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All characters featured herein are at least eighteen years of age, even if not expressly stated. Any resemblance between actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Many thanks to Jim K for the fine editing work.
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All I knew was her maiden name, Sybil Varro, that she lived in the woods somewhere in northern Ontario, that she was about fifty seven years old and that she was a witch.
I had to find her for our client. Her niece and only known blood relative urgently needed a kidney transplant. The odds were, we were led to believe, that Aunt Sybil would have the same rare blood type as her niece, type AB negative and share the same 'markers' which I understood nothing about.
Our client Dee Tyana, the niece, hadn't seen her aunt since her parents' funeral sixteen years prior. She was only eleven when both of her parents were tragically killed in a car accident. She landed up being raised by her uncle's family, on her father's side. Sybil was her mother's only sibling.
I searched every available database I could for the woman. I went through every phone book in North America. I'd scoured voter lists, marriage records, court documents, taxation records, death records, vehicle registrations, prisons and psychiatric institutions, military records and not just in Ontario, but in all of Canada. Nothing. I scoured Missing Persons lists, outstanding warrants worldwide. Nada. I spent days on Google, Facebook, Twitter even Ancestry.com, you name it - all with no result. I was able to ascertain that she was born and grew up in Montreal and then...nothing. It's was as if she disappeared off the face of the earth. Out of desperation, I contacted every post office in Ontario starting in Sudbury and systematically worked my way northwards asking if they recognized the name Sybil Varro.
The post office in Shining Tree in northern Ontario responded positively. They indicated that they knew of her, but did not produce any further contact information.
I drove the seven and a half hour trip from Toronto to Shining Tree in early July. I had three goals, to find the missing aunt, to ascertain her blood type and, in the case of a match, to ask her if she would be willing to donate a kidney to her niece.
I didn't really believe the witch part. To me it seemed the fantasized recollection of a traumatized eleven year old girl. Living in the woods in northern Ontario, if true, was definitely a little strange.
The odds were, I rationalized, that she was probably a school teacher or a nurse or a cleaning lady or something equally mundane, living in that remote community and that she most likely had a family. At fifty seven, she may have even been a grandmother.
Not knowing what I was in for, I brought a complete set of camping equipment, freeze dried food and supplies for a week and a blood sample kit in a deep freeze pack. I had received instruction on how to take a sample and I knew where to go to have it analyzed.
Shining Tree consists of a Quonset hut and a few scattered buildings. It's a fishing and hunting wilderness set within a vast area that is dotted with various mines and an active forestry industry. The Quonset hut is a combination general store, gas station, post office, liquor store, beer store, ATM location and hunting and fishing license issuing office, plus they sell bait and ammunition.
It really is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wild boreal forest. All the area waterways eventually drain northward into Hudson Bay.
I was greeted by Ben, the middle aged, slightly portly, owner manager.
"As far as I know she lives alone somewhere up the West Montreal River. Then she goes south for the winter just like half the people up here. Well, anybody with any sense anyway."
"How do I get there?" I wondered if my three year old Ford Fiesta could take the rough back roads.
"Just leave a note here for her, she'll get it."
"No, no. I have to speak with her."
Ben paused to have a good look at me, "You know, some people 'round here think she's a bit crazy." He watched me gauging my reaction.
I spoke carefully not wanting to be judgmental of Sybil nor of any of the locals. "It doesn't matter. I still need to speak with her. Can I phone her?"
"I wouldn't think so. I highly doubt she'd have a phone. I certainly don't have a number."
"How do I get in touch with her?"
"Well, okay. Listen buddy," he said, "obviously whatever business you have with her is really important or you wouldn't be driving up from Toronto to track down a recluse hermit. So as far as I can see you have two choices. One, wait for her to come here, or two, try to go and find her and please understand, even if you find her cabin, she may not be there. And I'm not even sure where her cabin is."
"How often does she come here?"
"Oh I don't know, we probably see her five or six times a year, so except for coming and going south, she's probably in here every month or so, maybe six weeks."
"Oh boy, what about option B? Me going to her?"
Ben held his palms out at me. "You don't really want to do that. What do you need her for?"
A bit nosey on his part. "Ben I appreciate that this woman likes her space, and I'm not a cop or tax collector or anything like that. She's not in trouble or anything, I just need to find her and talk to her."
"What do you want from her?" He was pushing.
I sighed. "I work for a law firm, it's a personal, family issue that I'm not at liberty to discuss with anyone but her. Okay?"
He seemed to be a little relived that I wasn't the law on her tail. "Listen, she's a full day's travel away by canoe. Maybe two."
"I can't drive to her cabin?"
Ben was a little taken back by my question, "No. There aren't any roads," he said regarding me as if I had no brains at all.
"Fine I'll rent a float plane."
He led me over to a large wall mounted topographical map. "This is highway 560," he slid his fingers across the map, "we're here, this is the West Montreal River," he traced his hand along the map in a big undulating sine wave. It didn't even look like a river, most of it was made up of small lakes, swamps and ponds, "the river system crosses the highway in three spots," he pointed, "here, here and here, plus you can access it from here at Wasapika Lake," he pointed, then he brushed his open palm over the lower part of the sign wave, "and she's somewhere in here. I think."
He was pointing to the long stretch of river between Wasapika Lake and Granite Lake.
"Oh boy."
"You see a float plane is not going to get you anywhere close to where she is. You might as well walk from here." He turned to look at me. "Trust me, you don't want to walk."
"Okay, how do I get there?"
He shook his head in disbelief, "Is it
really
that important that it can't wait for a couple of weeks?"
