Shay's January

January has been a month of recovery for me and Shay, a time to step away from the frantic rush that has become my life, and the long patient waiting that has been Shay's. Especially, it has been a time of discovery as we reconnect with the settings that shaped Flo's narrative in RIVER FACES NORTH. As Book 2 (SHE BECOMES SHADOW) grows, this also becomes research time.

---

Sometimes our rambles take us on the old railbeds, now well-groomed trails for all-terrain vehicles. Walking is so easy on the even surface, the view refreshing. I think of River and her companions, possibly darting along this road in the night, but then I see how open it is, how vulnerable they will be. They must leave the trail, cutting into the heavy bush far to the side. It will be wet there, and when they are running in April, there will be flies and ticks. No easy ramble for them. I close my eyes, feel the squelch of the mud, the thorns pressing into my arms and legs. 

Shay waits, often scanning the sky or staring at something that only she hears in the bush. What does she know that is hidden from me?

---

The roads we follow sometimes cross the clear-cut areas. Shay sniffs, lowering her head to read the traces of deer that have passed here. It is bleak and open; the travellers will be buffeted by winds, exposed to the full force of the sun, drenched by the heavy rains. They will not be safe here; they must pass around the clear-cuts. There are many clear-cuts in the woods between Flo's swamp and Miramichi. How many extra kilometres must they go? I will pull up the map that night and pity them for the long winding route they must follow.

---

Streams open in the wilderness, fed by run-off. They are not so hard to cross, but I have good boots and will soon be home, relaxing with dry socks and central heating. I will not be huddled in a damp thicket, my filthy sneakers and socks on a branch beside me. They will be cold and still soaked when the travellers cram their feet into them, still chilled, still hungry. 

There will be creeks and rivers. Lakes and marshes. Many, many crossings and alternate routes for them.

Shay urges me forward. There is so little time.

---

There are many signs of a dying earth. Here, the ice has collapsed, revealing a dry basin below. When spring comes, the rain no longer refreshes the earth. It remains dry, and the wildfires thrive.

How deep do the roots of these trees go? Will they find the water? Will the roots hold them in the dry earth when the winds come? How fast will the fires run when they are unchecked?

---

That small pine marks the trailhead. The clear track is faded now, but still easy to follow. I imagine it in ten years time -- a tangle of brush and weeds, wild raspberry canes clutching as travellers pass. They will journey by night, when the drones are not out. How easy it will be to lose the way. How quickly ankles turn in the dead hay.

I fell along this route. I was only one hour's walk from home. What if I were out there, heading into a journey of months? I would be wet and cold, or perhaps perspiring in the first feverish moments of Lyme disease. I would be exhausted by travel and hunger and despair. 
Shay and I rest. We have a light snack. I worry for my travellers. Have I, in my writer's arrogance, set them an impossible task?

---

On this day, it is sunny, and we explore the old farm. The hillside is windy, but here, nestled against the trees, is where I put the greenhouse in RIVER FACES NORTH. It is sheltered here, and the morning sun reaches it. By afternoon, it will be bathed in light. 

I see the children winding through the trees to the river, back and forth with their loads. The seniors chip away at the hillside above, breaking up the earth for planting. One sod at a time. There are very few children under the age of two. When the parents were sent to the clean-up camps, there were no more births. But then I hear a long, lonely wail, a baby tucked under the bush beyond the furrows, the grandmother working, working, not daring to look up let alone help.

​There will be a child. That will be important. That night, I write their story.

---

The deadwood here fascinates Shay. What shall we do with so much firewood?

But they are not allowed an axe or larger tools. Our first narrator Flo would harvest the smaller branches with a handsaw, but our travellers have no tools and they cannot risk a fire. They will travel from April to November. Have I slept on the forest floor when I am wet and hungry? Have I done this in April and then kept doing it without relief? They must not build a shelter: There is no time, and that will leave signs. How will they endure?

---

Shay calls a halt, here in the open land between the river and the old farm. She is always watching, always with her eyes on the bushes across on the island. I want to know what she sees. Is this where enemies are hiding? Or perhaps allies seeking to join them? What predator has survived to hunt them?
​
​How will they be safe? Again, I imagine my characters staying home, raising a gentle safe rebellion in dry clothes with warm food and a roof over their heads. But that is not an option. Miramichi is the gathering place.

I am saddened by all the travellers must face. I draw heart from Gran Flo's words as they were leaving: 
Grow well. Grow strong. I shield you from their sight by the strength of my will. You are blessed, with all the blessing in my heart. -- Flora Hardy in River Faces North

---

Thank you for joining our ramble. Shay has been with me, quietly in the shadows, through my writing journey. Other dogs have sat at my feet while I wrote. She does not do that.

But she steps forward now; it is our time.  Meegwetch, little Shay.

---