments, and drink some more. Even without the music the room was deafening. Simon drained the glass and set it down on the table. He debated what to do.

The first notes of the next song began to play. Simon stood to leave. He saw a door hidden in the alcove next to him, and decided to use it instead of wading through the room again. Fresh cold air greeted him as he slipped through the doorway into the alley behind the hotel. Simon’s boots were loud on the cobblestone. The pounding of the music through the walls of the hotel as Simon walked further away. The streets were surprisingly empty, Simon noticed as he crossed through the square. He was relieved nevertheless to be out in the open, and no longer in the crowded lounge.
~

That day, in the middle of March, I could hear the river talking through my bedroom window.  The river behind the farmhouse ran fast in the springtime.  It wasn’t really a river, but for me, it was wide enough to be one. My father told me many times to stay away from the water, especially in the spring, but I never listened. That wasn’t true, I did listen to him say the words. They bellowed out of his mouth with tiny droplets of spit that hung like rain in his black beard. It always happened when he was excited. His arms would bounce up and down as he shouted for me to stand away from the edge of the water. I would pretend not to hear him, lowering myself to crouch closer to the surface, watching the currents drag branches and last year’s leaves along with it as it hurtled towards the rickety old wooden bridge.
“Mary Elizabeth Clark you get the hell away from that water. You are going to fall in and die!” he would shout. He called me by my full name when he was angry or frightened. I used to hate it when he did that, but after hearing my name so often, I stopped to care.
That morning, however, there was silence. My father was in town getting the parts to fix the tractor. Aunt Tilda was supposed to be looking after me, but she fell asleep with her crochet work spread across her lap in the living room. I got bored waiting for her to wake up, and went outside to play. The snow had melted so quickly with the warmer weather that the corner of the yard was flooded. The water had risen up from the other side of the drive way and over into the yard by the tire swing. Ice floated in chunks. I could see one large piece just under the water, waiting to be stepped on. The cold seeped through my rubber boots. I was careful not to step in too deep. Water pushed against the rubber, touching my skin. I liked the sloshing sound that it made the deeper I went. I toed the ice. It didn’t move. Disappointed, I waded over to a stick that was floating nearby. I plucked it out of the water, and poked at the ice. Little pieces broke off, but the ice was still attached to the ground. I gave up after a couple of minutes, and pushed my way through the water back onto the highest part of the driveway.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear geese calling to each other. I carried the stick with me as I picked my way through the stones on the driveway, kicking at the ones that were loose. I thought about finding my soccer ball, but remembered that Toby, my dog ate it. I still loved that stupid dog. Only he would mistake black and white leather for something alive and good to chew on. The hen house was quiet. Only Betty and Lucy were left to sit in the old hay after my father had taken the axe to the others. I liked Betty and Lucy much better than the stupid rooster. He chased me around when his head came off under the axe. I was glad he was dead. The field behind the hen house was black and hard to walk on. Some of the furrows were thawed and muddy, others were still hard like stones. I walked in the rows that were the straightest, and only got stuck once. My boot almost came off, but I held on with my toes. The further I walked in the field, the more the mud layered itself onto the bottom of my boots. By the time I reached the bridge over the river, my legs were heavy and it was hard to walk.
The wood planks were black and grey from the water and left over winter. I picked my way over the broken parts, and waited until I was balanced before trying to sit down. It wasn’t really much of a bridge. One wall of a barn on Mr. Little’s land fell down. He didn’t have the money to fix it, my father said. The wood floated down last spring and got stuck in the long grass. I didn’t mind it. The barn boards were not bad for making a bridge. The frogs liked it in July when the river shrank and left them with mud and grass to hide in. I liked it because I knew the frogs were there to catch. I could hear the water rushing underneath as I crouched down over the edge to see through to the bottom. It was still too cold for frogs. I knew they were sleeping. I poked my stick into the mud of my boots to try to clean them. I didn’t want to walk back with them thick. The mud came off in chunks. One part under the heel of my boot was stubborn. I pushed hard against the stick. My boot flew off my foot, and I was left poking my red sock instead of the pink rubber. I scrambled onto my knees and looked for my boot. It bobbed just out of reach in the water. I whipped the stick out and touched the rubber mouth. I stretched as far as I could to shove the stick in to save the boot. With my other hand I held one of the planks, trying to give myself a few more inches. I heard wood crack as I pulled on it. I was so close to reaching my boot. I didn’t want to walk back to the house without it. The sun came out from the bank of clouds suddenly, drowning the water in light and blinding me. I could only think of the trouble I would be in if I ruined my red socks walking back in the mud. I reached out as far as I could go. The splash was the last thing I heard.
~
Of course, I didn’t die that day. I fell in and grabbed my boot. The water was so cold it snatched my breath right out of my lungs. I didn’t have enough to even yell. The current was strong, and I slipped underwater. I could see the underside of the bridge was I went through and the sky flashed above through the spaces in the boards. Then when I was on the other side, I hit a log that I didn’t know was there. It grabbed me around the middle and threw me up above the water. I felt like a moron. I didn’t really know what a moron was, but my father called everyone, especially people wearing suits on Sunday morons. He meant they were stupid for sitting for a whole morning listening to some guy dressed in robes pretend he had the right ear of God.  The sun was out while I grappled with the slick bark of the submerged log. I shimmied myself up to the end that was closest to the riverbank and threw my boot to safety. My long hair was plastered to my face. I pulled at it. Somehow the ends were wrapped around my neck. I tried to jump onto the ground from the log, but I missed the edge of the grass. One foot sunk into the mud. It didn’t matter. I was soaked from head to toe. My bones were shaking from the cold.
I didn’t bother to put my boot on. I walked, lopsided through the furrows until I got to the long grass that lined the back edge of our yard. I could see Aunt Tilda’s white hair flying in the wind. I could see from where I stood in the field that she was angry. Her one arm was across her face trying to shield her eyes from the sunlight; her other hand trying to contain her hair. I winced, wanting to disappear into the black soil behind me; disappear from her sight. I sniffed. Tears were stinging my eyes, pricking at my lids like burrs from the bushes along the hen house. I swallowed hard, and continued my plodding through the grass and black walnut trees.
“Land sakes Child, what happened to you?” she screeched when she saw me. I wasn’t given a chance to answer. She grabbed me by the elbow and steered me up the concrete steps. I realized, while lying in the floor of my bed room closet, under the long dresses of my mother’s that were now stored there, she had to clean me up quickly before my father came home, otherwise he would have discovered she’d fallen asleep.
“You are a very lucky girl” she said as she scrubbed my legs until they were bright pink and no longer dotted with mud.  “One these days I won’t be here to save your hide.” Aunt Tilda clucked and fussed worst than the chickens did. I stood staring out the bathroom window while she dried my body off and pulled a fresh dress over my head. The elastic neck caught on my nose, bending it painfully.
“Ow” I said. She shook her head and didn’t apologize. I half expected her to, but she didn’t. The door of the hen house was open. The space gaped wide like a black toothless smile.
“Won’t the chickens get loose?” I asked suddenly. Aunt Tilda looked down at me. Her blue eyes flashed and she frowned upside down. I simply pointed to the window.  My other arm was stuck at the elbow, caught between the rickrack that was coming loose around the armpit.
“Oh Lord.” Aunt Tilda screeched and left me, half naked, standing on the baby blue bath mat. I heard the side door bang against the wall as she ran out to save Betty and Lucy. I laughed to myself, yanking the dress off over my head. I walked buck naked into my room and dug out a pair of jeans and my favorite shirt. The hens never moved off their shelf, not since the rooster died. I thought they forgot that they could get down and walk around. They just sat, clucking quietly and didn’t even move when I came in to check for eggs on the days that I remembered to.
I crawled into the closet and watched the darkness through the dresses. The air was warm, which was good. My bones were still chattering in my body from the cold. I reached into the gloom and pulled out one of my mother’s fancy silver shoe. Even in the half light under the hanging clothes, the straps glowed. I ran my finger gently over the stitching. I thought about her. My mother left on a Tuesday, late at night. I woke up hearing her shouting. I thought I was dreaming.  I looked out my bedroom window but the laneway was empty. I swore to my father later that I heard the gravel popping, but I don’t think he believed me. The next morning, everything was different. The room where my parents slept every night was empty. She took everything with her when she left; everything except the silver shoes. I took them and hid them in the corner. My father never said a word about her leaving; not to me.  I didn’t ask.
The door banged below me. I listened to the heavy footsteps on the hardwood. My father was back from town. He was predictable on a Saturday. I knew he would boil water for coffee before going out to his workshop to fix the tractor. The door banged a second time. Aunt Tilda came in from the hen house. I rolled over onto my side and pulled my knees to my nose. I was still cold. I heard them talking through the floor boards. I closed my eyes, and let the murmurs wash over me. I must have fallen asleep because the sun cut through my room at weird angles when I crawled out of the closet. Aunt Tilda was calling my name.
“Mary? Do you want a snack? You must be hungry now.” She said brightly. I guessed that she had not told my father about finding me soaking wet in the yard. If she did, she would have had to explain to my father why I was left on my own. I rubbed my face and wandered to the top of the stairs.
“Can I have cinnamon toast?” I asked. Aunt Tilda nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. I walked down the stairs. I let my heels smack each step, listening to the hollow thud each time.

~

silent unspeakable memories

A mist drew breath along the glass face of the lake. Somewhere beyond the hills of pine and birch the morning sun stretched, making its way through the thick dark branches and hidden caves. Another day began in silence. I stood on the dock, naked, pausing only long enough to take a deep breath before diving into the crystal clear water. The shock of the cold water shot through me like electricity. I knew better than to open my mouth in surprise. Lips pinched closed, I felt my lungs start to burn as I swam with long strokes to the surface again. The air felt warm when I broke through. I swam easily to the center of the cove and lay floating on my back, watching the last stars disappear while the sun rose steadily up into the sky. A loon called, and another answered. Even with my ears submerged I could hear their mournful conversation. They were nearby where I floated. I wondered briefly what they thought of the pale fleshy body in their water. My breasts stuck up higher than my belly, two small mounds of flesh, faintly scarred circled by the dark water. The contrast made the fragile skin paler and the nipples shone deep rose as I drifted into a shaft of golden sunlight. The loons called again. I stretched my arms above my head and pulled them through the water down to my hips, then let my feet fall as I glided through the water. Within seconds, my face was cradled by the water briefly and I let myself sink into the depths. As I drifted, I turned my face up to watch the rippling window above my head. Blue and gold swirled around me. The further I slipped the colder the water became. I waited as long as I could before pulling myself up again. I turned to see the cabin in front of me. The windows were dark and empty. No smoke rose from the small stone chimney. My stomach grumbled. Not one to argue, I began to swim back to the dock slowly, letting the currents made with moving caress every inch of my body. The loons nodded in approval as I hauled myself out of the water and onto the dock like a bloated sausage. They swam happily through the reeds, chuckling in a way only they could. I made a face at them before padding over the worn wood and dried pine needles to the porch.

Inside, I dried off with the towel that I had forgotten to bring with me down at the dock and climbed reluctantly into clothing. The morning routine unfolded without any hiccups until I heard the popping of gravel in the driveway. I put down the novel that I was reading, and stood up to look out the window. I looked at the calendar on the wall by the light switch.  The moose in the photograph above the boxed lines of days stared back at me. I traced the lines with one finger. I was not wrong about the date. The moose agreed. I lifted the red cotton curtains to see who had arrived. I didn’t recognize the truck. I cursed inwardly, not wanting to break the silence, at least not yet. I lowered the curtain, hoping that whoever it was who came in would leave just as quickly. It was too early in the season for tourists, but I couldn’t think who would come to the cabin without an invitation. There were footsteps on the porch. I bit my lip and cursed everyone I could think of. Before I could run through the complete list, a hammering knock shook the door. I sighed, knowing there was nothing else to do except answer it. The latch gave way when I turned the knob. The door swung open effortlessly to reveal who the thunderous knocker was. He was young, tall and dressed in a crisp officer’s uniform. My eyes flit to his name badge.

“Sorry to disturb you Miss. We are just checking the cabins around the lake. Two of the cabins on the other side of the bay were broken into and ransacked.” Officer John Stoneridge told me. I didn’t recognize him. I wondered where he had come from, what part of the province and why he chose here of all places to work. Maybe he didn’t choose but was sent. I didn’t know how it worked. The black fabric of his uniform impressed me. Not a thing out of place. He kept his hat on. I was relieved at least that he wasn’t planning to stay or tell me any bad news. They held their hats so awkwardly, I thought, when they had to tell you the truth.  Stoneridge slipped his hand into his breast pocket and took out a card. He handed it to me.

“If you see anyone suspicious, will you call us?” he asked. I took the card and held it gingerly.

“I don’t have a phone here, and my cell doesn’t pick up until the highway, but if it happens, I will find a way to call. I don’t want anyone snooping around here.” I said. Stoneridge smiled and nodded. I wondered where his partner was. The ‘we’ that slipped out did not go unnoticed by me. Poking around outside the cabin I imagined.

“Ok good. Thank you…” he said extending his hand this time. I shook it.

“Alexa Stevens” I said. I suspected that he already knew who owned the cabin. His hands were rough and strong.

“John Stoneridge” he said as I nodded, pointing at his badge with my chin.

“Yes. thank you for stopping by John.” I said. I let his hand fall.

“No problem. You up here by yourself?” he asked. Something rippled across his face, like the small waves in the lake after a stone had been dropped into it. I nodded.

“Yes, I’m a writer. Up for a retreat for a few weeks before the tourist come. Need the silence to finish my book.” I offered. I didn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I had not written a word in the week since I arrived. Swimming naked in the lake and reading trash novels was all that I managed to do. I knew that it wasn’t a good to lie to the police, but as I watched John’s face, I knew he had not picked up on it.

“I see, interesting. What kind of books do you write?” he asked. I felt the prickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. I didn’t like being asked about my work. I didn’t know why exactly, but it felt like I had to defend my choice of profession. I held my tongue and thought quickly.

” Fiction.” I managed to squeak out. The officer smiled broadly and was ready to ask his next question when his partner appeared in the doorway. I was relieved to not have to explain further. The partner was even taller than John.

“Everything seems clear around the cabin, John. M’am.” the partner said, tipping his hat to her. I groaned under my breath but managed to smile.

“Good. Tim this is Alexa Stevens, she owns the cabin. We’ll keep an eye out for you ok?” John said. He moved to towards the door to follow Tim out.

“Thanks.” I said following them both out onto the porch. The sun was high in the sky dripping gold on the lake water. A pilliated hammered in a dead tree somewhere in the woods. The officers turned one last time and said goodbye. They climbed into their truck and reversed down the lane. The front of the truck disappeared into the shadows. I left the porch and walked down to the dock. The old canoe peaked out from behind the woodpile. I considered going for a paddle, but decided to wait until the next day. I wanted to sit in the sunshine instead. I wanted to drink in every single ray and fall into the deep water. I wanted to wash the silent unspeakable memories that haunted me away into the dark depths, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. I walked back to the cabin and went inside, locking the door.

~
The remaining hours of the day were uneventful. I stalked the two tiny rooms on the first floor of the cabin, walking around in awkward circles I gave up. I fell into a heap on the sofa, shoving my head into one corner on a pile of pillows I had made the year before. The truth was, I realized as I stared at the wood plank ceiling, there was no access road that led around the lake. Each inlet had a separate entrance, and unless the person knew the area well, they would not know on this side of the lake where to go. On the far side, the cottages were lined up like ducks on a log, just off the junction road; easy targets for wayward youth. I thanked the rational side of my brain and got up to make tea.

After the officers had stopped by to tell me, I was ready to pack my bags and head home to London two weeks early. Now, I had no reason to leave. The police officers knew that I was there, and I sensed that John, the tall young blond would swing round at some point to check on me. The kettle clanged against the edge of the old sink. The wood handle vibrated in my hand. The water pipes sang as I waited for the kettle to fill. It was time, I decided as I watched the bubbles in the mouth of the kettle bounce around, to start writing.

I set the kettle down on the stove and turned the element on high. I converted on corner of the living room into an office when I first arrived. My laptop purred when I turned it on. I waited. The lake was quiet. The traces of a small breeze could be seen across the water. No large waves or white caps that came with approaching storms, just movement. The sun had diligently passed overhead and was very close to disappearing behind the line of trees at the far end of the lake. I could see the orange and violet light spilling into the water. The lake fascinated me. Each hour brought a different scene to me as the shadows drew other lines. I leaned forward and pushed the window open further to let the early evening breeze in. The heady smell of pine came with it. I looked down at the screen. It was waiting patiently for instruction.

Writing, I once told an old friend, was like opening a bottle of red wine. I needed time to let it breathe before pouring it out. I chuckled to myself as I began to tap the keys. Sometimes I really was full of shit. The evening soon gave way to night, and I forced myself to stop writing once in order to turn on a few lights. I didn’t need more than the light from my laptop to guide my fingers, and then not even because I didn’t need to look at my fingers. They knew the way by touch not sight. I was lucky that way. My fingers seemed to work independently of the rest of my body, including my mind. It allowed my thoughts to wander and weave themselves through while I was ‘working’. I thought about Cassie, who was probably curled up in the corner of her room, with her head tucked under her paw while Joe watched television. My ex had graciously offered to take my cat while I was away.

“Oh don’t worry, you know how I love cats. Cassie will be fine here. I don’t mind at all.” Joe said. I had no reason to doubt him. We had parted ways on friendly enough terms, though his initial leaving was like being cut in two by a white hot sword. It took a few years for me to find my feet again after that. Friendship, I realized not too long after was about all I could hope for from him. There was no one else in my life, other than Cassie and Joe. I was secretly relieved we had no children together, though I had always wanted them. His sudden leaving would have meant more than one casualty in me. I couldn’t bear the thought of the pain our children would have had to go through. I cried on the shoulder of my friend Tracy, letting the words become blurred with saltwater. She patted my back and said to me:

“Alexa, you know that kids are pretty resilient. They would have come through it, maybe a little worse for wear, but with you as their mother, you know they would be ok.” Tracy hugged me. I nodded in agreement, but knew in my heart it would have been devastating to those unborn angels. I would have never wanted them to go through what I had already gone through twice as a child. The memories flooded back as I sat in front of the window. The lonesome call of a horned owl brought me back to the desk. My chest ached a little. It always did when I thought about the past. It was like some unseen hand was able to reach inside my chest and squeeze just hard enough that breathing became a problem. I wished suddenly that I had brought Cassie with me instead of leaving her behind. I needed a furry body to hold. A window suddenly popped up on the screen of my laptop. The accompanying bell that alerted me to new mail made me jump and almost fall out of my seat.

I had no internet service at the cabin. I was adamant with the contractor that none be put in. I refused the intrusion of the outside world while I was writing. No phone, no internet, no electronic pollution. I stared blankly at the little window as it faded slowly from site.

“You have 3 new messages” blinked and then was gone. My fingers automatically clicked and a web browser page opened before my head could scream to stop. I looked at the clock on the stove in the kitchen. 9:30 pm. Ten minutes. I would only give ten precious minutes to whatever the emails might hold. No more, I swore as I punched in my password and waited for the page to load. I was relieved to see that two of the three messages were junk mail. I deleted them quickly. The last mail set my heart pounding with dread. I was tempted to delete the third one too, but thought better of it. I hid it instead, in a folder I labeled word vomit then logged off. I disconnected from the internet, making a mental note to find out how my laptop suddenly was online and resumed writing. Two hours later, my head was finished and my eyes heavy, ready to sleep.

~
The tapping on the window woke me up before the sun rise. The cabin was silent otherwise until the first low rumble of thunder shook the walls. I realized the tapping was from the rain. Rolling over in the blankets, I squinted through the dim light. I could barely see across the room to the desk and the world beyond the window was still dark. I had no idea what time it was. I reached blindly for my watch which sat on the arm of the sofa bed. Almost dropping it, I snatched the wrist band and felt around for the button to turn the little light on. 4:00 am. I groaned and rolled onto my back. Another loud crack of thunder ripped through the sky above the roof. I had only been asleep for a few hours, but it felt as though I hadn’t slept a wink. Lightning shot across the sky. I had a perfect view of it from where I was laying on the bed. I waited for the thunder to follow, counting slowly. Thunder roared three seconds later. The storm was on top of the cabin. I rolled onto my side, tucking my arm under my ear and watched as more lightning zigzagged in different directions over the lake.

Dream fragments began to sneak in as I was watching the storm. I was standing somewhere, in a small lagoon. The water was blue and clear. It reminded me of the ocean in the Caribbean though I had never been. It looked like the photos that I had seen of the beaches there. The water was warm. I waded to the white sandy shore. A man sat on the edge of the water, his feet fully submerged and his pants rolled to his knees. I noticed how smooth and shiny his dark skin was. The man was digging out the inside of a coconut with a small knife, and eating it. As I approached him, he smiled widely – his teeth were brilliantly white. I remembered clearly his deep throaty laugh as I walked closer to him. It was so warm and inviting. I felt completely at ease beside him. He gestured to me when I was about twenty feet away from him.

“Be careful of the urchins” he said. I looked down at my feet and saw the spiny black balls floating along the bottom just above the sand. I stepped carefully around them. I knew that if I stepped on one I would be poisoned and in a great deal of pain. When I finally reached him, I was relieved.
“Sit down” he said laughing still. I sat on my haunches the way I did when I was twelve. My feet made indents in the wet sand. The waves reached playfully for my toes. I looked around us. The trees that bowed along the shoreline were slender and deep green palm fronds waved in the breeze. The man continued to dig out the white flesh of the coconut. He offered me a piece. The sweet flavor exploded in my mouth when I bit into it. I felt some of the coconut milk dribble down my chin. I wiped it off with the back of my hand.
“It is beautiful here.” I said. I didn’t know what else to say, but I felt like I should say something. The man nodded, smiling. He didn’t look at me when I spoke. I wondered who he was smiling at.
“It is beautiful yes. I enjoy sitting here. We don’t have a lot of time to chat though Alexa. You need to go in there” the man gestured with his elbow, then continued.
“There is something waiting for you there. You need to see it.” He said. The man turned to me and smiled again. I realized looking at him how deep brown his eyes were. They were warm and sparkling. I didn’t question him. I stood up and followed his arm as it pointed into a grove of trees. I walked closer and saw a small path through the underbrush. The sand on the path was soft, and I stepped easily along the middle, picking my way around the trunks of palms until the path gave way to another cove. In the center of the cover, buried in the sand and the water was a strange wooden structure. I assumed that it was wooden, though I was far enough away to not be sure. As I got closer to it, I realized it was a kind of monument, like a totem pole that might be found on Haida Gawaii, but the carvings were not done by the Haida. They were nothing like the totems that I had seen from the Queen Charlotte Islands. Instead, I began to realize, that every inch of the wood was carved with different carvings, animals, people, objects, symbols. I recognized every single one. They were familiar to me in a way that I could not explain. I waded through the water until I was waist deep in it. I reached out and began to trace the curves and lines with my finger tips. I was in awe. I looked up and saw that the carvings continued to the top of the wood monument. Sitting at the very top was a beautifully carved Buddha sitting on a lotus leaf. It was an image that I was familiar with, but I thought it was strange that this was what was at the top.
“This is who you are” a voice said, as though to answer my spoken question. I turned around in surprise. The man from the beach stood behind me on the sand. He changed somehow into different clothes, white linen shirt and pants. The contrast of the light cotton against his dark skin was startling. He smiled reassuringly.
“What do you mean, this” I asked turning and pointing to the carvings “is me? How is that possible?” Laughter spilled from the man. He stood shaking his head slightly, then walked out into the water beside me. He put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed them gently.
“This tells you the story of your lives, where you have been, where you are, and where you will go. You have already seen this in different forms.” He said pointedly. I stopped and looked up at his chin. I could see the soft black hairs of stubble dotting his skin. He was right. I remembered another dream and then another. In one the carvings were on the walls of a cave. I followed the carvings deeper into the mountain. Then, the carvings were in a book, drawn and carved into the cover and pages. I never understood those dreams until that moment when the man reminded me. He squeezed my shoulders one more.
“What do I do now?” I asked him. I could feel the dream was changing. He looked down at me. His eyes were like mirrors.  I could see the water and the cove reflected in the dark circles. He just smiled and patted my arm.
“It is time to go now Alexa. We will talk again sometime soon.” He said. The dream was already fading.
“Wait!” I said loudly. “Don’t leave yet. What do I do now?” He continued to smile, the way a loving father does watching his children play. The last thing I remembered before waking up was his voice, like a whisper.
“Be happy.”
Another loud clap of thunder shook the cabin. I shivered, pulling the blankets closer around my chin. The storm was getting worse. I could hear the branches swaying and the creaking of the trees as their trunks rubbed against each other in protest. I hoped that the storm would pass quickly, but it seemed that it would not.
~