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by Simon Wail I am living in an old cabin in the woods, way up in Alberta. Cold, even for this time of year. No electricity, but a pot-bellied stove, and a kerosene lantern. A window, but no glass - instead, covered in oiled paper. A sagging bed. I thought, It is enough. Except for the roof, the whole cabin is made out of logs. The walls are made out of logs. The floor is made out of logs (cut in half). The floor sags toward the middle as if the basement is trying to swallow the whole cabin. There is a door to the basement, but it is nailed shut. (Many nails. Big nails.) The roof? The roof is made out of tin (rusted, it leaks, buckets on floor when it rains - it rains a lot). When I found this place, I knocked on the door (made out of logs). Nobody was home. Inside, a plaid shirt was hanging on the back of a chair that was made out of a stump, with sticks implanted to make a backrest. A pair of (very dirty) coveralls was hanging on a nail in the wall. I waited. Nobody ever came. So I stayed. Two hunters came by. They didn't care that I was living there. I said, Whose cabin is this? They said. Nobody's. They said, Old man Bolan built it using a hammer and saw and his own two hands. They said, Last winter, Old man Bolan heard about a place called California. Heard it never snowed there. Didn't believe it. Then he was gone. I walked into town. Shoplifted a hammer. Walked back out here. Pulled out the nails that held the basement door shut. (Many nails. Big nails.) Door fell off. Old. (Made of logs.) Rotted wooden stairs leading down. Three steps, then . . . ice. I realized, The entire basement is filled with ice. Made a torch out of a stick. Flickering light. Went down the three steps. Leaned down. Touched the ice. Ice was dry, not wet, like you'd think. I brought the torch close. I thought, This ice is at least six feet deep, and almost clear, like a shimmery, window. Through the ice, I could see shelves with jars lined up. A bucket on its side. Clothes hanging on hooks. Rubber boots against the wall. An old man's face looking up at me. Hard to be sure. Flickering light. Torch went out. I will leave someday. Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.
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