The Whiskey Jack's Long Song
by Parker Murumets
The snowflakes fell slow and fat over the brown landscape. It was not the year’s first snowfall, but so far, it was the longest, and it would be the first to cover the wood in its true white.
In the heart of the wood lay the smallest of cabins, huddled up next to a small frozen lake.
In the cabin lived a single man of middling age, who had left the cabin this winter’s morning, early while the first flakes began to fall; the recluse had seen smoke rise from a fire over the horizon, not two days past. The only people whom the recluse knew to come this far north were the Rivermen who came to feed and clothe the camps in the west.
He eagerly awaited the arrival of the Rivermen year after year; they brought with them beef, and pipeweed, and salt. And the recluse gave them furs of the animals he trapped in the woods for the Rivermen to do with what they liked. However, pipeweed and salt were not the main reason for the recluse to await their arrival so eagerly. The thing that left the recluse so eager after seeing smoke on the horizon was the world that would come with the Rivermen. The Rivermen brought with them more than just foodstuffs and coats. They had news from all down the northern colonies and the oceans beyond, a connection to a world that the recluse had not forgotten.
The recluse followed a lazy brook from his little lake to where it merged with the greater river.
Here is where the Rivermen would come, in their heavy canoes, filled to bursting with merchandise for the camps. Here the recluse sat and began his long vigil. In one hour, the cold began to seep through his heavy furs. In two, he could feel the ice on his toes. In three hours, the recluse could not feel his face.
After four hours, the recluse abandoned the river. It was too cold for him to manage any longer, and the Rivermen should have come and gone long before now.
The walk home along the brook was onerous for the recluse. The Rivermen were his last connection to the old world, and try as he might, he could never forget all that he had lost. This was the mood of the recluse when, halfway to the lake, he came across something he did not expect—a print in the snow that was not his own.
“Ho there, friend. What’re you doin’ so far out ‘ere, if’n you don’ min’ m’askin’?”
The recluse spun round like a slab of driftwood shooting up to the surface after being held under the water to behold a stranger of the strangest disposition.
He could tell that the man was short with skin like boiled leather and a hawk nose; but beyond that, the stranger's appearance was a mystery. The recluse could feel himself sweating, despite the cold, at the sight of the stranger, he was so wrapped up in coats and furs.
“Who’re you?”
“Alfie Perwin, at yer service, sir. Me’n summa’ my cousins are a’ camped just a sligh’ bi’ northwards so ’as to see if’n we might not trap some furs for selling to the company down east aways. We’re camped down by a li’l lake. Not a fairway’s north o’ ‘ere, we’re camped. An’ yourself, m’friend?”
“I’m just passin’ through on m’way to the camps west a’ways.”
“Well, sir, if y’ would be so inclined, m’cousins an’miself would be honoured to share our fire, if y’d be so inclined.”
The recluse gave the stranger a warm smile, “It’d be my pleasure, friend.”
The trappers had set up camp just off the shore of Lake Rahus. It was a tidy thing— three tents, for six men, all pitched just so and a neat little fire slowly beating back against the new-fallen snow. Alfie wasn’t quite lying, calling his companions his “cousins”. In all, there were four Perwins and two Schofields, all hook-nosed and all unlikely short.
“Alan Perwin, get ‘ere an’ look at what I’ve found.”
At his call, what looked like Alfie’s broader twin came trudging towards them from out of the camp.
“My brother,” Alfie explained. “Alan come, come meet ours new friend. He’s called Alan, mind, but y’ll have t’call ‘im Perwin, too, ‘cause we’ve two Alans here. One of the Schofields, m’sister’s boy, bless her. Alan Schofield ‘e’s called. C’mere, Alan. Come say hey, why don’t ya?”
Alan Perwin smiled and clapped the recluse on the shoulder, “A long way out of the way here, friend. A long way. Where’re ya headin’?”
“E’s ‘eaded westwards, ‘e says. Goin’ to the camps, ‘e says.”
“Camps, eh? Camps’s hard work on a man. Y’ve got a good bit more bone in yer back’n I have; hard work, them camps. C’mere. Sit, sit. Fire’s warm. Can’t see how ya do it, ya north folks in those skinny li’l furs. Fire’s warm.”
“If that ain’ the lord's truth, Alan. I’m half frozen myself, just lookin at ya, friend. Alrigh’ now, this ‘ere’s young Alan Schofield, my sister’s boy, ‘amember, bless her good heart,” Alfie explained, as more young men began to appear out of the tents. “An’ this ‘ere’s li’l Andrew Schofield. We jus’ call ‘im Dand, mind. An’ the other two are Alan’s boys—Alan Perwin’s boys, mind. They’re called Dougie an’ Gavin’, they’re called.”
In minutes, the Perwins had swept the recluse up in a great wave of merrymaking, the like of which he had never partaken in years. Food was served, drinks were drunk, and at one point, one of the Schofields surprised them all with a carved wood flute which he played beautifully, if not for very long. That night, the recluse fell asleep with such a contentedness that he’d not felt in years.
The recluse awoke to find the campsite abandoned. All that remained to prove there had ever been a campsite was the remains of a small fire. The recluse sighed and reached for his pipeweed, only to find that it was gone; so was his pipe. Under closer inspection, he realized that he’d lost the furs that he’d meant to sell to the Rivermen, and his old compass, and his cracked watch, and his warm hat, too.
When the recluse moved to bury his head in his hands, he realized a sharp pain that told him if he’d had a mirror to look at ,he’d find a purple lump as big as an apple over his brow.
The recluse sighed and stared off over his lake. This was his home. The recluse laughed at the memory of the younger Schofield trying to work his flute with half-frozen fingers. He sighed again. The recluse hadn’t felt happy in a long time, and for all the trouble, he couldn’t regret his encounter with the trappers.
Time to go home, I s’pose, the recluse thought. Been out ‘ere too long. A fool you are. Time to go home.
And as he began his slow march home, the recluse heard a solitary bird give song somewhere across the little lake.