The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North

by Henry J. Olsen

  “Home run!” the hitter called out. John spotted the ball, obscured by the grass, and trotted over to pick it up. It was a crude approximation of a baseball, round and wrapped with leather.

  By the time John turned around to toss it back to the group, the pitcher had already caught up to him. The pitcher looked at John’s unfamiliar face with curiosity.

  “Did you kids make this baseball on your own?” John asked, as he gave the ball a light toss to get a feel for it.

  “My dad made it. Cut a wood core and then wrapped some deerskin around it. Works just like the old ones, he says,” the boy replied.

  I’m not sure about that, but it is surprisingly well made, John mused to himself.

  “You’re the man they found a couple days ago, aren’t you?” the boy asked, squinting warily at the bearded man.

  “That’s right, son,” John replied.

  “You aren’t from around here, are you?” the boy said.

  “No, I’m not,” John said as he gave the ball another toss. “I’m from out east. Just passing through.”

  “East? You mean like, Grand Marais?” the boy asked.

  “Nope, try again,” John replied. “Farther east.”

  The boy looked slightly puzzled, then his eyes filled with awe. “You’re from Thunder Bay?”

  John chuckled. The world sure has become a whole lot smaller.

  “Nope, farther east yet. Have you heard of Maine?” he said.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Well, if you start here and keep heading east,” John directed, pointing opposite the western sun, “you’ll get there eventually. Can’t say I’d recommend walking there though — there’s a lot of rough country between here and the eastern seaboard.” He turned back to the boy. “Ask your parents about it when you get a chance. They’ll know something about Maine.”

  “Sure thing, mister,” the boy said, his eyes drifting down toward John’s hand. “Can I have my ball back now?”

  “Sure,” he said, handing the ball over, “here you go.” The kid thanked him and ran back to rejoin the other children. As John meandered past the group, he couldn’t help but smile at their conversation.

  “It’s somewhere in Canada, I tell ya!”

  “No way, I bet it’s just past Grand Marais!”

  “Don’t you guys know your history? Maine was one of the fifty states, before the Desolation.”

  History? Referring to Maine in the past tense still felt unnatural to John. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the salty Atlantic air and hear the mewing gulls along the shoreline. He imagined the smooth, creamy texture of clam chowder tickling his tongue. Not even Cynthia’s pork bone soup could match a hearty bowl of chowder.

  Maine was still where it had always been. Only the cities and villages stood empty now. John’s friends and family? All gone, as far as he knew, which left him with no reason to return to the coast. The wilderness was his home now.

  Continuing through the village, he noticed that two larger buildings end-capped both rows of cabins. Curious about their purpose, he walked toward the one on the southern row, opposite Cynthia’s side.

  Despite being only one story, the building felt massive compared to the cabins John had just passed. A sign above the door read “Frontier View Co-op,” printed in thick, green uppercase letters. To the side of the door sat a small bench. A sharp V-shaped roof rested on top of the building, constructed from assorted pieces of sheet metal. It was haphazardly screwed and nailed onto the wooden frame, giving it the appearance of a patchwork quilt.

  A fence sat to the building’s right side. The overpowering smell of animal dung suggested it was a stable. John walked over to take a peek. Then he saw it — the frankenmoose! No, three of the buggers! They turned to look at him. He stumbled backward in surprise, swallowing a gasp. His arms crawled with goosebumps.

  “What the hell are those things!” he exclaimed.

  “Never seen a tvapa before?” a man’s voice responded. John’s body jerked in surprise, turning to meet the voice. A white haired man with glasses was standing beside him. The man wore a long-sleeved green shirt and khakis. John took him to be about seventy.

  “Oh, I’ve seen one alright,” John said. “Had myself a little sparring match with him.”

  The man raised an eyebrow at John, quizzically.

  “Sparring match?” he said.

  “You heard me. These franken …” John hesitated. “Frankenmeese? I just don’t trust ‘em. Something about their eyes.”

  The old man blinked, then paused for a moment, as if searching for the correct response. Then he shrugged and offered his hand.

  “I’m Pierre.”

  “John. John Osborne.” The two shook and then released hands.

  “Cynthia cleared you to get out of bed?” Pierre said, leaning closer to carefully examine John’s eyes.

  John scowled in reply.

  “Hey, just making sure!” Pierre said, raising his hands defensively as he took a step back. “Sorry, I’ve just never known tvapas to be violent creatures.”

  “Well,” John said, “it didn’t exactly attack me, but …”

  Pierre chuckled. “No worries — I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Better, I think,” John said, stroking his beard. Not that I have the slightest idea why I collapsed in the first place.

  “I like the beard, by the way,” Pierre offered. “Definitely not a style that’s encouraged these days, but to me a beard evokes the great American heroes of yore. You know, Lincoln, Grant, Lee …” He paused, shaking his head. “I bet most kids these days don’t even know who Lincoln is — truly a shame.”

  Lincoln, huh? he thought. He’d never heard a compliment about his beard — not a one — until now. He stood in silence, mulling it over.

  “There’s a tavern, Loon’s Landing, up this way,” Pierre said, pointing behind the Co-op. “How about we grab a drink? I’d love to hear what’s going on elsewhere in the world.”

  “Sure,” John said with a shrug. “I could use a hearty glass of whiskey.”

  Chapter 9

  Nathan rubbed his tired, swollen eyes as he sat up in bed. Bright rays of midday sunlight streamed in through the window. Glancing over at the other bed, Nathan remembered that Emiko was gone; her bedspread remained tidy and undisturbed, just as he’d made it for her three mornings ago.

  With a groan, he swung his feet off the bed. Searching through the night had left his body exhausted. He sighed, realizing he hadn’t taken off his boots; their muddy soles had stained the bedspread. Just another mess to clean, Nathan thought. How had the cabin become messier without Emiko around? After all, he always cleaned up after her, not the other way around.

  His stomach growled, like a bear coming out of hibernation. When was the last time he’d eaten? Not since yesterday morning, at least. He wandered out of the bedroom, past the front door and the rocking chair, and into the kitchen. Looking through the cupboards, he found only a few potatoes — he’d have to get more food soon.

  As he walked over to the cast-iron stove to start a fire for cooking, a sheet of paper lying on the floor caught his attention. Ah, right — he’d spotted it last night … no, this morning, when he’d come home.

  The paper was folded in half. Nathan picked it up and looked it over. It was a wide-ruled page from a spiral notebook. No factories mass produced notebooks anymore, yet they were easy enough to find, cluttering shelves and desks unused. He turned the paper over and unfolded it, revealing a handwritten note. His eyes grew wide as he read the words, clenching the paper with his fingernails. What!? After taking a deep breath and relaxing his hands, he carefully went through the message again.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  We have the girl in our custody. If you want her back, bring $5,000 to our outpost on the north end of Sawbill Lake, tomorrow by sundown. We take the money, you take the girl — no problems.

  P.S. Come alone — keep Os
borne out of this.

  Ransom! What the Desolation had Emiko stumbled into? He was relieved to know she was alive, but two new questions plagued him: Where could he get $5,000, and who was “Osborne?”

  He crammed the note into his pocket and ran out the door, grabbing his cap on the way out to hide his disheveled hair.

  The only activity outside was a group of kids playing ball. A few years ago he would have joined them, but the time for games had passed. He was an adult now and he had to act like one.

  A few steps out the door he realized he had no idea where his feet were taking him. Focus, Nathan, he thought. Who can help you with this? Deciding Pierre would be as good as anyone, Nathan dashed off to find the old professor.

  ***

  “So, you don’t know anything about this?” Pierre asked, jabbing at the paper with his finger.

  “Nothing,” John replied. Why couldn’t he ever enjoy a drink in peace?

  Not that Loon’s Landing was much of a place. He’d have trouble enjoying a drink there even without Pierre badgering him about the note. Mildew crept up the walls and it was so dark he could barely see his whiskey glass. Presently, the bartender was circumnavigating the room, lighting oil lanterns in each corner. About damn time, John thought.

  “Let me see the note,” he said. “I’d like to know what it is I’m being accused of.”

  Pierre handed it to him with a reluctant sigh.

  The note felt crisp in John’s hands. He tilted it until he found the best angle to capture the lamplight. The penmanship was clear, the message brief. And there it was — his name mentioned in the postscript.

  “They used my name — so what?” John said, shrugging it off. The appearance of his name did concern him, but for now he wouldn’t let on. “The more important question is: how are you gonna deal with this?” He turned to the boy — Nathan.

  “This is your sister?” he asked.

  Nathan nodded. “Emiko is the one who found you in he road,” he added, softly.

  “Is paying the five grand an option?” John asked.

  Nathan shook his head.

  “Can Frontier View come up with $5,000?” John asked Pierre. It didn’t seem like an outrageous sum.

  Pierre shook his head. “Impossible,” he said. “Hmm … you said you came in from Canada, right?”

  “From Maine through Canada, yeah,” John said.

  “Then I suppose you aren’t familiar with our currency,” Pierre said, as he reached for his wallet and pulled out a blue bill. “The kidnappers aren’t asking for greenbacks — their value collapsed along with the U.S. government. We use these now.” He handed the banknote to John.

  John scanned the features of the strange blue bill. The number five occupied each corner and a proud black bear adorned the center of the front face. He flipped it over, looking at the image that spanned the backside. The rising sun hung in the upper right corner, its light radiating down upon a lone man in a canoe, as he paddled toward the dawn of a new day. John turned to the front again and noted the fine print:

  THIS NOTE IS LEGAL TENDER FOR ALL DEBTS, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE

  Followed by:

  ISSUED BY AUTHORITY OF THE REPUBLIC OF MINNESOTA — DULUTH, MN

  The imagery all looked very professional — on par with pre-Desolation paper money, though it seemed to lack any of the advanced security features that twenty-first century U.S. currency had been known for.

  As John continued looking over the bill, Pierre began to explain.

  “You could knock off a bank in Duluth and you might not find 5,000 MND,” he said, assuming a professorial tone. “You see, the people have been slow to readopt fiat currency, a problem owing itself to numerous factors. First, after the rampant inflation that plagued the US dollar — even before the Desolation — the populace is hesitant to put its trust in paper money.”

  The old man paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued, “Furthermore, when the population was suddenly reduced one-hundred fold, it greatly diminished the need for ‘stores of value.’ Now that we no longer have the energy infrastructure to support the opulence of an overbearing aristocracy, the superfluous sums of money that the market formerly distributed unevenly to signify the divide between rich and poor no longer serve any purpose. Thus, the need for currency has contracted exponentially with the reduction in population rather than linearly, and the Republic of Minnesota has acted accordingly, leading to the predicament we now find ourselves in.”

  John raised an eyebrow at Pierre, silently returning the five-dollar bill. He’d lost the thread of Pierre’s mumbo jumbo after the first sentence.

  “Excuse me, acute case of the rambles.” Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. “You can leave academia, but it will never leave you …”

  “Alright then,” John said, picking up the ransom note from the counter, “what’s the plan?”

  Pierre pursed his lips, offering no reply; Nathan stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact — not exactly the response John had hoped for. He waited for a moment, then offered his plan.

  “Here’s the deal,” John said, looking at Nathan. The boy didn’t take his eyes off the floor. “I don’t know who delivered this, but I think they’re using your sister to get to me — that’s not fair. Also,” he said, turning to Pierre, “your people gave me a hand when I needed it — I owe you one.

  “So,” John said, setting the ransom note on the counter, “I’ll take care of this. I’ll find out who delivered this note and I’ll get your sister back.” The words invigorated him — it felt like he was taking on a critical mission from HQ, though this time he was acting of his own volition.

  “You will?” Pierre sounded relieved.

  “Sure thing. I’ll get her back faster than you can unload a six-shooter.” He patted at the ivory-plated handle of his Colt.

  Nathan picked his eyes up off the floor, finally ready to speak.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said, standing with tense shoulders and his fists clenched at his sides, as though he was mustering all of his will to force out the words.

  “I don’t think so, son,” John said. “I work better alone — no sidekick necessary.”

  “But she’s my sister,” Nathan said.

  “So?” John said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Nathan narrowed his eyes.

  “I entrusted my dad’s life to an ‘expert’ — I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he said.

  John paused to think it over. He took a long look at Nathan, taking him in from head to toe. The kid was scrawny, like a beanpole with arms sticking out of a grimy white t-shirt. Probably knew how to shoot, but not likely to have any combat experience. His eyes, however, flared with determination, and John wasn’t one to underestimate a rookie.

  “Fine, you win,” John said. “Meet me in front of the Co-op in five minutes and we’ll talk shop.”

  The tension in Nathan’s face and shoulders dissipated as he nodded in agreement. Then he walked out of the tavern without another word.

  “What’s with the kid?” John asked, gesturing toward the door with his head.

  “He lost his dad, Ryota, to stomach cancer last year,” Pierre said. “Took the poor guy to a doctor, all the way down in Duluth, but it didn’t do any good.” Pursing his lips, the old man shook his head. “I think he holds himself responsible, even though there was nothing he could’ve done. He’s a sharp kid, but his confidence has taken quite a hit.”

  John nodded, mulling it over. He grabbed his whiskey and took a sip, grimacing as it trickled down his throat.

  “Should I take him with me?” he asked.

  Pierre tilted his head slightly to one side and stroked his chin. “I don’t want him to get hurt … but I don’t want to see him moping around town, either. Can’t say he’s much of a fighter, but he does good work when he puts his mind to something,” he said.

  “Roger that. I’ll go talk to him a bit more — make sure he knows what he’s signing up for,” John said
.

  “Go ahead,” Pierre replied. “I got your drink covered — you didn’t exactly get the chance to enjoy it.”

  John smirked.

  “I’m not sure enjoy is the word I’d choose,” he said, as he stood up and headed for the door.

  ***

  Nathan anxiously paced back and forth in front of the Frontier View Co-op. A single oil lamp cast an orange glow on his skin. Though the Co-op was open only from early morning until dusk, the proprietor, Tom, kept a front light on for a couple hours after dark as a courtesy. The cabins in town gradually lit up, one by one. Nathan watched as light flickered through their windows.

  He tapped his foot nervously. Where was John? Nathan was having second thoughts about this rescue mission. He didn’t know anything about action, combat, or war. What help would he be?

  Looking down the row of cabins, he picked out his own unlit home. Its darkened windows made it stand out like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. No, he thought, I need to be strong. For Emiko’s sake as well as for my own. He suppressed his fidgety foot and stood tall — shoulders back, chest out. No turning back.

  Nathan heard quiet footsteps in the distance. He watched as John slowly stepped into the lamplight, which gradually revealed his features. The reflection of the reddish-orange flame glowed in the bearded man’s eyes — the only motion on his otherwise expressionless face. Though he stood only an inch or two taller than Nathan, he carried himself like an iron giant, as though nothing could stand between him and his destination.

  “Hey son, grab a seat,” he offered, pointing to the bench in front of the Co-op.

  “Yes, sir,” Nathan replied.

  John tilted his head slightly to one side.

  “I didn’t hear you call me ‘sir’ in that dump of a bar — what changed?” he asked.