Rote Writer

Enantiodromia Rote Writer

In the middle of the very first night alone, Tim hears an awful sound. Not gnashing, but a gnawing so loud it carries through the wall tent into the caretaker's cabin.

Now gnawing on its own, in clear daylight with whomever or whatever visible in the act is acceptable. It doesn't evoke any imagination. You see it, you believe it, and after acknowledging it you move on or do something about it. Gnawing in the middle of the night; where many a bear rambles and ambles by, even leaving a mark or two... way up on the lodge's long legs holding up the large deck overlooking the lovely lake--takes on a different sound. A sound that when you wake up to, well into the wilderness, makes you wonder why you talk to yourself... asking and answering questions;

"What the hell is that?"

"Is it in the cabin?"

"No."

"Is it just outside the cabin."

"I don't think so, but it's so hard to tell the way sound carry's out here."

"Maybe I'll check."

"Maybe I'll just pull the bedcovers up more and hope it goes away."

Then you hear it again and again, as if whatever is making the noise has no care or concern that first; you're sleeping, second you would like to go back to sleep, and third you don't want to be woken up again.

But the sound doesn't stop.

"I can't sleep now... what the hell is that, what makes that kind of sound?"

"Nothing's trying to get in through the window."

"Nothing on the raft like deck; I'll have to step outside and take a look."

He looks at the thirty-aught-six still sheathed in its scabbard by the door before stepping outside.



Tim's memories of The Yukon bring him back to his past and pave the way to his future.