The Serial: Far From the Rowan Tree Day 12

‘If this is what they call a furnished house, I’d hate to think what an unfurnished one is like’

At 4am on that first February morning after we arrived at Redwoods, I stepped outside our shack, standing all on its own in the very heart of the Westlands.

Many coloured curtains of light shifted across the dark bowl of night. Their silent, wide sweeping movements reminded me of searchlights in wartime.

But they had been dull in comparison to these shotsilk waves of brilliance.

Moving with a sense of excitement, these Northern Lights, these Merry Dancers, swayed backward and forward and were reflected on a field of virgin snow that stretched on and on beyond the sight of human eye.

At intervals, from the rainbow coloured Earth, great orange flames leaped upward like wild demons.

Oil had been found here; these flames were manifestations of the burning off of natural gas that would otherwise have exploded underground or spread poisonous fumes into the atmosphere.

The scattered clumps of tall dark spruce trees, alone, were still.

Amazement

I stood in amazement – just looking. Never in my strangest dreams had I imagined or expected such spectacular beauty. I didn’t stand for long. It was intensely cold. With gloved hand I took hold of the freezing castiron handle of the pump that stood at the side of the shack. With vigorous movements I jerked it up and down.

It was quite some time before any water appeared and when it did, it gushed out in great spurts, spilling over the battered kettle’s rim and freezing instantly on my shoes.

Then I heard them! They broke the silence like banshees, frightening the night. My heart froze within me.

What beasts made so eerie a sound? Were they hungry? Had they smelled human flesh? I hurried back into the shack and quickly closed the rickety door.

It was warm inside. Life came back into my heart and limbs. I could feel my cheeks glowing.

The oil heater in the corner of the boys’ bedroom gave off a steady glow. Heat came also from the castiron cook stove I had banked up with green logs (the only fuel provided) before going to bed.

lt wasn’t quite out. I poked it. It spluttered into life. Slowly, flames began to curl round the fresh logs. I placed the kettle on the fire.

lt was a very old one and had a small leak in the bottom which caused the hotplate to hiss and spit at regular intervals.

I heard a movement coming from the couch behind me and a voice, thick with sleep, saying, “My God! where am I”? He must have remembered because his next words were, “I didn’t hear you get up.” “I’ve been up for ages,” I boasted.

“I’ve been out getting water from the pump.” Ronald slipped out of the couch-come-bed and put on the clothes he had laid out the night before.

The kettle boiled more quickly than I expected and I made two cups of coffee, then poured the rest of the water into the pot I had bought at the supermarket, to make porridge.

“So much for the great Canadian welcome people kept telling us about,” said Ronald, looking about him.

“Well,” I agreed, “it certainly hasn’t been up to much so far but worse than that, when I was out at the pump, I heard the most fearsome howling. Do you think it might be wolves?”

“The Mullers would have warned us of any danger. It’s more likely to be coyotes and they’re reputed to be harmless.”

I left the subject and came up with the next thing on my mind.

“This morning it’s beautiful outdoors. The sky is alive with colour – Northern Lights – like those back home but much much brighter and more colourful.

“Also there are fires everywhere – great flames leaping up into the sky. It’s not really dark outside at all.” Ronald was in no mood to talk about such things. “We can’t stay here for long, beautiful or not. This shack really is the pits but we’d better stick it for a wee while – try to find our feet. We can’t go further just yet.”

He took a gulp of hot coffee. “If this is what they call a furnished house, I’d hate to think what an unfurnished one is like!”

Ronald was right. All the shack contained, when we arrived, was the dilapidated couch (a Winnipeg couch, Maud Muller had called it) on which we had spent the night, an old black kettle that leaked, an ancient mop and bucket, a brush of the witches’ broom variety, the big black stove and the oil heater. There was also a sink of sorts but no plumbing. About half an hour after Shultz Muller introduced us to the cabin Maud Muller came to the door dragging an old mattress behind her through the snow. “For the children,” she said. Ronald had helped her into the shack with it and then went up to the top of the track to get another one out of the truck.

Our new home was divided, by slim partitions, into three parts. The main kitchen-cum-living room took up one half. The other was cut down the middle to make two small square rooms. In one of them stood the oil heater.

lt was here we had put the two mattresses for the boys and the fold-down pram we had brought with us for Ronnie.

Deep sleep

They had all slept deeply. Even now, with all the movement and talk in the main room, they remained totally undisturbed.

Ronald and I didn’t have much time for further discussion. He ate the breakfast I had made for him and departed just before 5am, not wanting to be late. After he had gone I got to work in the cabin. First I made up the couch, then got more water from the pump to fill up the boiler at the side of the stove. I then brought in an armful of freezing logs from the wood pile.

When the water was hot I washed up the morning’s dishes, also those I had left from the night before.

The sink ran out into a bucket. I noticed a thin trickle of water on the bare wood floor. The bucket obviously leaked as well as the kettle, so I hastily took it and threw the dirty water outside the cabin. It made a nasty stain on the snow. I was still tired. I hadn’t slept well. From the moment I lay down a tooth had begun to ache. Now, with the aid of painkillers, it was beginning to feel a bit better. (More on Monday.)