OOM 3: Down the Gravel Road
October 2, 2010
Follow City Rd. 40 to City Rd. 6, make a left. Follow City Rd. 6 for about 10km to West Cosh Lake Rd. Drive 4 km, take left fork. Driveway is 1km, on right--look for sign saying "Fleming" on tree.
Jack squints through the dusty windshield of his pickup as pine, spruce, and birch trees scroll by, the letter with scribbled directions in his hand. The ad he'd spotted in the online classifieds had listed the cabin, for sale by the owner, as a "fixer-upper". Jack knows enough to dread those words, but the price and location were two things he couldn't argue with, even if it meant buying the place sight unseen. He needs a place to stay, preferably something he could own outright. With the amount of money in his secret account he didn't have to go for the lowest bid, but he'd scrimped and pinched his way across the Atlantic and back; no use in using money he doesn't have to, when he knows he has to make it last.
His time away from the bar had started to really take its toll a few weeks before. Four months of constant movement, of looking over his shoulder, of always being wary, alert to the slightest thing that seemed out of place. Four months of working his way from place to place, sleeping where he could find a bed, moving around under the radar of customs officials. He'd always been cautious, always been a little bit paranoid, but four months of living under near-constant watchfulness had worn him down, physically and emotionally, and near the end of that time he'd known he couldn't do it much longer. He was just too exhausted, his nerves rubbed thin by always worrying about how he would get over the next border, where he'd find his next bed, his next meal, how he'd avoid the authorities for another day. He had to settle down somewhere. Somewhere where he could stop watching his back.
But just where to settle had been something of a problem. Europe was too crowded, too many people in too small a space, too many public cameras, too many police and ID checks and records. Africa wasn't much different--less technological in some places, but a large police presence, a wariness of anyone who didn't seem to fit. Not to mention that the areas easiest to hide in were also favoured by terrorists, and he couldn't be sure that some of them might not recognise him, even with his longer hair, scruffy beard and coloured contact lenses.
Despite that, he could have easily lived off the grid in Africa, but part of him didn't want to. Beautiful, exotic, an adventure to explore to be sure...but somehow it was a little too different from the United States. Not enough like home to not be wishing to be elsewhere. But then he couldn't go home either, to the States. It just wasn't safe for him or anyone else; not to mention the high security there.
The happy medium he'd found was Canada. Large enough for all the conveniences he could ask for, but with relatively lower security, compared to the U.S. and Europe. The bureaucracy was something he could work around, and best of all, the small population for a country that size meant that there were still large tracts of land with sparse habitation, even relatively close to larger cities.
He'd taken passage on a ship just as he had done to get across the Atlantic in the first place. The captain wasn't as helpful as Makarovskyi had been, but there hadn't been any problems either. On arriving in Toronto he'd taken a cheap, dirty bachelor apartment that rented by the week. Then he'd started his research, looking for places that were fairly remote but close enough to some kind of city or town that living wouldn't be to big a hassle.
In the end his internet search had turned up a small log cabin for sale, just northeast of the village of Lakefield, on Lake Kasshabog. This time of year the cottagers have fled, leaving him with few neighbours. Not that there'll be many people around in summer either. The small city of Peterborough is near enough that he can see a movie or get anything he needs at the larger chain stores.
Of course that's providing he can find the place to begin with.
He's about to double back and check if he'd missed the sign for the driveway when he spots it, a simple, weathered plank with "Fl mi g" in faded letters. He turns onto the once-gravelled track, two ruts with a median of grass and a couple seedlings, in the process of being reclaimed by the forest. After a couple minutes' drive, he comes out into a small clearing, the cabin to his right, a shed in front of him. There's just enough cleared space for him to do a three-point-turn in his truck, and he takes care to park close to the shed, as he'd been warned that the septic tank is closer to the cabin.
He steps out and takes a deep breath. The air is cool and has an earthy smell to it, a smell of water and fir trees. And though it shouldn't surprise him, he is a little taken aback by the quiet of the place. After so many months of living in places where humanity was crushed together, where voices and car noises and sirens were a round-the-clock companion, the quiet here is stunning. Even on board ship he'd always had the clanking of machinery, the rumbling of the engines and the roar of waves as he 'round-the-clock companions. Here, though, there's only the sound of waves gently lapping against the shore just down the hill, wind rustling in the trees and loons calling to eachother across the lake.
Closing his eyes for a moment, taking it in, he smiles; one of the few true smiles he's worn in the last few months. He can feel himself relaxing, his muscles unknotting as the stress of his time in exile begins to slip away. Maybe, just maybe, he can find some peace here.
Looking the cabin over, he can see it definitely is a "fixer-upper". Eavestroughs sagging, paint peeling off the logs, shingles sliding off the roof, the porch listing to one side... The place needs a great deal of work. The large solar panels and small sattelite dish on the roof are incongruous with the shabbiness of the building itself. Like brand-new jewelery on a corpse, Jack thinks ruefully, though he admits to himself that that comparison isn't exactly right. It's nothing some work won't fix, and fixing the place will give him something to do with his time; something he desperately needs.
He digs the keys out of his pocket and heads over to the door at the side of the cabin, carefully testing the steps up to the porch before putting his full weight on them. It takes a good shove with his shoulder to open the wooden door, and when it gives way he's met with warm, stale air. He takes a quick circuit around the place; not that it takes long. The furniture is cottage-shabby, but sturdy; the kind that parents won't mind thier kids siting on in wet bathing suits. It's pretty much been cleared out, but the basic pieces are there: appliances, dining table and chairs, couch, armchair, and an old white-enamelled bed with a mattress that dips in the middle.
But even still, the place has its charm. There's a large, stone fireplace as well as a woodstove for heat. Large windows look out over pine trees and the steep, rocky hill down to the lake. The floors are unvarnished pine, worn smooth over the years. It's small, but then it's not like he needs a lot of space, or a lot of stuff to fill that space. Not after being on the move for so long.
The quiet, the solitude...it's a relief after being unable to get away from people for so long. He does have neighbours, of course, close enough that he'll undoubtedly get to know them fairly well, but that's not too bad, either. He's not sure he could live somewhere where he wouldn't see anyone for months on end. He needs his space, but he needs some kind of human contact too, enough to keep him sane. And he knows that in this new life there's enough to keep him walking that fine line of sanity, more than enough to tip him over it. Having some kind of friendship with neighbours--even if he's living a lie--will help keep him from toppling over into the abyss.
It's not much, and he has a lot of work ahead of him to keep the place from falling down around his ears. But it's a sanctuary of a sort, and now that he's settled maybe he can find some kind of purpose to keep going, small as it may be. Something to keep him from giving up altogether.
Maybe it could even be home.
It's getting chilly as the the sun dips behind the hills surrounding the cabin, the light dimming. He heads out to the shed and gets the power and water set up, brings in his supplies then grabs an armful of the already-split logs, building a fire in the woodstove to take the chill out of the cabin. The thumping of his boots on the porch and the slam of the screen door in the evening air already sound familiar; sound like home.