When the tide is this high—which it has to be if any boat is going to be able to dock there—the island looks more like an aberration.It doesn’t fit into the surrounding landscape at all.To me, when I get my first glimpse of Landslide, I’m reminded of those pictures of beached whales dying on the sand.
A huge hump rising out of the lapping water looking as though it repels the light.The damp riverbanks and long, rustling reeds seem to cling to its sides with tentacle fingers.
As the boat gets closer, I can’t shake the image of the island being something alien.
The ferryman notices my consternation.
“You’re seeing it at the wrong time.Landslide is a tidal island.Come here in the early morning in summer and I swear you’ll never want to leave.Or you could take a canoe out during low tide.It’s better when the causeway is exposed.”
“You mean it’s only connected to the land during low tide, and you can only bring a boat here when the tide is high?”
“Yup.Certain tides.The really low and high ones.During equinoxes and solstices, and such.Then you can run across to Canada all you want with no fear of being stuck in the mud.Just remember to take your passport with you for identification.”
“My God!Isn’t there a bridge?”
Shaking his head, he gives another noncommittal shrug.“Used to be one going Stateside, but it collapsed.I guess the good folk of Landslide didn’t care to have it fixed.I suppose it must have been a logistical nightmare to find out which municipal area was responsible for repairing it.None of them are keen to take on Landslide.”
I don’t ruddy well blame them!As the treeline gets closer, I’m struggling to see why anyone would want to come here.A solitary figure is waiting on the jetty as the ferry putters to a halt and the ferryman cuts the engine.After throwing the man on the jetty a rope, they get busy lowering the gangplank onto the shore.Then the two men start offloading the boxes.
The black waters slop against the side of the boat as I look over the rails with morbid interest.Only when the ferryman clears his throat do I realize that both men are waiting for me to drive down the gangplank.
“Oh, er… Thank you for the guided tour.”Buzzing down the window, I wave my thanks to the ferryman.I turn on the charm for him because I know I’ll be seeing him again soon when I return home.
But when he sees my hand digging into my pocket for a cash tip, he waves the note away before I can hold it out towards him.He nods to show me he appreciates the gesture.
All my luggage is in the trunk of my car.I’m free to drive away the second my tires touch the ground, but the man on the jetty stops me by holding out his hand.“Name’s Ben Magoo.I think I’m the nearest person you can reasonably call a neighbor.”
Of course.My impersonal, leave-well-alone Twin Cities is far behind me now.I guess people are all up in your business on an island.
Shaking his hand, I manage to muster up a smile.“Pleased to meet you, Ben.Luna Blackwood.Please call me Luna.”
Ben Magoo smiles.“Tempest said that she always loved your name.I am so sorry about your aunt’s passing?—”
I cut him off right there.I’m exhausted after two days of traveling, and he’s about to launch into one of those conversations that require lots of concentration to follow.I have to stop him at the beginning, before it becomes a saga.
“Please come by the house for a visit, Ben.Tempest’s attorney told me the real estate agent would be waiting at the house with the keys if I arrive on this day?”
The two men nod.“That would be Linda.She’s local but based in Winnipeg now.”
Backing away while waving, smiling, and thanking them, I get behind the wheel of my little car.I’m about to drive off when Ben flags me down again.
Oh, for fucks sake.What does he want now?
Pressing down the window, I wait for him to say his piece.
“Luna, some of the road signs are down.Landslide’s deceptively big, so whatever you do, don’t just follow the road.You’ll just be going ‘round in circles otherwise.”
I begin reaching for my phone before he can stop speaking.“Waaay ahead of you, Ben.”
He isn’t finished yet.“Look, the cell tower reception isn’t so good, either.Sometimes we get connectivity from the Canadian side, sometimes the States if we’re lucky.Here…” Digging in his coat pocket, he hands me a heavily folded scrap of paper.“Use this.”
Don’t mind if I do.“Thanks, Ben.Bye.”
To be fair on old Ben, I’m spending way more time looking at the rough map he gave me than down the road.Did I say road?I meant country lane.There’s no way this potholed mess with grass and weeds invading the verge can be called a road.
I feel the tree roots under my tires when I drive over them, that’s how thin the tarmac is.I’m not too ticked off about it, because going at a snail’s pace allows me to look around.The shoreline is hidden by the seemingly endless forest on either side of me.But behind the higgledy-piggledy attempt at erecting a fence, there is a verdant field running parallel to the car.
The cows or sheep—or whatever cattle they keep round here—must have already gone back to the byre because I can’t see anything grazing on all this yummy grass.Can bears swim?I don’t know, but if I were a domesticated animal, I would prefer to spend the night in a barn instead of that forest…
