Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Luna
This far north, all of the trees are evergreen. But I don’t need yellowing leaves to tell me that fall is on the way.
The further north I drive, the worse the weather gets. When I jump out to fill my little hatchback with gas, the wind whips my hair around my face so that I have to keep on spitting out the soft, red filaments.
It had been a harrowing six-hour-plus journey for someone who dislikes driving and has a pathological hatred of chaos. As my neat and well-ordered Twin Cities life recedes further away, I try to swallow my panic. I’m literally heading into the unknown.
Spending the night in a highway motel seems like a good idea. I have to reach the ferry early in the morning. And I am so not a morning person!
I manage to reach the Long Point jetty and drive up the ferry gangplank only a few minutes before it departs. There are other ferries that can take me to Angle Inlet, but it would involve me producing a passport. Needless to say, I’m the only passenger.
“Got here by the skin of your teeth, Missy.” The ferryman seems to be in a chatty mood. “We don’t go up to that part of the Angle Inlet creek every day.”
Mr. Bryant told me as much. The waters get shallow when the lake tide ebbs. Lake of the Woods is closely connected to the Great Lakes system, and apparently, the subsidence that caused Landslide to form makes the tides there more acute.
Looking around the deck, I see pallets with loads of brown cardboard boxes strapped to them. Pointing at the pallets, I take a guess.
“Are you also the local delivery guy?”
The elderly man snorts. “Ha! Out here, you’ll be lucky if you get your delivery in forty-eight days, never mind forty-eight hours. Like I said, we don’t go up to that part of Angle Inlet every day.”
As the ferry chugs along, the man points out some local spots to me.
“That’s Garden Island State Recreation Area. Can have a nice picnic there if you want.”
And, “If you squint over that-a-way, you’ll see Hay Island. Nothing there but biting flies.”
It’s so bizarre knowing that’s Canada a short distance away across the water.
“How long has Landslide been a township?”
The man sucks his teeth while he thinks.
“I’m not sure. Maybe when the general store was allowed to start accepting mail.
” He points to a bag in the cabin. “That’s a United States postal service delivery right there.
They get mail from the Canadian side as well, but as for who they pay their taxes to, I have no idea. ”
This baffles me. “So, where do I pay my property taxes? Canada or the U.S.?”
Chuckling, the ferryman shrugs. “Damned if I know.”
I feel the ferry begin turning sharply to the left.
The lake narrows significantly. Lushly green riverbanks and overgrown creeks are all I can see on either side. We have left the lake behind. This must be the inlet.
After what seems like hours, I have to ask, “Where’s the northwest angle?” I want to know, because that’s the furthest anyone can go before the United States gives way to Canada.
Jerking his head back the way we came, the man says, “We’re long past it.” Then he points up ahead. “There’s your final destination.”
When I heard that Landslide was an isthmus island on the border between the two countries, I got an image in my head of Panama sunsets and balmy palm trees waving in the breeze. I could not have been more wrong.
When the tide is this high—which it has to be if any boat is going to be able to dock there—the island looks more like an aberration.
It doesn’t fit into the surrounding landscape at all.
To me, when I get my first glimpse of Landslide, I’m reminded of those pictures of beached whales dying on the sand.
A huge hump rising out of the lapping water looking as though it repels the light. The damp riverbanks and long, rustling reeds seem to cling to its sides with tentacle fingers.
As the boat gets closer, I can’t shake the image of the island being something alien.
The ferryman notices my consternation.
“You’re seeing it at the wrong time. Landslide is a tidal island. Come here in the early morning in summer and I swear you’ll never want to leave. Or you could take a canoe out during low tide. It’s better when the causeway is exposed.”
“You mean it’s only connected to the land during low tide, and you can only bring a boat here when the tide is high?”
“Yup. Certain tides. The really low and high ones. During equinoxes and solstices, and such. Then you can run across to Canada all you want with no fear of being stuck in the mud. Just remember to take your passport with you for identification.”
“My God! Isn’t there a bridge?”
Shaking his head, he gives another noncommittal shrug.
“Used to be one going Stateside, but it collapsed. I guess the good folk of Landslide didn’t care to have it fixed.
I suppose it must have been a logistical nightmare to find out which municipal area was responsible for repairing it.
None of them are keen to take on Landslide. ”
I don’t ruddy well blame them! As the treeline gets closer, I’m struggling to see why anyone would want to come here.
A solitary figure is waiting on the jetty as the ferry putters to a halt and the ferryman cuts the engine.
After throwing the man on the jetty a rope, they get busy lowering the gangplank onto the shore.
Then the two men start offloading the boxes.
The black waters slop against the side of the boat as I look over the rails with morbid interest. Only when the ferryman clears his throat do I realize that both men are waiting for me to drive down the gangplank.
“Oh, er… Thank you for the guided tour.” Buzzing down the window, I wave my thanks to the ferryman. I turn on the charm for him because I know I’ll be seeing him again soon when I return home.
But when he sees my hand digging into my pocket for a cash tip, he waves the note away before I can hold it out towards him. He nods to show me he appreciates the gesture.
All my luggage is in the trunk of my car. I’m free to drive away the second my tires touch the ground, but the man on the jetty stops me by holding out his hand. “Name’s Ben Magoo. I think I’m the nearest person you can reasonably call a neighbor.”
Of course. My impersonal, leave-well-alone Twin Cities is far behind me now. I guess people are all up in your business on an island.
Shaking his hand, I manage to muster up a smile. “Pleased to meet you, Ben. Luna Blackwood. Please call me Luna.”
Ben Magoo smiles. “Tempest said that she always loved your name. I am so sorry about your aunt’s passing—”
I cut him off right there. I’m exhausted after two days of traveling, and he’s about to launch into one of those conversations that require lots of concentration to follow. I have to stop him at the beginning, before it becomes a saga.
“Please come by the house for a visit, Ben. Tempest’s attorney told me the real estate agent would be waiting at the house with the keys if I arrive on this day?”
The two men nod. “That would be Linda. She’s local but based in Winnipeg now.”
Backing away while waving, smiling, and thanking them, I get behind the wheel of my little car. I’m about to drive off when Ben flags me down again.
Oh, for fucks sake. What does he want now?
Pressing down the window, I wait for him to say his piece.
“Luna, some of the road signs are down. Landslide’s deceptively big, so whatever you do, don’t just follow the road. You’ll just be going ‘round in circles otherwise.”
I begin reaching for my phone before he can stop speaking. “Waaay ahead of you, Ben.”
He isn’t finished yet. “Look, the cell tower reception isn’t so good, either. Sometimes we get connectivity from the Canadian side, sometimes the States if we’re lucky. Here…” Digging in his coat pocket, he hands me a heavily folded scrap of paper. “Use this.”
Don’t mind if I do. “Thanks, Ben. Bye.”
To be fair on old Ben, I’m spending way more time looking at the rough map he gave me than down the road. Did I say road? I meant country lane. There’s no way this potholed mess with grass and weeds invading the verge can be called a road.
I feel the tree roots under my tires when I drive over them, that’s how thin the tarmac is.
I’m not too ticked off about it, because going at a snail’s pace allows me to look around.
The shoreline is hidden by the seemingly endless forest on either side of me.
But behind the higgledy-piggledy attempt at erecting a fence, there is a verdant field running parallel to the car.
The cows or sheep—or whatever cattle they keep round here—must have already gone back to the byre because I can’t see anything grazing on all this yummy grass. Can bears swim? I don’t know, but if I were a domesticated animal, I would prefer to spend the night in a barn instead of that forest…
I have to do a double-take when I see a woman waving at me from outside a white painted two-story house.
The panhandle driveway is hidden by bushes, but I see the signpost just in time.
It’s not showing a street name or number.
The black words have been singed onto a roughly hewn piece of wood and then suspended from a log pole.
Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.
Is that German? Did someone named Todten Schnell live here before my aunt? I will have to look up what that means on Google Translate when the damn cell phone reception decides to show up.
Why did my Aunt Tempest leave that sign up there? I mean, it’s not very helpful for anyone trying to find her house.
I hope Tempest had a happy life. This place seems kind of deserted. If Ben Magoo was her nearest neighbor, at least he seems to remember her fondly.
Pulling up the handbrake when I reach the house because I have to park on the incline, I step out of the car and struggle to suppress the giant stretch I want to make. I hold out my hand instead. “Hi there.”
The agent clasps it firmly and pumps hard.
“Hi there, welcome to Landslide, Luna! May I call you Luna? I’m Linda Farmer.
I’m originally from here, can you believe it?
I swear I could not wait to turn eighteen so I could go work on the mainland.
Oh my God, you’ve got the same hair as your aunt.
My condolences, of course. How was the trip up here? ”
Whew. But her info dump is sweet. I’ve been on Landslide for less than an hour and I’m already in love with the candid way of speaking the locals have.
“I drove it over two days to be on time to catch the ferry this morning.”
“Clever!” Linda approves of my strategy as she beckons me to follow her up the incline towards the front door. “So, you’re nicely rested.”
I wouldn’t put it quite in those terms. I’m too excited to sleep well.
As a naturally creative person, I have only two sleep modes in bed.
I’m either sliding off into a doze when an idea or past incident flickers through my mind enough to wake me back up, or my brain is turning cartwheels with images, fleeting conversations, and faces that stand out in a crowd.
Those people who can nod off in front of the television, I envy them.
Linda plops a massive bunch of keys into my hands and begins talking in her rapid fire way.
“Okay, I gotta dash. Mr. Bryant tells me you want to flip Miz Aherne’s property portfolio?
If you want it to sell fast, there are a few things you might want to fix up a little bit first so we can get the best offers.
Have a look around in the morning and let me know when you want me to list them. ”
She presses her card into the palm of my other hand. “That’s my address.”
“Are you saying that th-there’s more than one house?”
She’s already heading for her car. “The other properties are at the end of this road—and the dog is penned in a cage out back. I have to go now, Luna. Goodbye—and good luck!”
My head feels like it’s spinning.
“There’s a dog!?”
But her door is closed and Linda can’t hear me anymore.
Fumbling with the keys, I try to squeeze them into the back pocket of my jeans, but the bunch is too large to fit. I guess I’ll have to hold onto the keys while I warm my hands in my jacket pockets.
Trudging around the house, I’m amazed at how quickly I get tired. Puffing, I look behind me. Okay, this is quite an incline. I’ll have to bring my car closer to the door if I stand any chance of carrying my case and boxes of supplies inside.
Glancing around the backyard, I see the usual suspects: a washing line, a shed, and an old stone wash basin.
Where’s the dog cage?
A loud purring sound like a motorboat far away is coming from behind the shed.
The purr turns into a howling bark as I get closer.
What kind of dog is it that makes that kind of noise?
If it’s a guard dog, there’s no way I’m going to introduce myself to it just as the sun is starting to sink beneath the horizon of dark trees.
It’s like my eyes are blinded when my aunt’s dog bounces out of the kennel and lurches at the chain link fence. The dog’s fur is so white and fluffy, it’s ridiculous.
And when it barks, it’s not fear or territorial bullshit that’s making the dog do it. From the way it’s smiling at me, I have no doubt the dog is happy to see me.
But there’s a slight frown between those black, slanting doggy eyes. Perhaps the animal is a little bit bored and anxious, as if it needs stimulation and love to make its life worthwhile.
I think this doggy and me are going to get along just fine…