A Fragile Cup of Witch's Brew

I was stuck. I had to do something.

My heart was racing, I was sweating like a pig in the hot sun.

In truth, I was scared shitless.

With great trepidation I hopped out of the canoe firmly holding the stern of the canoe and gently sunk down into the murky weeds. Bubbles popped up around me. Methane gas.

I seemed to bottom out about mid-thigh. I didn't keep sinking rapidly but I was in serious danger of losing my running shoes.

After just two or three muddy few steps, pushing the laden canoe forward and tugging my legs out from the muddy decomposing vegetation, I jumped out of the water and straddled onto the boat's gunwale at the back where I had been holding on for dear life. I had to tightly retie each shoe.

Back in the water, I pushed the canoe through the reeds, slurping through the ooze below. I quickly came to the conclusion that there was a dynamic involved to the murk. If I just stood there I would probably continue to sink down, but at a certain critical point I had just enough footing to push the canoe forward and still pull my leg free.

The terror I felt of getting stuck in the murk slowly dissipated but was soon replaced by another fear. I couldn't shake the image of Humphrey Bogart covered in leeches after hauling his little boat through a swamp in the movie the African Queen. At least he had the lovely Katharine Hepburn with him. I was off to find a fifty seven year old, crazy, red haired, witch.

I was seriously wondering if I should have heeded Ben's advice and just left a note for the woman. But then I'd have no control over whether she would contact me or not. I had to press forward. At that point I had no choice. I couldn't imagine fighting that grassy lake again, especially if I had to fight against a current too. I came to fully appreciate and understand the one way aspect to the canoe trip.

Eventually I prevailed, without it seemed, any leeches stuck to me sucking my blood. The trip across the reedy bog was a series of a few short paddle strokes through slightly deeper water, then grabbing handfuls of grass and reeds and pulling the canoe forward and then jumping back into the water and gooey muck again when it just got too shallow or the reeds too thick. I had to do that about seven or eight more times.

The grassy lake eventually ended, not surprisingly, at a massive beaver dam which in turn emptied into a short gentle stream and then into Granite Lake, by far the biggest body of water so far. I wondered if a float plane could make it in and out. Apparently not.

I changed into a dry tee-shirt and underwear and put the life jacket back on. Unfortunately I had only brought one pair of running shoes.

The raven seemed to be waiting for me on an overhead branch as I finally slipped free of the stream and floated into deeper water.

I was struck by the irrational nature of a fear that I had carried all of my life. The deeper the water the greater the danger...hell no! I had just survived my most harrowing, terror gripped water borne event in an inch of water! In the deep lake I suddenly felt relieved and safe. There I could swim to safety. In the grassy lake it was as if I was on the verge of being sucked down into Hell.

The big bird took off with a loud croak and flew down the lake and settled onto a branch sticking out over the water on the left hand side.

It was an easy canoe ride, but I was getting seriously tired after the grassy lake ordeal. I washed the mud off of my shoes and set them into the sun on my pack in front of me.

I knew it had to be late afternoon. Ben and Tom were both absolutely correct with their advice. I wasn't going to challenge young Tom's suggestion of being well tucked in prior to darkness setting in.

I kept paddling forward. I figured I had another two hours...three hours max before the sun started going down. I needed to find someplace to pitch my tent for the night and give myself enough time to find wood and build a fire. An island would be ideal, I rationalized. It should minimize my chances of having a bear or wolf or whatever chancing upon me, or so I thought.

Eventually I almost came up to where the raven was perched. Just as I got closer it took off again and flew into the big bay on the left. I checked my map. It was exactly where I needed to go. Was it leading me on?

The bay narrowed into a channel with high rocks on either side, I could feel a gentle current. There were lily pads all around me. According to the map and to what I could see around me the channel became the West Montreal River.

Again the raven took off and flew deeper into the channel or river. I followed it and came across another beaver dam. But this time there was a bit of fast water past the dam which I was not going to try to run.

Nor was there really a path through the woods, at least not on the left side where I got out.

The bird was waiting for me at the other end of the portage. It took off as soon as he saw me.

It took nearly an hour and a half to complete the rugged portage.

The mosquitoes had found me during the middle of it. I sprayed myself with OFF every time I made it to where my backpack was stowed.

I was beat.

Portaging is not fun. Portaging, alone without a path through wild boreal forest is even less fun. With mosquitoes feasting on you and your feet turning into prunes sloshing away in soaking wet running shoes, it's bordering on an ordeal. Each portage was four trips, the canoe, my backpack, paddle and lifejacket, the five parcels and then finally the stupid window. Every time I put it back into the canoe I realized it was a miracle that it was still intact.

I was getting really tired and hungry. My muscles were sore from carrying the canoe and the window. I had resolved to find a place to camp for the night right away. I figured it had to have been pushing five -- six o'clock. I couldn't tell the time because my cell phone died. There was no signal anyway.

The river twisted its way through large dark grey granite rocks. The shadows from the trees growing atop of the rocks darkened the swifter moving water. I managed to guide the canoe through without bumping into anything. There was nowhere to camp. At one point a huge log spanned across the river at exactly the point where the river narrowed forcing the water to move faster. It was too low to get under it. The current quickly pinned the canoe sideways against the log and then nearly rolled it into the incoming water. I had to unpack everything so that I could drag the empty canoe over top of the log. That treacherous twelve inch portage took at least twenty minutes.

I was getting stressed.

There was no doubt in my mind, there's a very fine line between adventure and ordeal. I was most definitely on the cusp of crossing that line.

I continued on down the shady river avoiding further rocks, logs and other obstacles. I was tired, sore and hungry. The mosquitoes were moving in on me even as I paddled along. I needed somewhere to pitch a tent and build a little fire. All I needed was a little patch of ground or flat rock that was dry, clear of bush and relatively flat. By that point I didn't even care about bears.

Sunlight suddenly! How glorious. I had survived. I was in a sunlit pond bordered by dark granite boulders, the water was almost still. A small stream silently dribbled a steady waterfall through twisted stumps and rocks on the left side. My impression was that it was a deep pond. Surely there had to be some place here to set up camp. I looked around. About halfway down on the right side a large blackish grey rock, basked in sunlight, rose gently from the water. I was certain I could set up my tent and camp there. I was astounded when I realized that higher up the rock there was a dark structure, a cabin perhaps, although partially obstructed by the bush and trees. And then, about halfway between what I perceived may be a cabin and the water, I saw a bit of orange colour in the sunlight. Was that a seated figure?

It had to be her and her cabin. I was certainly in the area they said.

With a renewed vigor I paddled towards her. She had bright orangy red hair and was dressed in black. She was watching me.

I kept paddling towards her. Her hair was like a wild curly mane to down past her shoulders. Her face was bright. She was smiling. She was beautiful, but clearly not the person I was looking for.

"Welcome stranger."

"Hi." I paddled towards her and glided to a stop with the bow of the canoe just resting against the big dark rock, just to the right of a clump of hemlock trees.

She was seated about fifteen feet away and slightly above me, watching me with anticipation.

"I'm Sax Reimer and I'm with the law firm of Beeston Little in Toronto. I'm here to speak with Sybil Varro."

"I'm Sybil Varro, what can I do for you? Did you say Sax?"

"Yes Sax Reimer, but there has to be some sort of a mistake. The Sybil Varro that I'm looking for is like fifty seven years old."

"Just turned fifty eight actually, I see you have my window. How can I help you?"

That's right, her birthday was June something. "You can tell me where I can find her."

"You're looking at her."

"But, you're not fifty eight. I'm forty two and you're way younger than me."

"Flattery will get you nowhere out here Mr. Reimer."

"Is Sybil your mum?"

"My mother died a long time ago and her name wasn't Sybil."

I sat in the canoe and stared at her clear skin. There was no way it was her.

"If you are looking for Sybil Varro, aged fifty eight, you've found her."

"But you look so young."

"Thank you. I live a healthy lifestyle. Now are you going to sit in the canoe or are you going to climb out?"

"Ben had me deliver these packages to you along with the window. Oh and I have some letters for you too." I still didn't believe this was the right woman.

"He's such a sweet gentleman," she said, "thank you."

"He speaks very highly of you," I answered, lying.

She got up off of her chair and stepped down to the water's edge. She was wearing sort of a one piece, long, black cloak or robe, almost like a nun's outfit without the white and with the hood draped across her back. Instead of shoes she wore high black moccasins that laced up to above her ankles. She sure as hell dressed like a witch.

She held the canoe as I stepped out.

"Thanks," I said as I pulled the canoe up the rock to secure it. I pulled my life jacket off and stuffed it into the canoe. I turned to face her.

She really was a beautiful woman and a full head shorter than me. She had high cheekbones with a light freckle across them and her slender long nose, thick full lips that twitched with every emotion and thought, and dark brown eyes. When she smiled or spoke, bright white teeth glistened. She wore no make-up, nor did she need to. She was unbelievably gorgeous. There was no way she was fifty eight. Especially for someone living in the bush constantly exposed to the elements.

"Please have a seat," she gestured to where she had been sitting. There was a second chair a few feet away, at a ninety degree angle to the first. Unlike the first chair, the second didn't have arm rests. Both were makeshift, yet sturdy looking wood constructed chairs. In front of both chairs there was a rustic low wooden table. On the other side of the low table there was a fire pit ringed with stones. Three rusted steel pipes rose and met above the pit in a tripod formation with a rusty ring and hook. The fire pit wasn't burning, although I could smell a fire burning somewhere.

I glanced around me. I saw the path up to the log cabin, part path and part bare rock. I saw the granite stone foundation of the cabin, the chinking between the logs, the front door had a wooden handle, no knob. The cabin's roof was rough cedar shingles and extended to protect the cabin's front porch. To my left at the water's edge on the other side of the hemlock trees where I landed my red canoe I could make out a white canoe tipped upside down out of the water. There was a neat pile of split wood under its own cedar lean-to roof next to the cabin. Next to the split wood was a small wooden shack with metal stove pipe sticking out above it. It had a simple wooden door and the same cedar shingle roof.

"I've been expecting you for some time; you didn't travel very quickly," she said with a smile.

Odd thing to say. "How long have you been expecting me?"

"I first became aware of your presence coming towards me, oh, at least four hours ago. As soon as your canoe dipped into the grassy lake."

"What? They told me you didn't have a phone."

"That's correct. I'm afraid I have no telephone nor world wide web service. There is no electricity here."

I must have seemed completely dumbfounded.

She pointed up and to her left, "Let me formally introduce you to Berlioz, my companion."

I followed her hand. There was that raven again, above us. It flapped its wings twice while peering down on me. With a hand gesture to the big bird I said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance Berlioz." It settled and just stared down on me.

"It would be rude of me not to offer my guest a refreshment, please have a seat." She motioned to the one crude wooden armchair that she had been sitting on.

"But that's your chair."

"And you're my guest. What I wish to offer you contains alcohol, will that be okay?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Good, I'll join you. I want you to be comfortable and relaxed as you tell me in detail what it is that is of such paramount importance that you would travel all the way from Toronto -- ha! that's two days - to tell me. I won't be a moment."

Even through the black robe I could see that she had a cute ass wiggle as she walked up the path to her cabin. No way fifty eight.

I sat in her chair. She was back in a flash with two fine china teacups with a brownish liquid inside. The handle on her teacup was broken off. Mine was intact. Clearly I was the guest of honour.

"I'm sorry the cups are a bit fragile."

"Thank you," I sniffed at the liquid, it was flowery fragrant and strong. "What is this?"

"I brew and distill it myself. It's the Ontario version of what the Italians refer to as millefiori. A thousand flowers. It's all natural."

"Cheers," I took a sip ,"Mmnn, this is good." It didn't taste as flowery as it smelled. It wasn't too sweet, but it certainly did have a good alcohol kick.

"Now let me say this," she said, "I know who you are and now you've told me your name." Her lips smirked at me from behind her teacup, "I know that you've come for my blood and to ask me something which I will have to decide on." She smiled demurely as she pulled her cup from her lips, "I know that this has to do with my niece Dee and I know that your intentions are not malevolent. I just need the particulars."

I sat with my mouth open. How the hell did she know that?

She smiled modestly and sipped her drink. "Now please tell me Mr. Sax Reimer, why have you come?"

I took another sip and carefully held the teacup in my hand, afraid that I might drop it or crush it in my fingers. This woman was very quickly unnerving me, "Your niece Dee," I stammered, "who is now twenty seven years old, desperately needs a kidney transplant..."

"Of course, now it all makes sense!" She smacked her forehead with her free hand. "How could I have been so stupid?!"

Berlioz was flapping his wings above me.

Clearly I was missing something. Nevertheless, I continued.

"Sybil. If you have the same blood type as Dee, AB negative, then you may be able to save her life."

She looked forward, not at me. "Yes I understand that now."

Berlioz croaked above us and flapped his wings. He was upset and loud.

She looked up to the bird, "Calm down Berlioz, I know exactly what that means." She then turned to me and said, "He can be such an old crow sometimes."

"Mr. Reimer..."

"Please call me Sax."

"Sax, I understand what you are asking. I am to the best of my knowledge type AB negative blood type..."

Before she could finish her sentence, Berlioz was croaking out such a racket that it completely interrupted our conversation.

"Berlioz I know, now please calm yourself down," she said in a raised commanding voice while craning her neck to look right at him.

He didn't. The bird took off in flight. He was croaking, cawing, trilling, honking. I was amazed at the range of vocalization the bird had as he circled around us.

"He's upset," she said watching him.

"What's he doing?" I asked as I watched the bird. Even his wing flapping was erratic.

"He's telling everyone."

"What? Who?"

"He can be such a blabber-beak sometimes." Turning back to me she said, "You see Sax I was wrong. I thought that you were here to collect my blood or a part of me. What you actually seek is my life." Then she added, "Berlioz understands that."

"What? I'm not trying to harm you!"

"Of course you're not..."

"I'm trying to save the life of a young lady."

"Of course you are. I understand that."

"If you're not willing to donate a kidney to her, that's fine. It's your decision. I understand that."

"Mr. Reimer, what you don't understand is that I know, as does Berlioz, that my body's physical demise will be through kidney failure. Not may be, will be."

"What?"

"I understand that kidney donation is a routine procedure. I understand that the human body normally is able to function with just one kidney. I understand also that donating a kidney and saving another person's life is a supreme gift and is well worth the risk to the donor. In my particular case, and this is where you perhaps don't understand, it will not be a risk that I would be taking. It would be a certainty. It will kill me."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to question your decision, but how can you be certain?"

"My decision? I've not made a decision yet!" She was adamant. I could see it in her face.

"Oh?"

"And I am certain, I have and I can see my own death."

"Really?"

"Yes really. Kidney failure. Always has been, always will be. I just don't know when or where."

The woman was clearly nuts. And so was the big black bird that was still flying around us croaking away. Or she really was a witch. I had just spent weeks searching for her, then finally I travelled two days to get to this remote piece of bush and I was sitting with a crazy woman, who was maybe impersonating someone else, and who just told me she is absolutely certain she knows how she will die. Plus, she apparently thinks she can converse with a bird. Clearly there are people in our society that rightfully belong in the woods, far, far away from civilization. For their sake and ours.

The big bird flew off somewhere allowing the quiet to settle back in.

She was staring off into space, lost in her own world. Maybe it was true. Maybe she did see her own death. I simply shut up and stopped talking for a while.

After a few moments I broke the awkward silence, "That's a bit scary to know isn't it," I asked with a little trepidation, "seeing your own death?"

My question seemed to snap her back to the present, "It can be and it can be a bit comforting too."

"How so?"

"If you are certain that your death will be in a car accident, you will be loath to get into an automobile."

"Yeah, I guess that's true."

"On the other hand, a man destined to hang is not afraid of water."

"True also. So you are certain that you will die of kidney failure?"

"As surely as the sun sets in the evening."

"You can see the future?"

"To a degree."

"Can you predict a winning lottery ticket or the outcome of a horse race?"

"No, that I definitely can't do."

"Can you predict my future, my death?"

She looked at me carefully before she spoke, "Are you sure that you would want me to?"