I shut myself in behind the glass walls of the lookout. My tired eyes fell on a tiny scratch on the floorboards in the far corner. The events of the night and morning played through my head. I stacked them on top of each other and tried to find some sense in it all. The banging on the door. The shadow. The triangles on the door and burnt out tree. What did it all mean? Was someone watching me? Was something hunting me?
I tapped against my still unpacked bag I had hauled up the mountain. In it were books and puzzles and blank journals for writing and sketches. All the things I had planned to do up here to pass the quiet hours of blissful solitude.
I had no idea what to do, so I sat. I stayed in the same place so long that my leg went numb. I stood and shook it out, pacing around the single open room. On about the fifth lap, I leaned down to the book shelf built into the cabinet. A few volumes of tattered paperbacks stacked up against one side. Melville and McCarthy and King. Next to them an encyclopedia of tree species in North America.
Bookending them was a volume with a thick black spine, smooth and unmarked. Beside it stood a glass tetrahedron, a prism on which all sides are triangles. The triangle on the door. The triangle on the tree. Did it mean something? I turned the prism in my hand and put it back.
I pulled the black book from the shelf. The front cover matched the spine, black and smooth and unmarked. I flicked through the pages, thick and white. A strange script covered the pages, hand-written in black ink. If it was an established language, I did not know it. It reminded me of how Tolkien presented Elvish in Lord of the Rings. Interspersed with the script were various scribbles of shapes. Triangles pointing up and down, sometimes with lines drawn through them. And sketches of trees and dark black holes in the sides of mountains. I turned back to the first page and made a concerted effort to understand something, a word or letter, but nothing made sense.
I closed the book and lifted it back to the shelf. A polaroid picture slipped from inside the back cover and onto the floor. A photo of a man and a child, presumably father and son. A tinge of yellow marked the white border of the photograph. It was old.
Martina’s voice broke my reverie. The sound of the voice registered, but I made no sense of the words. I picked up the radio.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“How did you sleep last night?”
“Terrible. Hardly a wink.” I saw no sense in lying, but wanted to keep the full truth hidden and hoped she would not press.
“I slept like a baby my first night on lookout. That’s when I knew I was meant for this place.”
“Maybe I’ll have better luck tonight.”
“The storm wouldn’t have helped. What are your plans for your first full day on watch?”
I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me. “Some reading. I brought up a Rubik’s Cube. Hope I’ll crack it finally.”
The sound of a quick rush of air rustled through the radio, the sound someone makes when they suddenly recall something and smile. “Mike taught me to solve a Rubik’s Cube during college.”
“Who is Mike?”
An uncomfortable silence hung.
When she spoke again she sounded composed. “Someone from a previous chapter now closed. It goes like that sometimes. One of the reasons I ended up spending my summers on lookout.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine. We’re basically the only contact either of us will have for months, it’s best we get on friendly terms. We were engaged, Mike and I. We tried for a family. It didn’t work out. My family told me taking this job was an act of running away. They were right. But it’s better now, I’m better now. This place healed me and gave me hope.”
“I’m hoping it does something similar for me.” I paused to splutter another cough. “I think everyone dreams of running away at one time or another.”
I cringed at my words. Too sentimental, too melodramatic.
Martina was quick with her reply. “We’re all running from something, or towards something. What’s your story? What are you escaping from?”
“I’ve been picked on a lot. I’ve spent my life in corners and hiding behind locked doors. I wanted to go somewhere away from all of that.”
“We’re the lucky ones who made it. Don’t forget the weather report at 9am sharp. And then you can take a nap, I can be your eyes for a couple of hours. Nice talking to you Tom.”
“You too.”
After sending down the weather readings on schedule, I pulled one of the chairs to the windows facing west and Martina’s lookout. The valley resembled a photograph it was so still. My mind wandered. Each time my eyes shut I saw the thin rectangle of light and the black shadow flitting across. I needed a distraction.
I pulled the black book back off the shelf and opened it to a random page. The script still made no sense. I held the book up in front of my face and imagined the meaning washing into my brain. I used to do the same with my calculus homework. It hadn’t worked then, and it didn’t work now.
I couldn’t concentrate. I was too tired. I set the open book down beside the bed and lay down. Two extended blinks of the eyes later, I was asleep.
I woke to a tapping sound. I lifted my head, confused for a moment about where I was. At the door someone cleared their throat. She was young, early twenties, about my age. She wore oversized tan coloured boots with thick blue socks pushing halfway up her calves. She bared her teeth and raised her eyebrows and mouthed ‘sorry’.
I swung my feet onto the floor and stood bolt upright as if admonished by a drill sergeant.
“Just having a quick lie down,” I said. I checked the time. I’d been out for a couple of hours. I held out my hands. “What can I do for you?”
She wore the confused look of someone who wasn’t sure if she were breaking a rule. “I hear there’s a log book for visitors to the lookout. Thought I could sign it given it took me all morning to get up here.”
“A visitor book? There might be. This is my first day, my second actually, I came up last night.” I was stammering now and took a breath. “I haven’t seen a visitor’s book. Maybe the last guy took it with him.”
I said the words and didn’t believe them. When Roger disappeared he left everything behind. Why would he take the visitor’s book with him? But I hadn’t seen it anywhere, and there were only so many places it could be.
“Maybe,” I said, and shuffled over to the contraption used to pinpoint the fires. The circular disc and map of the forest stood on top of a cabinet painted yellow. I ran my finger around the sides and found a sliding door and pulled it open. Inside three shelves held various maps and navigation equipment. On the top shelf was a large leather bound book.
“Found it,” I said.
The girl hesitated in the doorway.
“Come in. Excuse the mess. I’m still unpacking.”
She let her backpack slide down to the floor and wiped her hands on her shorts. I fumbled for the pen on the shelf and handed it over. I flicked through the pages of names and dates and found the last entry. The day before Roger disappeared. The writing was so stilted that I couldn’t read the name, but the date was clear.
She signed Rebecca Hughes in impeccable print and then ran a finger over the names on the page.
“There aren’t many who come up here,” she said.
“I guess not.”
She closed the book and walked to the windows facing east. “This is my dream job, being up here all alone.”
“Mine too,” I said, the last word stifled in another coughing fit that I fought desperately to supress.
“I love it up here. I love the outdoors. And yet I studied accounting. I’ll be chained to a desk the rest of my life.”
“What made you choose it?”
“I’m good with numbers. Aren’t we supposed to do what we’re good at?”
I shrugged.
Her eyes turned to the floor and the open book of mystery script and geometric drawings.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know. I found it on the shelf. Can you read it?”
She crouched and picked up the book and flicked through the pages. “The writing doesn’t make much sense. But I’ve seen shapes like this. Down in the forest.”
“Shapes? Like triangles?”
“Yes. Strangest thing. Triangles carved into these enormous trees. The sort of trees you can’t wrap your arms around.”
“Were they burnt out?”
She shook her head. She closed the book and lay it on the bed. “What does it mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help you.” She ended in an upward inflection signifying a question.
“Tom,” I said.
“Tom. It was nice to meet you and sorry again to wake you.”
I waved a hand at her. “I should be working anyway. If you see any Rangers, don’t tell them I was asleep.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Did you want to stay for a drink or something?”
She slid a water bottle out her backpack and threaded her arm through the strap. “Thanks anyway, but there’s a clearing I want to reach in time to get my tent up before dark. Then one more peak and back to the real world. Nice to meet you Tom.”
“You too.”
She let herself out and waved through the window as she walked east down the slope. I wondered if she would come back up after spotting the burnt out tree with the triangle etched into the trunk, but she didn’t.
The coming of the hiker and the news that there were other trees in the forest with rectangles carved in them prompted a call to Martina. I had to this point kept the strange events to myself, but Rebecca entering my space and seeing the markings in the book broke the taboo of the subject. I no longer feared ridicule.
“Martina, are you there?”
A few beats went by. A breathless Martina finally answered. “I’m here Tom.”
“I have a strange question. I had a hiker come up here this morning.”
“Already? That didn’t take long. There aren’t many who come up this way.”
“She said she saw some trees in the valley marked with triangles. Have you seen anything like that?”
A few seconds went by. When Martina spoke again her voice sounded robotic, as if reading from a script. “Can’t say I have.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“No idea.”
I tapped the antenna of the radio on my forehead and kept going. “I saw one too. A triangle. On a burnt out tree near my lookout. And then one appeared on the door to the toilet. And there’s this weird book here with writing I can’t read and it has shapes all through it, some of them triangles.” I realised I was starting to ramble and stopped.
“That’s weird.”
“Roger never said anything? He never saw anything?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s just me.”
“Has something happened?”
“Something attacked me last night. Well, attacked is a bit strong. It banged on the door. While I was locked in the outhouse.”
“Probably a deer.”
“It wasn’t…” I hadn’t seen the thing. I didn’t know what it was or what it wasn’t. “I don’t think it was an animal. It carved a rectangle on the door.”
“There isn’t anything out here that would do that. Do you know what I think? For the first time in your life you are detached completely from society. This happens sometimes. Your mind fills in the void. It’s what makes sailors see mermaids and krakens below the waves. It will pass.”
“I didn’t imagine it!” I shouted into the radio and flung it into the corner of the room. I stormed out the door and stomped to the eastern side of the peak and immediately felt like a child. I took a few deep breaths and leaned against the shelter for the wood. She didn’t believe me. Of course she didn’t, would I believe someone who told me such things? If only I could show her. But I was here and she was there.
A smudge of colour flitted between the trees below. The red of Rebecca’s backpack, lonely amongst the green. I scanned the forest ahead looking for the clearing she mentioned. I couldn’t see anything.
The afternoon dragged. I muted the volume on the radio to Martina. I pulled the encyclopedia of tree species in North America off the shelf and flicked through it. There were full page glossy photographs and captions of names in Latin. One page was dog eared. I opened it and someone had underlined a few sentences at the bottom of the page. It concerned tree species whose cones split under the heat of fire to release the seeds within. They needed fire to regenerate. I shut the book and put it back on the shelf.
At 3pm I sent down the second and final weather report of the day. No smoke. No lightning. Humidity increasing, there might be some rain on the way. On the western horizon grey clouds intermingled with the white that had dominated the day.
I hurried outside and grabbed a load of logs for the fire. This may not be a passing shower like yesterday. I dumped the logs in the metal bucket and lifted my head at the smell of rain, carried on the wind through the still open door. The first drops pattered against the roof and I pulled the door shut.
The clouds above darkened and the rain intensified. If the weather did set in I didn’t have much wood for the evening. I cursed my lack of preparation.
My head snapped around at movement in my periphery. Someone was out there. A woman with jet black hair and pale skin. My first thought was another hiker, but she wore a long, flowing dress the colour of the ocean. She was barefoot. Was it Martina? Was this an extension of the prank from last night?
I edged to my left and bent down and picked up the radio thrown in anger after my morning conversation with Martina. I kept my eyes on the woman and turned the volume dial. It made a little click.
The woman outside seemed untroubled by the rain and came closer to the window. We were separated by a few paces and a thin layer of glass. She fixed her eyes on mine, deep blue eyes like the ocean. She pursed her lips and blew a cloud of mist onto the window. I felt the cold. Tiny droplets formed icicles for a moment and then melted away and joined the rain streaming down to the ground.
“Martina, are you there?”
No response. The woman outside brought up her hand to a silver necklace hanging around her neck. It hung a triangle pendant, the triangle hanging upside down, the point directed at the ground. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth as if to speak.
The radio crackled. “Tom! Where have you been?” It was Martina.
“There’s someone here.”
“Another hiker?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
The woman’s lips moved like she was speaking, but no sound came. And then over the sound of the rain I heard the same whispering as the night before. Barely audible, but with a rhythm that matched the opening and closing of her mouth. Shh sounds and breathy syllables.
“Talk to me Tom.”
“I’m freaking out. Is this some joke? Are you in on this?”
“In on what Tom?”
The woman turned and took a step away from the glass. She raised an arm parallel to the ground and pointed north. Martina’s lookout was west. The hiker Rebecca had walked east. What was north?
The radio crackled and the voice of a man spoke. “Tell her to leave.”
“Who is this?”
“You have to force her to leave,” the voice repeated.
“Roger? Is that you?” Martina’s voice was high pitched, almost hysterical.
Roger? The Roger who went missing? The Roger who occupied my lookout before me. The Roger who I suspected as the author of the scribbles and geometric shapes in the black book from the shelf?
Roger spoke again, louder and slower than before, annunciating each syllable. “You have to go out there. She is dangerous.”
She didn’t look dangerous, standing out there in the rain and pointing. Then it struck me. She stood in the rain, but her dress billowed out as if dry, and her hair fell in thick waves. She stood in the rain but somehow she was not wet.
The radio trembled in my hand. “If she’s dangerous then I’m not going out there.”
“This has happened before. She is terrified of fire. It is fire that will make her leave.” His voice was calm.
I backed up towards the fireplace. I stumbled on my bag and tumbled to the floor. The woman outside was unperturbed, a statue pointing in the rain. I crawled to the fireplace and shoved some paper and the thinnest of the logs inside and lit a match. At the burst of light the woman’s head snapped around. She turned away as if the glow hurt her eyes.
I opened the glass door to the fireplace. The flames were low and subdued. I grabbed the unburnt end of a log and pulled it from the fire, the other end smouldering red. I scrambled to the door and found the handle.
In a flurry of adrenaline I burst outside and skipped towards her. I shouted unintelligible syllables firing in staccato bursts of pent up fear. She turned to me, her eyes bulging. I held up the log, a pitiful glow of red embers and thick black smoke. But it was enough. Her face changed. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth in fear. Her skin bubbled as if bugs crawled underneath, scurrying up her neck and over her face. She brought up her hands and clawed at her cheeks. I almost wretched at the sight.
She wailed a high pitched scream that shook the timber deck below my feet. My heart skipped a beat and then thundered back to life, feeling like it would explode in my chest. She retreated and I took a hesitant step forwards. She wailed again, louder than before and I closed my eyes and brought my hands to my ears. The sound stopped. I opened my eyes and the woman was gone. I ran jumped off the deck and scanned the top of the peak. She couldn’t have run away that fast.
I noticed the rain for the first time, drops spilling into my eyes. The embers at the end of the log fizzled out. And then, as if someone flicked a switch, the rain stopped. I scurried back to the door and into the lookout. I still had the radio in my hand.
“She’s gone. I don’t see her anywhere.”
“Good.” The man almost sighed.
“Will she come back?”
“No.”
The reply came with conviction and it settled my frayed nerves a little. My legs turned to jelly, the adrenaline leaving my muscles.
Martina’s voice again, urgent and rushed. “Roger where are you? Where have you been?”
The radio was silent. Water dripped from my body and onto the floor. The sudden chill caught in my chest and I launched into a coughing fit so intense my stomach muscles cramped. I doubled over and collapsed to the floor.
And then came the response.
“I am where I always was. In the forest.”