Logan Castellan

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The Last gold panner

Up through the powdered ground and the green of home and native land, the territories lay. Through the shield-piercing winds, frigid lakes and dark clouds, The Yukon sits. Amongst the streams a man is there, his nose red as roses and icicles stuck to his beard. He sifts through streaming water, waiting for a spark to catch his eye. His pan shakes through useless debris and leaves it to be taken by the river and sifted again another day. With a wipe of snot on the sleeve and a hearty sniff he slaps his knees and rises from the crouch with a pain in his back and a limp. His boots with tongues that could no longer taste leave impermanent patterns with every step, and snowflakes tag his body before melting into nothing. It is a ways away from the stream to his cabin, about 30 minutes or so. Wandering through the pale quilt is a troubling endeavor for the inexperienced. The gnashing unknown lurking around every column of bark turns the uniform blanket of white into a cloak disguising danger. But not to this man – his eyes had gone too grey and his ears too dull to hear the gnashing. He has his simple goal to make it back to his cabin and that he does as always.
On this day, soon after panning, the stacked oak of his abode came into view. Its lights shining through the windows emanated warmth and bathed the blemishes on his face. Although no music was playing past the red door, it felt as though a warm tone was droning on from inside. Kicking the snow off his boots, he opened up the wood door with a creek, and was met with gold. Every inch of the interior was covered in it, every chair, cushion, cabinet, shelf all plated or solid. His eyes gave a heavy squint as he entered, though he maneuvered around the cabin as if it were all clear. He walked past every sparkling amenity as his feet dragged to his personal quarters. His eyes grew heavy, exhausted. His only release was resting on the plated bed. In his clothes he slept, knowing tomorrow he would wake again.
…
The next day he began his walk to the stream, trudging through the snow before stopping at the stream to pan. For hours he hoped to see a glint but was left with only pebbles and a walk back to the cabin. Looking at his purposeless stride you might’ve thought he was a marionette on strings, and he was. He made it to his cabin door after a fruitless day and he opened the redwood to the sight of his wife cooking on a golden pan on the golden stove. She had long, unkempt brown hair and cooked while she was in the nude.
“Welcome home,” the wife said with a glance towards the man.
It was a horrible surprise to see her within the cabin again.
“What are you doing here?” the man said with a surprised grunt, he stood frozen in the doorway and his cloudy eyes began to squint followed by the furrowing of his brow.
“It’s been a while,” the woman said, as she kept her eyes on the pan
“It's been years,” the man said, “You can't just come in here acting like you're my wife”
The woman smirked.
“You miss her don’t you? What? Is this room not enough for you?”
The man's boots made heavy steps, tracking snow in the house. With each step, the floorboards should've creaked but didn't. He towered over the naked woman but she had a smug unflinching resolve. Despite having some marks of dirt on her, the woman’s skin was nearly unblemished and fair. She had not a piece of cloth on her and the stove’s flame was not nearly hot enough to keep warm in the cold of the Yukon. After an intense moment the man spoke,
“I asked you once, what are you doing here?”
“Ok I won’t bother you any longer,” a smile came across her face, “Someone will be coming up here tomorrow. When you're out there panning like you do, you will meet him.”
Embers of excitement danced in his eye. She continued.
“Don't get too excited. I want you to bring him to the cabin, I’ll be here”
The man's excited nature was snuffed out in an instant. And although his gruff demeanor never changed, his eyes carried a sad look.
“Why?” the man asked, “Why would I bring them here?”
“You’re old, it's fun to see you pan everyday sure, but new is fun. If you give it to me, your pan might glitter, who knows?”
The embers in the man’s eye were now a firestorm of potential freedom. It was pathetic really, like a carrot in front of a pig, but for him it was the only hope he had left. The woman smiled like she was playing with a marionette on strings, and she was.
“Ok then! Enjoy your eggs, I'll see you tomorrow” the woman said.
She turned the stove off and walked into the bedroom without a goodbye. The man followed behind her and slept alone in the cabin once again.
…
He awoke. Another morning in the gold sheets staring at the gold ceiling. The echoes of beautiful birds far away reverberated off the soft metal all throughout the cabin. He grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He would sit like this for a while grasping at his psyche for some reason to get up. The picture of his wife and baby were still so clear in his mind. No matter how gray his eyes were, their faces never fogged. He hated this shack, more than anything he hated himself. He must pan on the off chance wrongs can be righted through shiny stones. In the kitchen were the eggs on the gold pan. They were cold now after the long night but he relit the flame. Through the house, the warm glow of lantern light entangled with the peaking sun grew. Dawn was here which meant the beginning of the day and the beginning of what he had to do. He stared at the eggs with contempt, and as he furrowed his brow, he could feel all his unkempt hair scratch his face. It was all one big reminder of his wasted, trapped life, and his regrets stirred. The woman promised a glint in the stream. A way out, even if it means sacrificing someone else, is necessary. It was the first morsel of hope the man ever had. Met with the inside of the door he laced up his boots tight enough to keep his socks away from the deep snow, and with a heavy breath he was out of the gilded cabin.
…
It felt as if the man only saw white for hours before his trudge concluded and he came face to face with the stream. His knees buckled with a crouch and he placed the rusted pan into the river. It was only a moment before the crunch of fresh snow rapidly approached followed by a labored breath that battled with the cold air. Eventually the sound of footsteps ceased, and a figure stood looking at the man from across the stream. The only sound was air brushing past the pines and a soft sniffle from the man’s nose. The man didn't turn his head from the stream, although he could see the boy from the corner of his eye. The person approaching wasn't really a boy, but to the man he was.
“Oh my goodness please help me oh my- there really is someone here!” the boy said, with liquid dripping from his nose and a maroon face. Again the man said nothing. The boy stood there for a moment before desperately speaking again.
“Hello?”
The man thought for a moment, how he now expresses his thoughts would ultimately decide both their fates. The man thought for what seemed like a long time in a quick second. He pictured his daughter, her laugh and her tears. His wife, all her dresses and smiles. The way she held their daughter as they both faded into the distance. Without thinking for a second longer he said,
“Go.”
“What?” the boy said, out of breath.
“You gotta go from here.”
The boy stood there puzzled but his mind flurried, not only curious about this man but his demeanor and tone. He spoke to him like a wounded animal would, in a ghastly way that made him cold. Despite the man’s gruff appearance his voice wobbled.
“Come here,” the man said, “Come sit.”
The boy placed his boots in the shallow steam and began to walk over once beckoned. It was cold and he needed help, but this is what he came for. He was now at the man's side and crouched down next to him.
“Why are you here?” the man asked.
The boy hesitated for a moment and thought of the words to say. He wondered if he should say anything at all, but his intrigue was far too great.
“I came here to find things that interest me: gold, animals, legends, whatever.”
“How foolish is that?”
“Very.”
There was a pause between the two as the boy stared at the pan in the river.
“You’ve done a stupid thing to come here, so I must ask you to go,” the man said.
“I know, it’s cold and empty here. I’ve only seen one bird and it was ugly.”
“Yes, it is very empty so you best return.”
The boy felt a hint of teasing in the man’s words, as if he was chiding him alongside what seemed like a desperate warning. The two were mentor and pupil in a matter of moments, and an unspoken understanding crept through each of them.
“I do not know why old man…but I find myself trusting you.”
There was a pause before the man spoke again.
“That is best, you may not know it but I am sacrificing everything talking to you like I am. A witch rules these woods and I am cursed to stay.”
“You are cursed?”
“You are deaf?”“Why are you cursed?” the boy asked.
“For a similar reason as you, I came to this empty land leaving behind what I had. Very foolish. I left for gold” the man answered.
“For gold?”
“Again? you sure you can hear?”
“You say that as if all of this is not surprising.”“The witch wants you here too. To keep you in frozen penance for your hubris just like me.”
The boy took a second.
“I see” he said with a breath
The boy stared at the flowing river before his eyes shifted to the man. The pain that covered his face was not pain that comes from the delusions of a crazy mind. His eyes were gray and his pain came simply from having to open them every day.
“It is best to leave then, but I am lost,” the boy said.
“You go past the sap covered tree and angle to the left. You’ll make it out.”
“You know the entrance and may not leave, it’s cruel.”
Looking at the man, the boy noticed his wrinkles and frostbitten skin. It was a difficult task to determine his age, the boy could only say somewhere between 30 and 80. His eyes looked as if the tears welling in them froze in their own right.
“I may not leave until I bring her gold from this pan,” the man said, “If you stayed she would not let you leave until something interests you, another fruitless endeavor.”
“Fruitless? How?”
“The fact you came tells me enough. There are no ugly birds.”
“I see.”
The boy stood up and brushed the flurry of snow off of him. His breath had slowed and he knew the way out.
“Before you go,” said the man, “please may I have a hug?”
“Yes.”
The two wrapped their arms around each other. It was a sensation that had left the man longing and with their heat together it was less cold. While their heads were close the man whispered two names.
“My family, please find them for me.”
“I will.”
They looked at each other a last time before the boy turned and walked through the stream once more, his figure fading into the distance. With a wipe of snot on the sleeve and a hearty sniff, the man rose from the crouch with a pain in his back. His only minuscule chance was lost, but he cared not. As he limped back towards the gold cabin, he knew in some way he had done what he always meant to do.Ode to the last gold panner.Up through the powdered breeze
Through the green of native land
Through the shield-piercing trees,
There is an older man.
He does not wish to be there
Yet he lead himself there so,
Throughout the hills he trudged
And deep through the white snow.
He pans down by the stream
Trapped, unable to leave
And while steaming with regret
He can not repay his debt.
In the back of his mind, old film reels screened
Of his wife and lovely daughter
Of what he chose to leave.
He came in search for gold
But now being much too old,
There’s only time to grieve

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About Me

Hi! I'm Logan Castelllan!
I am a writer from Ontario, Canada and with my writing I aim to explore deep thoughts, feelings and problems through an entertaining lens using metaphors and hidden meaning. I enjoy stories that are entertaining in themselves, but when looking deeper one can gain new appreciation.Much of my writing contains elements of fantasy or sci fi but all my stories contain meaningful character work and concepts. I enjoy writing stories and characters that work within the worlds and plots I've created. Actions not only need to be believable but also important. My writing takes lots of inspiration from film and live performances, both through imagery and dialogue. I write my characters and dialogue as if I could hear it in a movie, and I write my environments as if I could see them in one. I focus closely on characters within a crafted setting. My process of writing is also inspired by other art, oftentimes glimpses of potential stories flash in my head because of a song, poem or anything.I wish to be able to explore many genres and philosophical thoughts through many different lenses as that is what I believe writing should do. As I progress with my works I wish to further explore character writing as well as being able to expand my potential for injecting meaning into my work.

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Check out my other works!

Below is a link to the google drive folder containing a collection of various poetry and short stories. Please enjoy!

• my work