*a story fragment*
Grey clouds lowered the sky in the early noon hour. The sun had made a brief appearance when the boat first touched water. Its presence for most of the six hour paddle had been mostly an idea, a notion of something ethereal which kept the darkness at bay. The clouds steadily lowered, steadily thickened and darkened. Ethereal light was losing the eternal battle with dark.
Darkness. The default state of the universe, and of men’s souls. Darkness seemed to be winning on this early autumn day.
The gathering darkness was quiet; still and unbreathing; no winds to ripple the river. The surface of the water was disturbed only by a series of expanding concentric rings and a rippling bow wave.
The rings formed when droplets fell from the blade of his paddle. The bow wave pushed outward as the canoe sliced the water. The paddler paddled swiftly, silently. Efficient strokes, each one slicing into the water and pulling back, rhythmically, monotonously. Driving the fully laden boat forward with silent surprising speed; minimal splashing and no thumping of shaft on sides. He –known at times as Bend; which he favoured over his given name. Had he really been named after an egg concoction, or was that one more way his old man tried to confuse and confound him?– seemed to be at one with the craft, and the environment. Other than minute adjustments to keep the craft on course, his mind was not fully needed for the job, allowing him time to play out, to plan ahead, his intentions.
-Sit still, girl, he growled. -Fretting and fussing is only going to upset us, which is going to get us wet and cold, which is going to make us miserable and unhappy. You do not want to see me miserable any more than I want to be miserable. We can discuss your future when we get to shore; to your new home. Your future will be much easier if you do not annoy me. So stop. You are not going back; not unless I say so, and I am not inclined to say so.
He took a short glance back. For a moment Bend was mesmerized by the lapping of insignificant waves against the shore, waves caused by his passage. His gaze slowly swept both shorelines. Satisfied they were alone on this stretch of water, he turned the bow sharply to port and headed toward a steeply leaning fir.
Bend drew the craft close to the boughs which reached nearly to the water and deftly steered and stroked the boat around the reclining tree. On the nether side of the tree the canoe slipped between a pair of large boulders with bare centimetre clearance on each side. Just beyond the half-submerged granite rocks loomed the walls from which they had cleaved. The fir and the rocks were conveniently placed. Convenient, that is, for masking the entrance to a hidden bay beyond.
The bay had a narrow entrance. Once beyond the constricting walls a voyageur would see sheer rock from water to heights on all sides of a quiet bay. Thickly tangled roots claimed a few intervals where the granite split right down to the water, where tenacious soil had accumulated over eons. All the margins of the bay were thus claimed by hard rock or by stubborn growth. The monotonous profile of rock and root-tangle was broken only by a single point where soft dark soil reached to the water.
He stroked the water lightly. Right side. Left side. Close to the only landing point the water was not deep enough for a clean J-stroke. Row and draw. Feather the blade. Gradually the bow of the tapered green craft touched the dark muck. Not a choice landing. But the best choice for a landing. The only choice for a landing.
The landing site was pure muck. Espresso-coloured loam saturated with rotted vegetation, the whole mess reduced to sucking slippery soil. Soft and unstable rich organic peat, shifting sand, and small stones. The stones gave body to the muck. The sand reduced the body to a soft shifting texture.
This solitary northern bay was lonely and isolated. Perhaps, he imagined, he had been the first human to impress a footprint here. It was a quiet and desperately lonely place. Perfect for his needs. His wants. Certainly this hidden bay saw little traffic. Even the water beyond the narrow inlet gap was isolated. Stagnant. Not in the putrid sense. In the low activity sense. A narrow entry over a large barely submerged granite mass slowed the flow. Like seniors in the village, the bay water was in no hurry. Once in it seemed to relax. Unhurried; no place to go and no reason to go. It stirred during periods of violence; otherwise it stayed put. If each molecule of water had an existence, a consciousness, they seemed to have chosen calm. Zen. Unruffled. Unlike the flowing streams beyond the submerged stone.
The bay was perfect for hiding away. Perfect except for the paucity of landing sites. Perfect except for the muck which formed the sole landing site. The slippery sucking muck. Muck like thick black quicksand. Scattered rocks occasionally surfaced in the middle of the muck, then were quickly engulfed again, dragged down by gravity. Relentless gravity. Unimpeded by density, for the muck had little. This was his first challenge. Finding a way to cross over the muck without becoming a part of it was going to be a real challenge.
Landing the boat he could accomplish. A useful landing was the greater challenge. Ascending the rock face to get to his intended cabin site was a second challenge. And if she didn’t cooperate the challenges would be severe. Physically, she was no match for him. Likewise, physically the muck was no match for the surrounding rock. In the end, though, in the far distant end, the slippery muck likely would prevail, given countless rock-weathering eons. After all, the muck itself was once rock, back when the light fought the dark and the darkness prevailed. If she were to struggle the muck would be on her side, or the rock face would, and he needed the dog if he was to survive in the forest beyond.
mry writes 