Music Welcome to newscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us on snoozecast.com and follow us on social media and wherever you listen to podcasts. If you enjoy our show, please write us a review on the podcast app. Also, share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by our Patreon supporters and by Rock Collections. We're blessed to receive so many listener requests for particular stories. Thanks to everyone who's done so, we love to know what you think. If you're a Patreon supporter, please message us through your Patreon profile and we'll prioritize your request to the top of the queue. Tonight we'll read Tara Nova, a snooze cast original. In this short story, a young man meets a trio of travelers who provide a new perspective on the isolated village he wants to leave. Set in Canada's Grossmorn National Park, a World Heritage Site, this tale draws inspiration from the tablelands. The striking Desert-esque landscape is notable for illustrating the theory of plate tectonics.

Let's get cozy. Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. In the winter, the wind comes early, a warm and wicked warning that blusters through the valley, usually in early September, but sometimes later. Always on a day when the sky is cloudless, a day where the air churns inside the chest, releasing a swarm of bees buzzing fiercely where the heart used to beat. The remedy it seems would be to fall in love, or maybe start a fight. I've found that running fast and far, quiet's the hive. Everyone in the village takes down their clotheslines, not long after the wind blows through. Instead of fluttering in the rapidly darkening days, wool socks, linens, and flannel shirts limply hang on wood racks in basements, and cluttered kitchens. Families double-check their chest freezers, making sure they're well-stocked. An extra-quarter-two of Firewood is chopped and stacked. The wind will blow house-high drifts of snow across the only road out of town. Some winters, it's closed more often than not. The snow never really leaves, but can always be seen, even in the height of summer, on the rust-colored peaks of the hulking range next to the highway, expanding from its summer retreat further and further down the mountains, lengthening like shadows as the air cools. The highway eases into the valley on a northwest curve. There's a clear view of the barren mountains from the driver's side if you're heading into town, breathtaking, and on the passenger's side there are pines and granite peaks to look at before the table-lands surround the highway. Passing through always makes me think of those pictures that little ATV took on Mars. When my grandfather saw those photos on the news, he could not believe they were from another world. He insisted they were taken right off Route 431. I convinced him otherwise, eventually. And he wondered why those scientists bothered. They should have asked one of our tourists for photos of dry dirt and copper rocks. I told him jokingly, maybe they had. He blew a quick breath out of his nose, his way of telling me to not get fresh. Soon after I gunned the cat out of the expanse, it was dusk, purple haze dusted every stone, so I left the quads lights off while the stars blinkered on, and the sound of the motor competed with the air rushing past my ears. I stopped when I could no longer see the highway, cut the engine, and looked up. It felt, for an instant, like being on a different planet. Chilly, I started the cat, grateful for the warmth rising up from the engine and left, chasing two pale pools of light. It is difficult to leave this town. In summer, visitors come from all over to camp and explore and photograph the Martian landscape. They come from coastal cities on the other side of the continent, and from England, and South Africa, and sometimes Thailand, and many other countries. They're easy to spot. These visitors look at the sea churning in the foggy horseshoe cove and stop in the handful of shops along the boardwalk. Our remoteness attracts a certain type of traveler, seekers, I guess. There are young couples from Europe with hard to place accents, though I've been getting better at picking out languages. Saying hello in French, Italian, or Swiss brings a smile when I greet them from behind the counter of the gift shop I run for my grandfather. They wear neon sunglasses and tiny backpacks filled with water. It rarely gets warm enough here for dehydration, but they sip constantly while they stroll. Often, the couples will have a child or two in tow. The youngest ones busy themselves on the gray sand beach, looking for rocks and shells. The older ones generally all have the same reaction. After a brief look around their eyes, squint, and mouth turn down, as if to say, this is it. Visitors from other parts of the country are equally easy to spot. They dress appropriately for the weather and are always polite. Tourists from the states are more difficult to pick out. Most are friendly, some are unprepared. I once asked a group how long they were on the island. Four days they said, so I asked what they planned on doing. They wanted to see everything, and booked stays in St. John's Grand Bank and near Elliston. I only smiled. Didn't have the heart to say their itinerary would be grueling, if not impossible. My favorite visitors are the trekkers. Sirius, always. They either make the four-kilometer walk from the campground or roll down Main Street in an outfitted rig with steel bars on the grille and rugged tires designed for places much more dangerous than here. Their trucks or tan or white was small tinted windows above the cab and a winch in front. This brand of traveler is all business. They don't so much and usually park outside the shop to use the Wi-Fi before they leave to conquer new lands. The North Pole, perhaps. I enjoy thinking about those travelers and the large, well-kept homes they must keep. Or maybe they make their living on the road. Perhaps they're on the run. I do not know. Watching people and thinking about where they come from and where they're going passes time in the gift shop. My grandfather, though he's the owner, is not around often. He'll check in once a week, but otherwise is busy. He's the town's fire chief, dog catcher, and most recently, candidate for mayor. He says the one we got now isn't fit to govern a fish hatchery. I think he's only upset because the current mayor had been assistant fire chief before the election. Since then my grandpa has had to mend Hose's by himself. I told him he has a strange sense of justice. He blew some air out of his nose and took Gracie, our new fee, out for a long walk after. My aunt helps out sometimes, running the register and making small talk with the parade of visitors. She shows everyone the photograph of her crouched down and smiling next to the blue whale that washed ashore on the beach outside the shop about six years ago. I'm in the photo, too. But you can't see my face, because my back is turned. I don't like having my photo taken, but she insisted on having me stand there for history. Turning away seemed like a good compromise.

This July, a different sort of group arrived. There were three of them, two, a boy with a

mop of brown hair, and a blonde girl with the nose that reminded me of a compass. Looked to be about college age and spoke like old friends. They had on cheap backpacks. The third had a peppering of gray hair around his temples and deep wrinkles on his forehead, but he moved with an alertness that made him seem much younger. They pulled up in a dusty light blue SUV with rust on the doors that shut with a tinny thunk. They all said hello nearly in unison with an American chumminus and shuffled through the shop. The floorboards creaked beneath their boots. Look at this! The one with the brown hair held up an old map of an island, his companions gathered round, so they could point at the places they had already seen. Then they split up and examined nearly every item in the store. It didn't take long. Is this for sale? The young woman asked. her thumb and forefinger, she held a string attached to a haphazard birdhouse. It twirled lazily back and forth, a few inches from her ragged fingernails. Well, I said annoyed. I had been working on that, but it's not done yet. My grandpa must have put it out last night. I guess it's finished now." I love it, she said. Her name was Chantel, and she paid cash for it right away. She was very excited. She nearly ran into the young man, Jim, to show him my handy-work. The other one stared at the photo of the beached blue whale. His head tilted to one side as he tried to make sense of the picture. I knew his question before he asked. That's a blue whale, I said. It washed ashore a few years back. There were nine that winter that died, and this one landed in our town. It was 24 meters long, and smelled something awful sitting out there on the beach. People came from all over to have a look at it. It's not much to look at in the picture, but in person it was bigger than you could imagine. Who's this? Crouching down. The man Sam was his name, asked. That's my aunt. And who's that? Looking away. That's me, Edwin. I don't like having my picture taken. My aunt insisted for posterity," she said. The photo is not for sale.

We like having it in the shop because so many people come in asking about the whale. It helps to have a picture for them to see. Sounds like it was a big deal," said Sam. That whale really puts you on the map. Sam liked my answer. He took it as an invitation to walk over to the register. He said, I have an odd request. Maybe you can help us. My brother Jim, over there, is searching for some moose antlers. Do you know where we could find some? I've been asked stranger things. I didn't tell Sam that though. Those pieces over there are made with antlers, their earrings. Is that what you're looking for? Jim spoke up. I was looking for something bigger. I've got quite the collection going. Coral shells, fossil from the late Cretaceous, whale vertebrae, but no mousse antlers. Chantal looked hopeful. It seemed like these antlers were something they all really wanted. I don't. My grandpa, mate, he's home now. Let me ring you up, and I'll tell you how to get there." "'That is so cool, kind and neat of you,' said Gentile. She gave a little hop and brought her hands together. It was then that her nose didn't remind me of a compass, but of a hair, like the ones that come out of the forest in the spring. Gone from the long winter, nosing around the muddy ground for something green and good to eat. Those friends of yours were here for a minute. My grandpa said when I got home. Normally he tinkers in his shed while I make dinner. He'll come in smelling of sawdust and gasoline as I cook carrots and onions from the garden out back. In the fridge he'll have game neatly cut, moose and caribou and rarely bare, though neither of us enjoy eating bare. It tastes more like rich soil than dinner. They bought nearly fifty dollars worth of stuff, I told him. He stood in padded gracey on the head. Next time tell me you're sending strangers this way, he said, not unkindly. It was a bright morning when I went to the shop the next day. and tell leaned against the boardwalk railing, her hair damp and clinging to the side of her face from the unexpected warmth. She said after my grandpa gave them a less than warm welcome, they won him over. Gramps is something of an amateur geologist and really took took to Jim, who also had an impressive rock

collection. Grandpa gave them a large piece of pie-right, that's full's gold. A chunk of mousse antler, he made them promise to hide when they crossed the border, and took them up into the sandy hills behind the house. It was so steep, he kept going.

Shantel said, how old is he?

70-something? We couldn't keep up. The four of them slipped and slid in the loose soil. Every so often, Gramps would reach down and pick up an ancient shell or piece of stone. Even Gracie helped.

She was a furry black spot at the bottom of the hills who barked orders. At one point a group of kids rode by on their bikes. "'You can't be up there,' they yelled. "'It's alright,' Sam yelled back. He's the fire chief.' We wanted to thank you.

Shantelle said, will you have dinner with us?

I agree. Sam yelled back, he's the fire chief. We wanted to thank you, Chantal said, will you have dinner with us? I agreed, not knowing what to expect. That night I shared their campfire. I brought fresh cunner that I had cut into cubes and breaded for frying. They cracked and sizzled in shimmering oil.

Next to the cast iron pan, water started to royal in a pot. The fish cubes were gone before the macaroni was tender. Shantel and I sat at a picnic table across from Sam and Jim. Firelight was all we had to see each other. It felt cozy. Then Jim asked me what I thought about this place. It's—alright, I said. Not sure what he meant. Sam told Jim to cool it. He explained this place was unlike anywhere they had ever been. I had never really been anywhere else, I said, so I had no reason to question them. When I was a kid, I went to Corner Brook. Grandpa needed some kind of surgery. I hoped to go back, maybe live there. I liked all the people and the big buildings. There was always something happening. There's an envelope of cash I keep hidden. I add to it at the end of each summer. Someday I'll use it to buy a car. Maybe rent an apartment. Sam told me to keep saving. He invited me to hike with him in the morning. He wanted to head to the table-lands on the trail that runs along the river we named the town after. Ever been out that way? He asked. No, I said. I'll take the cat out to the expanse, but I never had any reason to go into that valley. You got to hike in a ways. Exactly. Would you like to come?" I agreed. I'll sleep in the car. You can borrow my spot in the tent," said Sam. But first, let's see that Milky Way. We wander down one of the trails that sneaked through the campground to a clearing. The pine's side all around as the breeze grew strong. Jim and Sam picked out constellations. That's a big dipper. Over there. That's Cassiopeia. Oh, an Orion's belt. Chantel shimmed in. I think that's Plato's turtleneck. I laughed and added one of my own. Don't forget Hercules shoehorn, I said, pointing up. Jim and Sam couldn't resist. If I'm not mistaken, that Zeus's-brand. Right next to Athena's day planner. That night I fell asleep in the unfamiliar tent, wondering why I felt so far away from the village even though it only took me five minutes to get here. The morning found Sam what he was looking for when the wind had stopped. Stillness. I had an uneasy feeling he didn't really want me out there that he thought it should have been a solo walk and it would have given him time away from his travel companions. I still think I'm right, even though he never let on. I realize he may have wanted to share his solitude with me, which, if you think about it, doesn't make a lot of sense. We set out silently, walking on the gravel road, past a lookout where you could see the mountains rising on either side of an empty valley I had never visited. Then we came upon the trail. I never liked hiking. I do not know why people do it for fun, and I was bored. There were rocks, and dirt, and shade, and breaks in the trees that revealed the granite, pine-covered hills on the other side of the river. Sam walked in front. The trail began to climb, slightly at first, until it was steep enough for us to sweat.

With the sun nearly over the mountains, Sam quickened his pace. I

kept up, wondering why I left the tent.

Breakfast with Jim and Chantelle would have been much better. Two hours had passed when we finally left the forest. We stood on top of the hill and stared as our minds rearranged themselves. We were seeing the Earth as it really was, something wild and strange, yet familiar, as if we were becoming re-acquainted with a memory nearly forgotten. him took out a disposable camera. He snapped one of the sun as it crested the mountains and another a few minutes later of the brightening valley. I took a His wig of water and thought we would head back. But Sam walked on, taking off his backpack and leaving it propped behind a rock. He left the barren trail and stepped into waste high grass. I did not know where Sam was going, but I wasn't worried.

Ahead the grey mountains seemed to tug at Sam, who moved through the undulating grass like a ship at sea. We came upon a game-trail. Caribou, I said.

Sam followed the trail to a watering hole.

A flurry of birds went by as we stood at the water's edge. Sam still hadn't said anything. I began to think he might not say anything at all during the hike.

That gave me some comfort. We sat down, careful to avoid the muddy shore, and took our boots off. Sam closed his eyes as if trying to hear something far away. I listened to. There was only the ocean of grass. I'm sure that's what Sam wanted to find. Why he brought me along, I do not know. It wasn't what I was expecting. It felt like being out on the cat, on the expanse, staring up in the dark, only different. That was last summer, the visitors still come, the fancy ones, the serious Trekkers, families from Vancouver, but Jim, Sam and Chantelle will not return. My grandpa decided not to run for mayor. Instead, he spends his free time searching for rocks in the sandy hills behind the house. He sends a few to Jim every couple of months. My envelope of cash is thinner than it's ever been. I sold the cat and bought a car. It's good enough to get me to cornerbrook, but I'm hoping to fix it up and drive it a little further south.

I may not be back, but I will miss this place. you you you you you