This is the third part of Chapter 2 of I Am The North, the first installment of the Sitka Saga trilogy.
Shared with permission, written by Rae Wojcik.
“I didn’t want to disturb anyone,” he says. “My apologies.”
Apologies. His vocabulary is as stiff as his personality.
“Walking into a bar isn’t disturbing, unless you have something to hide,” I retort, following his gaze to the picture I know so well.
Five men stand with shovels and pickaxes at the site of the old Nelson Mine, though it was just being built when the photo was taken. Two of the men are brothers, Jakob and Eli Anderson, and on the far right is Robert Paxton. Just a few months after this photo was taken, Robert and Jakob would go missing, leaving Robert’s wife, Lena, as a single mother with a newborn baby. Later on, the mine would fall into financial distress and close completely. The disappearance of Robert and Jakob was never solved.
“I have nothing to hide,” Callum says, tossing a loose piece of hair from his forehead. “I’m home for fall break and I’m doing some research. There’s much you can find among old photographs.”
I clench my fists. Every time I see Callum, I remember just how much I hate him. I suffered under his pompous arrogance for twelve years at school, only to watch him go on to study at the University of Chicago, the same school I was accepted to and didn’t have the funds to attend. Callum’s winning combination of work ethic, charm, and family money was bound to get him anywhere in life, even though I found him slimy as a dog’s tongue. So slimy, in fact, that he’s up here on a rainy Tuesday night, looking at my picture.
“What do you mean, research?”
“I’ve decided to major in history.” My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step walking down steps. “My professor learned I was from Wild Rose and said the area has been of particular interest to him. He said he would mentor me if I helped him study the history of the area.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he talks, but stares at the picture as though talking to the men in it.
“The history…like the disappearances.”
The blood starts to pound in my ears. He can’t play dumb. He knows I was working on my book. I’d started it before we graduated, and I distinctly remember giving a presentation on it for a class, and him feigning interest while flirting with a girl who sat beside him. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I realize that this wasn’t a coincidence. This was intentional.
“Look, Tanya, I know it sounds like I stole your idea, but I really didn’t,” he says, facing me for the first time. “Some of the things that happened here were quite remarkable, and my professor wants to make something out of it. We have the resources to publish a book on it if we can and working with him could be the path to graduate school.”
He flashes me a too-white smile and I feel my blood pressure rise. Professor. Book. Graduate school.
“So, you don’t deny it?” I spit. “You’re writing a book on Wild Rose’s disappearances. Was that seriously the only idea you could think of, stealing my idea?”
“Hey.” He holds up his hands and takes a step closer, sending me hopping backward. “You need to calm down. The world is big enough for us to both study history.”
“I think you forget just how narrow this specific topic is,” I seethe.
“What I’m saying is that it’s time to stop seeing each other as rivals. We could help each other.”
At the word help, I feel my face flush. “Help you? With my idea? Over my dead body.”
And with that, I storm from the room, flicking the lights off to the lounge as I leave.
“Closing time,” I shout over my shoulder, huffing back to the bar, where Ila and the man are talking in low whispers. They stop abruptly as I enter.
“Did you say closing time?” Ila asks, glancing down at her phone. “You’re quite early.”
“Yeah, well, business is slow and we’re wasting electricity.” I blink away the tears burning in my eyes as I turn to put a few glasses away. Quick footsteps sound behind me, followed by the swoosh and slam of the front door. I’m going to kill him.
“What was that kid doing here?” Ila asks.
I crack my knuckles. “You don’t want to know.”
The grizzled man looks from the door to me before sliding a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter. “Keep the change,” he says, and with a nod to Ila, he slips out the door.
I pick up the bill, though whatever happiness I’d normally feel over such a generous tip is overshadowed by Callum’s cloud of misery. “That was nice of him.”
Ila finishes the last of her wine and hands me the glass. “Things work out once in a while. As for the kid—anything I can help with?”
“Not unless you can stop my life’s work from being washed down the drain.”
Ila offers a tiny smile and puts a fifty on the counter. “Keep the change.” She winks before following the man into the blustery night, leaving me alone.
I wash and put away the rest of the glasses, listening to the wind outside as I rush around the bar. I wipe a glass too hard, accidentally breaking it, and I throw it as hard as I can into the trash can. Gripping the edge of the counter, I inhale a long, hard breath, only to feel angrier when I release it. I hate Callum. I hate Wild Rose. I hate absolutely everything.
I am just finishing putting away the glasses when a howl of wind erupts. The building creaks and groans, and then, out of nowhere, I am plunged into total darkness.
I stop, fury evaporating from my body as fear comes rushing in its place. The Happy Beaver suddenly seems labyrinthine, a yawning void ready to swallow me whole. The harsh glow of the exit sign pierces through the darkness at the far end of the dance floor, the only source of light left in the building. The lack of noise suddenly makes the rain seem louder. I flip on my phone’s flashlight and dig my coat out from the bottom shelf. Just as I start to pull it on, I jump. From the far end of the lounge comes faint music, followed by the unmistakable glowing lights of the broken jukebox.
My scream is loud enough to wake the entire town.
I vault over the bar and shoot toward the heavy oak door, pulse racing like wildfire. As soon as I am past the threshold, the freezing rain bites every inch of my exposed skin. It takes all my bodyweight to shut the door against the wind behind me. The waves from Lake Superior are crashing so loudly, I can hear them as I run across the parking lot to my truck. I leap into the cab and am embraced by the familiar smell of dog hair, lavender, and burnt transmission fluid as I dig my key into the ignition and turn around as quickly as I can.
But just as I near the highway, a dark figure darts from behind a tree and crosses the sidewalk. I slam on my brakes, my headlights catching the now-familiar figure of the wide-shouldered man in a cotton duck jacket. He stops, staring at my truck with wide eyes before darting off into the night.
Like what you're reading? Scholar & Scribe is hosting a writing contest set within the world of the Sitka Saga, for details check out: @jfuji/win-20-hsbi-and-more
I'll continue sharing more of the Saga over the coming days.
