He opened his eyes to see a stone hearth in front of him, fire crackling inside, and he ran out his tongue to wet his cracked lips. His face felt dry and tight in the heat from the fire, and any movement, any expression, brought him pain. Still, he smiled and pulled the blanket—for someone had covered him as he slept—up to his neck.
But now fully awake, he realized that he actually felt too hot. The very idea seemed absurd, but nevertheless, he threw off the blanket and welcomed the chilly draft that eddied across the floor.
Jack sat up and looked around. Stiff and aching, he felt a hundred years old, but his pains were forgotten as he took in his surroundings. At home he would have considered this a simple cabin, but in the rough, remote terrain of the Yukon Territory, it seemed quite remarkable. Though a single room, the cabin must have measured forty feet square, and its floorboards and beams gleamed as though freshly cut, their lines as perfect as if they had been put in place by a master builder.
The huge stone fireplace interrupted one wall, but on the opposite side of the cabin stood a heavy black iron stove, its pipe rising up through the roof. There were doors front and back, and beside each one—and this surprised Jack the most, so far from what he would deem civilization—was a tall, many-paned window of warped, handblown glass. Sunlight streamed in through those two windows, and beyond them he saw forest.
Heavy furs had been stretched on the floor as rugs. At the front of the cabin there were two chairs arranged by the window to catch the best light, and beside the door a shelf laden with books. The sight of those volumes, some bound in cracked leather and others titled with gleaming gold filigree, made his heart leap.
The rear corners of the cabin were given over to living space. Nearest Jack, on the hearth side, a bed sat in the corner, head-and footboards simply yet elegantly carved, mattress hidden beneath a French floral coverlet. Opposite the bed, in the corner beside the stove, a small, round table had been draped with a white lace cloth, and two chairs were snug against it, presenting what passed in this cabin for a dining room. A cupboard held a rack of dishes, bowls, and glasses.
The table had been set for one. The smell of cooking lingered, but he had barely noticed it before. Now, though, the sight of the white bowl on the table, the fork and knife and spoon just so, made his stomach roar with hunger. A cramp fisted in his gut, and for a moment he only sat there on the floor, clutching at his belly. When the cramp passed, Jack staggered to his feet, for he had noticed perhaps the most important thing about this strange place.
The pot on the stove.
It had been set to one side so that the contents would stay warm but not cook any further. Feeling more than a little like Goldilocks, and bearing the warnings of such tales in mind, he walked gingerly across the cabin. With every step, he noticed things that he had been too overwhelmed to take in before. His boots sat on the floor by the stove. His feet ached, and his socks were thin and worn, but the boots had been set out to dry. Likewise his jacket hung on a hook by the door, as though he himself had made a home here.
But the prospect of food crowded out all other thoughts. He took a breath, staring at the pot, and then uncovered it, only to find himself awash in aromas that made him sway with hunger. Someone—the girl? Was the cabin hers? How had she brought him here?—had made a stew, and his mouth watered at the rich, meaty smell of it. A wooden spoon lay on the stove, and he picked it up and stirred, glimpsing carrots and potatoes and cabbage, but even better, dark chunks of meat that he thought must be rabbit.
Jack debated the wisdom of eating food left by a stranger, but only for a moment. Hunger overrode any hesitation. After all, what else was he to think except that the stew had been left, and the table set, for him? And he could find no logic in suspicion. No one would have gone to the trouble of bringing him here only to poison him, especially not the girl who had saved him from the Wendigo.
He frowned. Was that what had happened? She had hidden them under the furs, yes, but had the Wendigo simply missed them, somehow? It seemed impossible. The monster should have seen them and, if not, should have smelled them there. And yet it had been entirely blind to their presence.
The idea that the girl had done this nested deep in his thoughts. There must have been some trick to it, perhaps some musk in the fur that masked their scents. What else could it have been?
These thoughts crossed his mind in the seconds that it took him to bring the bowl from the table and fill it with stew, ladling meat and vegetables to make sure he got more than just broth. Returning to the table, injuries all but forgotten for the moment, he made certain not to spill a single drop. He slid into a chair, picked up a spoon, and lifted the first taste to his lips. Rich flavors filled his mouth, and then his hunger took over. He lamented the spots he left on the lace tablecloth, but not enough that he could stop himself. Jack doubted he had ever tasted anything so wonderful, and as he dipped the spoon once more into the bowl, he felt the soreness of his gums, which reminded him of the sores on his thighs and legs, both symptoms of scurvy.
Jack blinked, staring into the bowl. Carrots. Potatoes. Cabbage. Just what he needed to stave off scurvy. The girl, or whoever had prepared this stew, was not only feeding him but helping to heal him as well. Yet none of this was what struck him so suddenly as to make him pause his spoon above the bowl.
In the wild northlands, where could such vegetables possibly be grown so early in spring? The ground had thawed only weeks ago.
He dipped his spoon again and continued eating, but now his mind grew as ravenous as his belly. As he ate, invigorated by the meal, he glanced around the cabin again. Surely the girl did not live here by herself, yet Jack spotted no trace of a man’s influence in the place. The floral coverlet alone indicated only women slept in that bed, so perhaps the girl had a sister or mother who shared the home.
Yet how did she—or they—survive?
Survival. The word echoed in his mind. His spoon clinked in the empty bowl, and he rose automatically to refill it. As he spooned out more stew for himself, he continued to study his surroundings, and the same familiar feeling of unreality began to creep into his thoughts as he had had upon waking. A cabin—or better yet, a cottage—in the woods, a fire burning in the hearth, food left out for a lost stranger…it all smacked of fairy tales. Yet he was himself, Jack London, and his injuries and his hunger were real. The heat of the fire and the stove were real. The rich taste of the stew…that was also real.
This is no fairy tale, he thought.
But around him there were hints of the impossible. Fresh vegetables this early in spring, in the midst of the wild. And then there was the cabin itself, so expertly constructed. Now, though, as Jack stood in front of the stove with his bowl in his hands, what caught his attention was the absence of certain things. The cabin’s walls were totally devoid of the tools of survival. In any other cabin he had visited—most in climes far more hospitable than the Yukon, but even in the tiny shack where he, Merritt, and Jim had spent the winter—those tools had been there, or their past presence was evident.
There were no snowshoes hanging on the wall, nor any hooks to indicate there ever had been. He saw no fishing pole, no net, and no rifle with which to hunt. In fact there were no weapons at all. Surely outside, up against the cabin, there might be some kind of enclosure where firewood would be stacked and tools could be kept—a shovel, an ax, a saw. But even if that were the case, weapons would be kept inside.
Curiosity battling with his hunger now, Jack fetched his spoon from the table and walked around the cabin as he ate, bowl raised almost to his chin. His search turned up nothing to contradict his observations. Still amazed by the quality of the cabin’s construction, he took another bite and then paused by the hearth, where the fire was now burning lower, to inspect the wall. The logs were joined perfectly, each of seemingly identical size, and he ran a finger along the horizontal seam between one and the next.
What had the builder used to seal the gaps? He walked the length of the wall, moving around the hearth, and noted the uniform nature of each log. There were no chinks in the walls, no gaps filled by rocks or sticks, and the spaces between the logs had not been sealed with mud daubing or sap.
Bowl in hand, Jack leaned in closer, peering at the space between two logs. He pushed a finger in and found it smooth. Brows knitted, he used the back of his spoon to scrape at the joining, and bark stripped away, revealing white, glistening wood beneath.