Dream Cottage

By Trevor J. Skidmore

Brock and son were travelling by car at night through a unfamiliar area in late winter, early spring. The snow has melted and travel is relatively safe, but the nights are still subject to icy conditions. As Brock finds out having been distracted as he hits a spot of black ice. (An icing condition, whereby the road looks perfectly safe). Brock loses control of the vehicle and slams into a sand pile. His son, Tod is fast asleep in the back seat of the car and gets thrown about inside the car,(prior to seatbelts and airbag laws) causing him to bump his head. Brock on checking Tods condition after the accident, realizes that Tod is unconscious and notices the bump. Knowing a little about head injuries, he becomes increasingly concerned. He starts looking for help and unexpectedly meets Sean Logan, an old man who has a old cottage nearby. Sean saves both Brock and Tod, and puts them up for the night. In the morning, while Sean is preparing breakfast, Brock decides to go and check on the car. While surveying the damage, another stranger happens by to assist. Brock tells him of the previous evenings happenings and about Sean arriving to assist them both. The stranger, befuddled states that he lived in the area and knew nothing of Sean. At least not recently. There was a Sean mentioned in the community history, but had died when his cottage burned down more than a hundred years earlier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462843541

Trevor J. Skidmore

My name is Trevor John Skidmore, although I prefer Trevor J Skidmore. I was born in Sherebrooke Quebec Canada in 1946, and lived there for four (4) years until my parents moved to a small town in Northern Ontario. Although I remember parts of my life in Quebec, most of my memories of growing up are related to this small Ontario community.

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Chapter One

The evening sky, still bearing signs of winter, slowly faded into darkness as Brock peered through the windshield of his five year old Dodge Diplomat. It seemed as though he had been driving for eternity, the same old scenery, trees and road trees and road, with only the odd farmhouse to break up the monotony. It wouldn’t have been so bad had his passenger, his ten year old son, been able to stay awake to keep him company, but try as he may he finally succumbed to the staunch urging’s of the ever patient sandman. Oh well!, sighed Brock, surely there had to be a town coming up, someplace where he could find a Hotel, Motel or at least a cup of coffee, not to mention fill the tank. How far had he come on the last fill, 2-3 hundred miles, he wasn’t sure, and the gas gauge hadn’t been working properly for the past two months, something he had intended to have fixed, but had never got around to. He did have a five gallon can of gas in the trunk, that he had bought for his snowmobile, but had not had a chance to use, so at least he felt somewhat assured, that they wouldn’t be stranded. But the thought of a nights rest and a cup of coffee, well . . . there just had to be a town nearby.

A dim light seemed to be flickering through the trees ahead, not strong enough to be an electric light, maybe a small flashlight . . . no. Brock’s fascination with the light, and the fact that he had been driving non stop for six and a half hours, pulled his attention away from his primary task of driving his vehicle. And in this case, on unfamiliar roads. Although winter was over, faint traces remained, unfortunately in the form of black ice at this particular time. Before Brock could respond, his car hit a patch and spun out of control, slid over the embankment down into a ravine, stopping suddenly against a sand pile placed in the vicinity by the road crews to be used by the road sanding trucks in winter.

Although dazed, Brock was not hurt his first reaction to check his son for injuries. Tod Tod, are you all right? No answer . . . Brock leapt over the seat of the car into the back, where Tod had crawled just prior to dozing off. Although Tod had a nasty gash on his forehead, and was unconscious, his pulse and breathing were steady. But still head wounds can be tricky and he really should get him to a doctor. Brock got out of the car to check on the damage, only to find that night had truly taken hold, and out in the wilderness like this, no street lights, no buildings, and cloud cover blocking light from the night sky, it was as dark as a crypt. Carefully feeling his way along the car he realized that he had indeed been lucky, had the sand pile not stopped the car it would have gone down a steep bank that seemed to go on forever. However the front of the car had suffered fairly severe damage, both headlights were broken. After examining Tod again, Brock decided to check on the light that attracted his attention down the road, it was possible that there was someone back there who would be able to help.

Slowly easing his way up the hill, back on to the road Brock again noticed the light, it seemed quite far away, and no it wasn’t a flashlight, it looked as though it might be a fire of some kind, a candle or maybe a lantern. Whatever it was, it seemed to be moving. What was it? How could it be moving? Brock’s mind raced, near panic he stepped back, tripping over an old tree limb, and was sent sprawling over the steep bank he had noticed earlier. Tumbling down the bank he was savagely struck again and again by rocks and debris, until he finally submitted to the sleep, his last thought, Tod, what about Tod.

The scent of burning hardwood, filled his nostrils, the crackling of a fire, far off in the distance. Creeping closer, the sound, the odour ever so closer. Tod slowly opened his eyes, Dad . . . your awake, oh dad. Mister hey mister, my dad’s eyes are open.

Brock slowly regained his senses, quickly he sat up, only to be crushed by deep pain in his head and shoulder. Easy mister easy. A deep gruff voice with an unsettling accent, familiar yet strange in its diction. Where who . . . what . . . where, where am I, uh are we . . . Who are you? . . . All in good time, here drink this, its an old remedy handed down from generation to generation, twill ease your pains lad. Slowly sipping the herbal mixture, Brock could feel his strength slowly return.

Twas lucky for you I was out on my nightly saunter, when I saw your carriage slide into the gully. Its a right good thing that my sand pile was there, don’t you think. Twas it that saved you both. When I came to check on you, it seems that I spooked you, and you took a tumble down devils pit. The last man that did so died of a broken neck. You be a lucky man lad, a lucky man indeed.

Brock slowly examined the surroundings, a door way, strangely old in appearance, no hardware, just a wooden latch that could be opened from either side, stone walls. One window, rather small facing east, on the west wall a huge fire place, covering almost half of the space. Cooking pots and pans on hooks surrounding it. In the centre of the room, a large table with two chairs one at each end, and benches along either side.

The south wall, where Brock was lying on a handmade wooden bed, filled with what felt like straw covered in a rough material something like burlap, was lined with drapes made of the same material. Behind the drapes were four more of the handmade beds, one about half again as big as the one in which Brock lay.

Brock’s head began to clear, the pain in his shoulder subsided. I . . . I don’t know how to thank you mister, but I sure do thank you. Do you live alone out here? Yes lad I do, ere since me wife passed on, seems such a long time. Would you be wanting a cup of tea, and you laddy I’ve got some fresh lemonade, would you be wantin some?

After an hour of chatting Tod fell asleep on one of the smaller beds, the man who had been identified as Sean Logan, gazed at the boy and sighed, its been a goodly number of years since my cabin held such a treasure. Upon so saying he got up and covered the boy with extra blankets. I’d be thinkin of turning in myself if I were you lad, me potions not so strong as to overcome rest, and its rest ye be needing. Your right Sean, I think I will. Brock slowly got to his feet and returned to bed, where he lay watching Sean reading by the oil lantern. Within a few minutes Brock was asleep.

Morning came quickly, and when Brock awoke the sun had risen high into the morning sky. The clouds of the night before lay open large patches of blue filling the heavens. A gentle morning breath carried the sounds and smell of spring through out the air, filling all life with new hope of better days ahead. Brock’s eyes soaked in the wondrous radiance of the scenery, Sean’s rustic cottage of stone and timber, lay against a slope facing east, which allowed in the mornings light and warmth, but sheltered from the intense heat of the afternoon.

To the north there was a stand of spruce trees acting as a wind break, shielding the cabin from winters fury, and to the south a stream gently carrying the clearest of water slowly on its path to the sea. Sean’s voice rose from the trees to the north, Admiring me favorite fishing spot I see lad. To be honoured is its right for sure, I’ve eaten many a good trout from those waters, would you be caren for some for breakfast?

Maybe later thanks Sean, but I think I’d better check out the car and see how badly damaged she is first. Sean nodded, She’ll be just through the trees and slightly west, you’ll see the path down to the road. I’ll be making breakfast for all of us, go do what you’ve got to, I’ll feed the boy and you when you return.

Brock walked the path and then the road, for what seemed only moments, admiring the beauty of his surroundings, Its no wonder Sean lives out here it has to be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Turning to look back he was amazed at how far he’d come, it must be better than five miles back to the cabin, and something didn’t look quite right, something was wrong, but what. Just then he spotted the car. After having checked the car out, Brock started the engine and backed her up the hill, back on to the road. He drove the car back towards the path and pulled over at the side of the road, got out and again inspected the damage to the car. As he was pulling the dented fender away from the wheel, a voice startled him, Problems mister? Wha oh you lord I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming, ah—yea I had some problems last night, but the old fellow up in the cabin helped out.

Excuse me sir, what old fellow are you referen to . . . ? Sean . . . Sean Logan, he lives just beyond those pines, in an old Cabin. I’m sorry sir, but Sean Logan, he used to live there all right, back about a hundred years ago. He and a youngster ah-visiten him died before breakfast, place caught fire and trapped em both. Brock looked, No no its impossible I was just there . . . Brock turned and ran towards the trees. Where’s the path there’s no path, he’s got to be lying, but where’s the path. Struggling through the trees the growth much higher then he remembered, Brock pushed and shoved, fought his way, foot by foot step by step, Brock struggled through the brush. Finally he broke through the other side, and there was the stream, just as he remembered. The hill, everything was there, everything that is except the cabin. Standing to the East of the hill, was the biggest stone fireplace he had ever seen. A fire place and chimney but no cabin. No cabin . . .

TAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW D!

Dad, Dad wake up, you’ve been dreaming, Dad don’t you remember, were supposed to be going to the cabin today. Come on dad, we’ll be late.

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Chapter Two

The morning was filled with furious packing in readiness for the upcoming vacation. A vacation made in heaven, so Brock used as his argument for the purchase of the cabin during the family meetings in which his wife opposed such a purchase. My idea of a vacation does not include, cooking, cleaning and laundry. Only with fewer appliances. Concessions were made by Brock and Tod, and in the end the cottage was theirs. Tod was growing more excited as the morning wore on, hardly able to stop long enough for breakfast prior to the start of their journey, a trip that would take them all day, and possibly into the evening.

Brock’s job forced him to live where he really didn’t like living, in the crowded suburb of Canada’s largest city. Tired of postage stamp lots, and government regulations, which told him what he could and could not do with his property, he chose finally to sell the house and buy a condo.