Migration (16 page)

“Vacation, hah!” Mac grumbled to herself, staring out the window of the public lev. “Bet I last two days before I’m bored sick or resorting to chocolate.”

Since she’d been one of the last to leave, there hadn’t been an onerous round of good-byes. Suited her mood.
They wanted her gone for three weeks? Fine. She’d go
.

From Kitimat, Mac had caught a public lev to White-horse, another to Ottawa—in which having two seats to herself meant room to nap—and this last to North Bay, where she’d stood for the final leg to let a family with young twins and even younger kitten sit, or rather squirm.

Par for the course.
Weren’t vacations supposed to be relaxing?
So far, Mac hadn’t seen any evidence of it. Other things, yes. Vidbots hovered everywhere, in the doorways and passages of transit lounges and hotels, even hung from the ceilings of stores and restaurants. Governments swore those in public areas were reactive and nonrecording, keyed to switch on only if a disturbance was detected or during special events to provide news feeds. Rights groups kept testing that claim; the average person hardly noticed the things anymore.

Mac did. They weren’t allowed in Castle Inlet. Away from that refuge, she resented their little shadows, felt their presence like weights on her shoulders, knew a steady anger that they kept watch on her family.

She liked the devices even less, having been tracked by one on the Dhryn world.
Emily’s trick
.

Then there was the pace. Mac was used to taking transit off-hours and to odd locations. Now, she was forced to join the brunt of the Human stampede.
Worse than students heading to supper on Pizza Tuesdays.
Her initial curiosity over why all of these people had somehow picked her route to follow soon changed to a frantic hope they’d all go somewhere else entirely.

Fortunately for her sanity—and peace aboard public transit—by the time she reached North Bay everything eased to a civil crawl. The station received only one lev an hour, so she disembarked to welcome, open space.
No more elbows and backpacks threatening her nose.
Even better, the ever present vidbots became scarce, then nonexistent. Not much to watch in the northern woods, and fewer places where being watched was permitted.
Part of the charm.

From the station, Mac shared a ride with a group of cottagers just in from Toronto to the Misty River Cottage Association docks. The courtesy ferry was, as always, nowhere to be seen, so the cottagers shared their picnic with Mac while they waited, along with their eagerness to check on their respective properties after the long winter. Ice breakup north of Algonquin had been two weeks later than predicted; relying on such predictions, Mac agreed with the cottagers, was about as smart as feeding bears from your porch.

They were pleasant, cheerful people, intent on leaving their mundane lives behind while “up at the lake.”

Much as she hated to admit it, Mac began to warm to the concept. Maybe this enforced vacation wasn’t such a bad idea. Each stage of her journey had seemed to lift a layer of dread from Mac’s shoulders. Each took her farther from what might be, back to a time when her biggest concern had been getting Sam to notice she was a girl. That, and making it into the school of her choice.

She had a new definition of life crisis now
.

The ferry arrived midafternoon, an actual float-on-water boat with an equally quaint waterjet engine that purred quietly to itself as its operator brought it to dock. Wide and low to allow room for cottagers and whatever paraphernalia was going up with them this year, the ferry’s only protection from the elements was an awning over its stern half. The awning and seat cushions had once boasted vivid red, purple, and yellow stripes, now mellowed to pastel by sun and time.

The sun, as suited mid-May, was set to brilliant, as if it had forgotten all about spring and gone straight to summer. Mac drank in the intense blue of the sky, marked only by a few puffy white clouds stuck behind the low rolling hills to every side. The ferry headed upriver, loaded with carryalls of food and other supplies, bits of cottage-ready furniture, and a stack of mem-wood for a tree house that would be a surprise for a trio of lucky great-grandchildren.

They chugged peacefully alongside tilting cedars, reflections mingled with the lichen-stained boulders of the shoreline. The forest had a manicured look, branches starting a tidy two meters or so up every leaning trunk. Not the work of a gardener, just the heavy snow pack pressing lower branches down until they snapped. There were still patches of dirty white snow here and there in the shadows, the remnants of deeper drifts that grudgingly melted away.

Mac sat on the bow, bare feet dangling to either side despite the occasional splash of still-cold water, elbows on the gunnel so she could lean forward with her chin in her hands. The sun was warm on her back; the ferry slow enough she could see the river bottom clearly. Mac watched for turtle scrapes and schools of darting minnows, counted mussel beds and spied the tail of a pike, lurking beneath a sunken log. A beaver nosed by, bubbles streaming from its fur, staring up at Mac before ducking below the surface.

She smiled.

The river took a wide bend, then they were at the lock to Little Misty Lake. Rapids tumbled white and busy beside the structure which lifted water and shipping more peacefully between levels. Like much in this part of the world, the lock was revered as an antique worth saving and considered a hopeless and expensive bottleneck to progress. Usually at the same time, by the same people.

Once inside the lock, Mac helped slip the rope from the ferry’s prow around the cable running from the top of the lock wall to below the water. She ran her real fingers along the corded steel. It was cold and wet, slimed with algae, utterly practical and simple. She experimented with her new fingers, trying to detect any differences in sensation. None. The cable and its predecessors had been here, doing their job, since before humanity achieved orbit.
Her new hand would probably outlast her, too,
Mac decided, amused.

The gates closed behind them and the lock began to fill. Mac and one of the cottagers at the stern guided their respective ropes up the cables as the ferry rose. The operator, meanwhile, was lying back in his seat, hat over his eyes. After a few moments, a gentle snore began to compete with the gurgling of water around the hull.
A little early in the season for the novelty to have worn off,
Mac thought, then yawned herself.

Little Misty, despite its name, wasn’t small. It was one of those long and convoluted northern lakes, deep and cold, filled with rocky, tree-bearded islands. Its shoreline was a sequence of points and hidden tiny coves, making it possible to surprise a moose or otter every few minutes.

The ferry operator paid attention here. May meant deadheads in plenty—floating logs, often marked by little more than a twig dimpling the water’s surface. There were rocks below as well. Mac could see them from her perch on the bow. Great jigsaw pieces of basalt loomed from the depths like the broken pavement of a giant’s road or the ruins of a vast city. Fish cruised every edge, hovering over drops so deep the bright rays of sunlight faded to black. Other times, the ferry slid past uplifted stone whose eroded surfaces kept a painted score of past collisions at low water.

They put the cottagers ashore first. All were on Heron Island, the second largest on the lake. Someone’s son had come a week earlier to set out the floating docks. Mac helped carry belongings and construction materials from the ferry to land, amid numerous, earnest pleas to visit sometime. Having seen the amount and quality of food these particular cottagers were laying in, she didn’t say no.

Mac’s destination was at the far end of the lake. She was as eager to reach it as the ferry operator, who reminded her, several times, that he’d have to be back through the lock by twilight or sleep over.

Around a final string of islands, ranging from bare rocks with the requisite possessive gull on each, to a stunning tower crowned by gnarled white pine. An osprey watched them from the skeletal tip of the tallest tree. Then, another cove, so much like the others the operator gave Mac a doubtful look.

“That’s it,” she assured him, tying her boots to her bag and making sure that was secure on her back.

No dock here. The operator brought his boat in until the keel kissed the sandy bottom. “Thanks,” Mac told him. She hopped over the side, sucking air through her teeth at the bite of chill water on her warm feet and ankles, and waded to shore. She waved good-bye as the ferry headed home, not that the operator turned to look.

Mac dropped her bag on a flat stretch of rock and let out a sigh.

“Been a while,” she whispered.

Behind her, forested hills, deep lakes, and flat marshes marched north until the tundra began, an expanse of wilderness punctuated only by small quiet towns and isolated camps. To live here year-round was to accept seasons, value solitude, leave doors open for strangers and, above all, depend on oneself. Preparation and habits mattered here, helping you survive when civilization wasn’t around to help.

Cottagers—those summer migrants—who wanted only to play, party, and unwind didn’t come this far, and certainly not to lakes like Little Misty where you couldn’t zoom around on skims or have every modern convenience delivered to your door.
To come here . . . to stay here,
Mac thought, perching comfortably on that piece of driftwood the size and shape of a dragon’s head, the one which had waited for her here as long as she could remember,
you had to let yourself assume another shape.

She lay back along the wood, soaking in sun and silence, and let her tears flow.

Before the shadows lengthened too much more, Mac put on her boots, grabbed her bag, and headed up the hill. It was a steep slope, slippery with last autumn’s leaves, but there was a stair of a sort. Where the winding path didn’t take advantage of natural rises in the rock—themselves treacherous when wet, short pieces of wood had been set sideways in the slope to provide a foothold. Surprisingly, most were still intact, though Mac stepped carefully and, near the top, had to avoid eroded sections where the path had become steeper than the hillside.

She climbed past the cedars, through arrow-straight white pines, until a glint of reflection ahead marked her goal. A red squirrel, tail flailing back and forth, scolded her from a branch overhead. “Is that any way to welcome someone?” Mac told it. Unimpressed, the squirrel cussed louder.

The cabin sat within a circle of pines whose tops met far above. For a wonder, nothing seemed to have fallen on the roof besides pine needles and cones. It was a rambling structure built to take the weather, nothing fancy or pretty about it except the aging logs of its construction, and more bunkhouse than home. The senior Dr. Connor had routinely brought up students and visiting peers as well as family. Family, particularly Mac’s brothers, had used it for the occasional party, inviting numerous friends. As far as Mac could recall, they’d found room for everyone. Somewhere.

The long building was T-shaped due to an addition tucked on the back, and had a second floor that was mostly slope and tiny, web-coated windows. It did boast that essential northern convenience, a covered porch which circled the front and sides. Visitors were usually taken aback to learn there was a separate outhouse farther into the forest. Not that there wasn’t indoor plumbing, but it saved having to power up the cabin in winter.

Otherwise, the landscape was as it had been, a hush of moss and pine.

Mac climbed the five steps to the porch and unlatched the outer screen door, ready to jump to the side if any recent occupants made a run for the woods.

Nothing large, anyway. She opened the door to the cabin proper and could hear a rustle or two that likely meant squirrels in the rafters or mice under the floor. Stepping inside, she gazed around, admiring the abundance of right angles. Pod Three was home, but she’d developed a positive hunger for the perpendicular.

The first floor was divided in thirds, with sleeping quarters to the left and right. In the center was the common room, an expanse of dark wood and scattered couches, shelves and tables, with braided rugs tossed here and there on the floor. The massive fireplace on the back wall had been cobbled together from loose stone from the lake itself, glints from embedded crystals of pink, white, and amethyst now catching the low rays of sun entering through the porch and windows. Two narrow doors stood open on either side of the fireplace, one to the kitchen and the other to stairs leading up.

Other than the scurrying of four-footed houseguests, the cobwebs curtaining the windows and hanging from rafters, and the truly remarkable paper wasp nest hanging from the eaves outside, the place did look in “great shape,” as Blake had stated. Not bad, considering Mac’s father hadn’t been up for at least ten years and Mac herself—