The following is an excerpt from the recently published novel 'Autumn,' by Marc Macdonald.
“Mae, this place is amazing,” I gushed, exiting the LeSabre with ample effort, which was required after a few hours’ drive and cramped muscles.
The trees loomed like giants, swallowing any evidence of activity among their expansive branches. The trunks were thick and strong, demanding you take notice and appreciate their stately bulk. The liveliness of animals was heard, not seen: a rustling of bushes on the ground and tweets, chitters, and squawks from above. Nature was all-consuming here, and it was humbling and enchanting, if not marginally terrifying, in dawn’s early light. The sun, gradually making its ascent in the day’s infant sky, offered a glimpse of the few red, yellow, and orange leaves—which would soon number in the thousands—among the green, preparing for their annual descent to the ground. Those that had made the plunge already were not yet crunching beneath our feet but instead paved a smooth, slippery path leading towards the three-storey A-frame cabin.
A soaring silver chimney rose from the right side of a metal roof, the sun glinting slightly off both and casting short shadows on the natural carpet we stood upon. I had no clue of the roof’s actual material, but it looked like tin and fit the vision of rain tapping on a tin roof in my mind. The porch boasted a wrap-around wooden deck featuring several planters of greenery that had long since expired and seating arrangements courtesy of a pair of Adirondack chairs. Glowing lanterns hung from either side of the front door, a metal bear-paw door knocker fixed to its centre. Two more, halfway up the A-frame, illuminated the windows of the second floor; whoever lit them must have known we were on our way. The third floor remained dark.
Mae smiled quietly as she drank in her oasis. My observations of these surroundings wasn’t anything she didn’t already know. Though I was hesitant at first, the edifice that stood before me had completely transformed my thinking, and I too would have gladly paid someone to transport me from Silver Springs to this sanctuary, even a wackadoo like Dolores, a.k.a. Chandra of the Midnight Sun.
The air was sweet but earthy, and I opened my lungs to it, welcoming in as much of the fresh forest aroma as I could. I closed my eyes, trying to remain present in the moment. The moment didn’t last long. As I took in my third deep breath, a sharp elbow popped me in the ribs right at the completion of my inhale.
“Grab my bags,” ordered Mae. “Let’s get settled. We only have two days, so quit wasting time standing here taking breaths you still could have taken while being productive. Boy, the work ethic just isn’t what it used to be.”
“You know, Mae, sometimes it’s good to take a little time to enjoy the moment and what’s around you,” I said, gently rubbing my ribcage. “It’s called mindfulness.”
“I’m ninety-one years old,” said Mae, walking towards the front door. “I don’t have time to be mindful, and I sure as shit don’t have time for your tai chi breathing bullshit either.”
A crass interpretation, but she had a point. At her age, thinking of your mortality must be a dark, depressive slope. Mae mumbled something about kicking my ass, but I couldn’t make it out precisely, which was probably for the best.
Much like using the Buick’s other features, opening the trunk was no simple task. After some jimmying and more strength than should have ever been exerted, it popped open, almost striking me square in the jaw. With much annoyance, I grabbed our bags and slammed the trunk closed harder than I needed to. It immediately flew back open, this time succeeding in catching me in the forehead. Twice now, the Buick had launched a full-scale attack on my face. I couldn’t help but start to take it personally.
Entering the cabin, I was awestruck by the live-edge wood beams lining the ceiling. The stone fireplace at the far end of the main room was cozy and inviting, and the wall-to-wall windows offered an uninterrupted view of the lake. The still-rising sun sparkled off the water’s ripples, reflecting a warmth towards the shore and tricking this onlooker into thinking the water might not be as cold as I knew it must be given the time of year.
Next to the fireplace was a stack of wood, a crate of kindling, and a box of quick-strike matches. They were long and thin; a worn strike pad was glued to the brass holder. The mantle hosted no photos, no mementos, nothing to signal any memory that was worth preserving, at least not here. In fact, the walls were also bare, not a single decorative piece was visible anywhere. I tried to quickly decipher whether this was due to the fact that Mae visited so infrequently or if there were other demons at play. Knowing what I did of Mae, I knew it’d be best to leave it alone and just keep my mouth shut.
“So, Mae, why are there no photos, art, or decorations on the walls?” I couldn’t help myself.
Mae had disappeared to the main-floor bedroom, either not hearing me or ignoring me all together. I gave her space and did not follow, instead opting to acquaint myself with the indoor surroundings. I was quite confident there was an unwelcome surprise lying in wait for me somewhere, and it would be best if I could determine its whereabouts now. I sat down in one of the armchairs near the fireplace and gazed with curiosity at the empty bookshelf. What books must have lived there at one time, I pondered. There must have been copies of Dickens or Brontë, Kerouac or Hemingway. An empty bookshelf was a sad sight.
I ran my hands along the worn, brittle surface of the chair, its feel offering subtle indications that it was once fine leather. Now, however, it was weathered to the point of being stripped to its last layer of life before cracking. In the safety of solitude, I closed my eyes again and took a few more deep breaths, taking in the distinct scent of stale cabin. On my third breath I felt another sharp jolt, only this time, it was on the back of my head. The culprit was a book Mae had thrown at me. She was now telling me to put it on the bookshelf. I picked up the book, turning it over in my hands. Robinson Crusoe.
“There, now there’s something for you to look at,” she said, confirming that she had caught my initial question. I placed the book on the shelf in what I thought was the prime spot. It looked lonely but appropriate, and given the tale’s theme, it felt almost like art. Two birds and all that.
“I’m going to get organized,” said Mae, standing in the spot from which she had launched the classic novel.
“No problem,” I said. “I’m going to take a walk around and check things out.”
“Do whatever you want.”
