Snow sealed the access road early, cutting off
the hamlet of Bleak Narrows from Saskatoon
supply runs. The radio crackled once, then died.
Frost rimed every windowpane facing west, where
the old CPR sidetrack had been lifted in 1918,
rails repurposed for war ships. No trains passed
now. But something walked the grade anyway—
footprints appearing at dawn, pacing the frozen
ballast, leading nowhere.
The man known as Harlan kept the red cedar
cottage heated with split birch. He oiled the
door hinges weekly, turned his traps without
noise, never lit candles after dark. Neighbours
saw him at the coop, buying salt pork and
carbide, nodding once if acknowledged. They
called him steady. Prairiestoic. A man shaped by
space and cold. None knew he had no birth record
in Saskatchewan. His fingerprints did not match
any Dominion archive.
In March, the snowdrifts revealed a rusted
surveyor’s spike driven into limestone bedrock
behind his woodshed. It bore a serial number
crossreferenced to 1906 field maps—a year the
Canadian Northern Railway falsely reported
completion of the Hudson Bay extension. That
line was never finished. Men disappeared.
Journals listed "terrain resistance"
as cause.
Harlan wiped the frost from the spike with his
glove. That night, the wind changed. It came
from the east, carrying the scent of creosote
and wet paper.
Rules were few in Bleak Narrows: do not borrow
fuel without repayment; do not shoot a dog near
trapping lines; do not speak the names of the
missing on still nights. The third rule broke
first. Children began drawing figures in their
school slates—tall men in buttoned coats, faces
blurred, holding lanterns that burned green.
Teachers collected the drawings. Burned them in
the boiler pit. But one sketch reached the Royal
Canadian Legion hall. Then the RCMP substation.
Harlan stopped shaving. Beneath the grey, his
jawline sharpened, skin tightening like cured
hide. His hands trembled when near iron. On
Easter Sunday, he walked the dead rail line
barehanded, pressing his palms to each remaining
tie. Where he touched, dormant lichen glowed
faintly, then blackened. The earth beneath
compacted unnaturally, forming a continuous
stone ribbon—relaid track, selfassembled,
stretching north into tundra. Physics bent:
gravity pooled along the alignment. Birds fell
midflight. A fox leapt over it and vanished.
The village council met under kerosene light.
Called for dynamite. Called for Ottawa. Phones
rang into static. Then the boy from the Métis
reserve at Torch Hill rode in on snowmobile,
dragging a satchel of brittle blueprints stamped
Department of Interior Surveys – Sealed. He left
it on Harlan’s porch. Did not knock.
By solstice, the track reached 47 kilometres.
Trees leaned toward it. The air hummed below
hearing. Harlan stood at its terminus, wearing a
coat too fine for a woodcutter, brass buttons
tarnished with age. He placed a railway
inspector’s lantern on the ground. Lit it with a
flint strike. The flame burned white, then deep
blue. The ground split. Not an earthquake—more
like unzipping. From below rose a steam
locomotive, intact, number 614, last seen
vanishing into muskeg fog in 1907. No crew. No
coal fire. It idled on tracks that had never
existed.
Harlan boarded. Sat in the conductor’s chair.
The engine reversed—once, slowly—then stilled.
The door clanged shut behind him.
Wind returned to normal patterns within hours.
Snow covered the new stone track by July.
Biologists found altered soil composition—high
quartz resonance, low organic decay. The
government declared the area a geological study
zone. Closed it to hunting. Locals respected the
boundary. Some left jars of pickled beets or
bannock at the edge of the treeline. Not as
worship. As acknowledgment.
Children stopped drawing the men in coats.
The cottage remains. Heatless now. Door open in
all seasons. Inside, a single page lies on the
table: a Dominion Rail personnel transfer order,
signed February 12, 1906. Name redacted.
Assignment: Perpetual Survey Line Theta. Status:
Active.
