Chapter 02

My potatoes were gone. The rest of the potatoes I’d baked over the stove were mysteriously gone. Someone or something had been in my cabin. There was no trace of it. Not a single thing else was out of place.

I will definitely fix that door tonight.

Maybe whatever had come by was in need of food. How could I fault them for enjoying some freshly baked potatoes?

I wiped out the pot, and filled it a quarter of the way with fresh saltwater. I added another log to the stove and made sure the grate was closed and secure. I retrieved another iron pot from a shelf and set it on the stove, then filled it with freshwater from a barrel in the corner.

A nice cup of tea ought to make up for half a breakfast.

While the water boiled, I searched through the baskets below my bed for my favorite wool sweater. It was gray, with stripes of white, and fell a little long on me. The sleeves were also a bit too long and I had to fold them back a bit. When it had been new, the wool had scratched my neck and the bottom of my chin. It had softened over time and we got along quite well now.

I heard water sizzle on the stove as it splashed so I dragged the pot a few inches away from the hottest spot. I fetched some crumbled, roasted chicory root, and dumped a good handful of it in the boiling water. Steam floated up, carrying the rich, deep earth aroma with it.

Squash time.

Over the next hour I harvested two barrel’s worth of squash. The task was repetitive. Clip the vine, carry in a few at a time, descend to the cellar, pack them in a barrel, and repeat. There were more squash still growing and I wanted them to get just a bit bigger before harvesting them. I wasn’t sure how much bigger they'd get since winter was quickly approaching. The smaller ones tasted better anyway.

I tended to the rest of the vegetables. The cardoons came up beautifully and I harvested several baskets full of the stalky veggies. With a bit of cream, these blended to make a beautiful soup. The soup was probably my only fond memory of life back in the city.

I know it’s not going to be nearly as good without cream, but I don’t exactly have any dairy cows grazing about. Not even sure how far the nearest farm would be. I’m not going to find a wild dairy cow either.

That was alright with me. I’m sure I could make due with stock or something. In the meantime, the cardoons went into the cellar. They were hardy and would last through the winter, unless there was a warm spell. Judging by this morning’s wind, I don’t think I’d see a warm spell before winter.

Before returning to my tea, I found myself stretching and scouting the tree tops and sky. Something had made me look up, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.

The clouds were silver and gray. They tumbled slowly as though unhurried and without destination. The sun briefly marbled through the thinnest gaps before becoming slightly obscured once more. The trees barely swayed, and leaves perpetually fluttered down on gentle slopes. When the falling leaves hit the ground around me, they crinkled.

Then it hit me. The bird’s were silent once more. That’s what had made me look up.

I went on instant alert and quickly spun to scan the woods around me. I retrieved my axe from beside the stove, and leaned the handle against my shoulder.

As I walked around my meadow, I couldn’t help but feel as though I were being watched. The deeper parts of the woods were too hidden in shadow. Several times I swore that I saw something move. Every time I got close, whatever I’d seen turned out to be an old fallen tree, or a squat evergreen, or a mound of upturned roots—some architecture of nature.

Within the hour, the bird’s eventually resumed their songs. They usually behaved like this whenever large animals were near, or monsters. The footprints I’d found were not from any animal I recognized and I hadn’t encountered a monster in quite some time.

Five or six years right? Something like that.

Bird songs brought comfort to me and I passed one last walk along the perimeter before tending to my tea.

The chicory tea had boiled long enough so I set the pot upon my small wooden table to cool. It had brewed a rich and dark liquor. The smell was coffee-esque and earthy. I dared to say that the aroma was almost cavern-like.

I owned a single mug. It was copper and had taken a few beatings in its time from being dropped or knocked around. I scooped up a full mug of chicory tea, hefted my axe, and made my way outside.

I’d long ago made a small ring of large logs around a fire pit. It lay about a dozen feet from my cabin. I made myself comfortable, facing the slight wind and enjoyed my tea. It warmed me exactly as I’d hoped it would. Leaves fell around me. I took my time drinking, until I finished the last sip which had gone cold.

Before dealing with the door, I took an inventory of the wood I had been splitting lately. I had enough for at least a quarter of winter at best. Might take me about a week to fill my stores. Might also want to have a bit extra for leisure. Most of the wood would go for food and warmth. I wanted extra just to enjoy a good fire on occasion. Nothing wrong with that.

I brought my axe with me on a particular trail that wound through the forest and brought me to a massive oak. It was an old oak. Too old. Ten of me would barely circle the trunk. It was tall too, almost taking me a full minute of looking, just to see the very top of it.

I circled the tree a few times, as I’d done twice before. I determined the best spot to strike and prepared myself. I swung hard. The axe went deep into the tree. At least a good four feet. I struck twice more, with the axe only going a few feet deeper each time.

After the third strike, a loud splitting crack boomed from the base of the tree. Forest debris was blown away in a rippling ring. A visible tremor climbed the tree until the top shook. I quickly backed away and watched. While I watched I carefully ran my thumb along the bit of the axe. Still sharp.

The enormous oak groaned and a perfectly clean split began to show through the rest of the trunk as the tree tipped away from me. It was so big, it took a full five seconds to fall. The impact was thunderous and the earth shook beneath me. Thousands of leaves tumbled down, disturbed from their branches. It was showering a multitude of colors. Shades of leather leaves rained down. Maroon leaves fluttered down. Even freshly turned yellow leaves came twirling down. The event put a great big grin on me as a lingering leaf landed in the middle of the freshly cut stump.

The cut was nearly perfect. I was relieved to see the condition of the tree. Proof that it was indeed too old and on its way towards death. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it would have fallen over the winter.

I pulled off my long wool sweater and folded it upon the stump. For the next couple of hours, I split the entire tree in manageable chunks. It only took a few strikes per chunk. Then I split the chunks lengthwise, twice each before having to take a break. Though it was cold, I was sweating profusely.

During my break I considered whether my cabin was being raided. I didn’t have much to my name, and my axe and favorite sweater were with me, so if something needed food, I wasn’t too worried about it. If they trashed my cabin I’d probably be a little annoyed, but again, I wasn’t too worried about it.

Now for the door.

I resumed my work, pressing the bit of the axe a couple of inches away from the edge of a split log. Then I braced myself for a mighty swing, and pushed the blade through the wood.

My purpose was to cut planks that were about a foot wide. I ruined one plank in my efforts, but successfully cut six other beautiful planks. One by one, I carried them home. My last trip was more relaxed, only to fetch my sweater.

My garden was undisturbed, and there were no signs of passing guests in my cabin. The saltwater had evaporated so I gathered what was left, put it away, and started another batch. Then I ripped the front door off its hinges.

The top hinge had been nailed into the wood, and that’s where the weakness was. Over the years, the wood had rotted around the nail and given way. I pried off the iron leafs that ran horizontally across the planks to keep them fastened. The new planks were cut to size and the iron leaves were hammered in them. The hinges went on without trouble and I reattached the door to my cabin. The last thing to do was change over the bolt lock, which went without mishap.

When all was said and done, I closed the door and walked a few paces away to get a good look. To anyone else, it might have appeared ugly. I mean—the cabin itself was the first thing I’d ever built. The craftsmanship was proof of that. The wood of the cabin was aged and greyed. The door was bright in contrast. I was content with it.

I decided I’d bake some squash to celebrate, then reheat the now cold tea. I made some room in the stove, added some logs and pushed the fire to one side. I halved an acorn squash, cored the seeds, and then put the halves beside the fire. The seeds were cleaned and then roasted with a bit of salt.

It was late afternoon by the time the squash was done, and the wind was a bit more forceful. My short beard tugged in the wind as I strolled back down to the sea. For every seed I munched, I tossed one beside the trail. I’m sure other critters would enjoy the snack, and it felt good to share.

Down by the sea, I was governed by an impulse to go swimming. Why not? So I laid my things neatly on a large white washed log and waded out past the clams and seaweed. The water was frigid, and I figured this would be one of my last swims of the year.

I’d wanted to enjoy my squash by the sea, but it was too cold, being drenched as I was. I donned my clothes and ate on the return home.

By evening, I was snug in my oversized sweater at my table. I sat with one foot upon the chair, and the other stretched out towards the stove. The stove’s grate was left open so that I could stare for hours into the embers. I smiled everytime the door softly rattled in a nightly wind.

I sipped endlessly at newly steeped chicory tea and feasted upon more roasted and salted squash seeds. Whenever the fire of the stove dimmed, I’d lean down to toss another log in. Then I would get comfortable once more and let my thoughts wander.

I have to go fishing tomorrow. I really want to fill the barrel before it gets too cold.

I wouldn’t be surprised if it snowed tonight or tomorrow. Winter was very nearly here and I was racing to prepare. There was still so much to do. Chop wood. Fish. Forage. Hunt perhaps? Harvest the gardens. Collect freshwater from the ravines in the valley. The list seemed to forever go on.

I didn’t feel overwhelmed by any of it. I felt alive by it. It was my purpose to exist like this, endlessly fending for myself and living my quiet life.

Most importantly, I’ve gotta keep an eye out for whatever’s been sticking around. The bird’s don’t seem too keen on whatever’s been sticking around.

That’s what troubled me. Something was sticking around.