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Between the planning, design, and actual building, the cabin on Powder River had been ten years in the making. The tiny town of Elliot Falls, Maine had never seen such a labor of love.
Lucas had done most of the work himself - cutting and hauling the logs, selecting each stone for the open fireplace, laying each shingle on the roof and each flagstone on the path. He built the window boxes and planted the flowers, hung the shutters, stained the deck. A circular staircase led to a sleeping loft which extended and overlooked the width of the house and at night you could see the stars through the skylight.
The river flowed quietly through the trees - in summer, Lucas said he could hear singing - and his final chore was a simple, rough hewn foot bridge. It curved sturdily and gracefully from one bank to the other and was perfect for fishing. A multitude of wild birds fed at one side where he had erected a number of feeders and deer came to the salt lick on the opposite bank. Lucas watched it all from his place on the shaded front porch, watched and was content. He tolerated the occasional visitors, provided they didn't outstay their welcome, but mostly he preferred to be commune with nature alone. He had always been a private man, a gentle soul and a pacifist with a tender heart who treasured wildlife and practiced a live and let live philosophy. Even sleepy little Elliot with its country ways and natural Yankee reticence had been too social for him - the village knew this and respected him for it - but for Mrs. Hudson, a quiet and efficient widow woman who never carried tales and came once a week to cook and clean, no one saw him regularly.
It could've gone on that way for years except for the hunters who arrived the second November after the cabin was complete. They were a brutish bunch, loud and arrogant and determined to take home trophies at any cost. They didn't concern themselves with private property overmuch, confident that all of Maine was on their side, but they hadn't counted on Lucas. When he discovered them at the footbridge, he ordered them off his land - they argued, he shouldered his 10 gauge, they retreated - but without much dignity. Mrs. Hudson came upon the badly wounded doe the following morning, hidden in the brush and waiting to die with an arrow through her flank and a mangled back leg. The normally sedate and close mouthed widow dropped her basket and ran like a mad woman across the footbridge and up the flagstone path, startling Lucas who was in the middle of shaving into cutting himself badly before he snatched up his flannel shirt and ran barefoot and bleeding back toward the injured animal.
Call Doc Lee! he yelled over his shoulder, his face dark with rage, and Chief Greer! Do it now!
The deer, half dead with stress, shock and blood loss, was too weak to protest when Lucas picked her up and carried her back to the cabin. He laid her on the rug in front of the fire and covered her with wool blankets, stroked her heaving side and spoke softly.
A doe! Mrs. Hudson spat, as she packed the wound with dish towels and applied as much pressure as she dared, They shot a doe! Bastards!
The deer's survival was, as Doc Lee allowed later, nothing less than a miracle. She was transported to the wildlife rehabilitation center at Durham but the damage was severe and while she recovered, she was never whole again. No one was surprised when Lucas built an enclosure and a miniature barn and took her in, crippled back leg and all, and cared for her the rest of her life. Despite Chief Greer's best efforts, the hunters were gone by first light the next morning and across the border by breakfast. They weren't apprehended but each name was given to the game wardens and posted with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife and they at least had the wisdom to never return.
Just as well, Chief Greer was heard to say, a little regretfully perhaps, Sure as shootin' Lucas'd gone after 'em and I can't say I'd have had the heart to stop him.
The doe lived out her life next to the cabin on Powder River. On warm summer evenings when the moon hung low and the stars were very bright, she and Lucas kept each other company and listened to the river sing.
The river flowed quietly through the trees - in summer, Lucas said he could hear singing - and his final chore was a simple, rough hewn foot bridge. It curved sturdily and gracefully from one bank to the other and was perfect for fishing. A multitude of wild birds fed at one side where he had erected a number of feeders and deer came to the salt lick on the opposite bank. Lucas watched it all from his place on the shaded front porch, watched and was content. He tolerated the occasional visitors, provided they didn't outstay their welcome, but mostly he preferred to be commune with nature alone. He had always been a private man, a gentle soul and a pacifist with a tender heart who treasured wildlife and practiced a live and let live philosophy. Even sleepy little Elliot with its country ways and natural Yankee reticence had been too social for him - the village knew this and respected him for it - but for Mrs. Hudson, a quiet and efficient widow woman who never carried tales and came once a week to cook and clean, no one saw him regularly.
It could've gone on that way for years except for the hunters who arrived the second November after the cabin was complete. They were a brutish bunch, loud and arrogant and determined to take home trophies at any cost. They didn't concern themselves with private property overmuch, confident that all of Maine was on their side, but they hadn't counted on Lucas. When he discovered them at the footbridge, he ordered them off his land - they argued, he shouldered his 10 gauge, they retreated - but without much dignity. Mrs. Hudson came upon the badly wounded doe the following morning, hidden in the brush and waiting to die with an arrow through her flank and a mangled back leg. The normally sedate and close mouthed widow dropped her basket and ran like a mad woman across the footbridge and up the flagstone path, startling Lucas who was in the middle of shaving into cutting himself badly before he snatched up his flannel shirt and ran barefoot and bleeding back toward the injured animal.
Call Doc Lee! he yelled over his shoulder, his face dark with rage, and Chief Greer! Do it now!
The deer, half dead with stress, shock and blood loss, was too weak to protest when Lucas picked her up and carried her back to the cabin. He laid her on the rug in front of the fire and covered her with wool blankets, stroked her heaving side and spoke softly.
A doe! Mrs. Hudson spat, as she packed the wound with dish towels and applied as much pressure as she dared, They shot a doe! Bastards!
The deer's survival was, as Doc Lee allowed later, nothing less than a miracle. She was transported to the wildlife rehabilitation center at Durham but the damage was severe and while she recovered, she was never whole again. No one was surprised when Lucas built an enclosure and a miniature barn and took her in, crippled back leg and all, and cared for her the rest of her life. Despite Chief Greer's best efforts, the hunters were gone by first light the next morning and across the border by breakfast. They weren't apprehended but each name was given to the game wardens and posted with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife and they at least had the wisdom to never return.
Just as well, Chief Greer was heard to say, a little regretfully perhaps, Sure as shootin' Lucas'd gone after 'em and I can't say I'd have had the heart to stop him.
The doe lived out her life next to the cabin on Powder River. On warm summer evenings when the moon hung low and the stars were very bright, she and Lucas kept each other company and listened to the river sing.
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