The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (10 page)

Chapter 17

Lake of the Gods

September 24, 1759

(69 years ago)

Deep into the forest the admiral wandered as brooding elms extended their arms to slow his progress. Pulling branches aside, he stopped and listened. Only the deceiving sound of crickets filled the evening air and he paid them little heed. After a time he sat down on a fallen tree, drew up his knees for a table, and began to write.

Dear Annette,

Oh, dear wife if only you were here to see what I see! As I wrote to you two days ago, we came upon a great wooded hill with a breathtaking waterfall. I have spent the last two days exploring the area's fine forests with my officers, Denis and Pascal. Do not worry – the British military do not have any numbers here and we avoid most contact of any kind.

As we made our way to the top of its flattened plateau, our eyes came upon an enchanted scene that you would never believe. Yet I must share it with my quill as clearly as I can. Dearest Annette, there is a lake on the top of the mountain! It is quite small compared to the great lakes that I have seen but it is oh-so-flawless in its beauty.

I have learned that the Mohawk Indians here call it Onokenoga, or Lake of the Gods. For them, it is a sacred place where spirits dwell. Each spring, they offer gifts to the spirits who reside there to ensure a successful crop in the coming year.

Others tell me the little lake is bottomless or has subterranean passages. I can tell you it does not appear to have any water source itself, even though it sends its white falls plunging over the side of this great hill.

I grow weary of the war, Annette. This unspoiled land gives me new resolve to bring you here with me. After the war, we can start anew here together, above or below this small mountain with its silent lake. We can build a whole new life! I know you have wanted to leave Paris for the countryside; here, there is countryside for everyone. We could be happy.

In my imagination, I can see how quaint farm houses might soon dot this land. I can see rich grain fields, thick apple orchards and field after field of sweet-smelling clover. There are distant, rolling hills and forests bursting with oak, maple and hickory trees.

I am going to ease my way over the great hill now to see this wonder again while my officers return to the ship. I haven't much more time but I wanted a chance to think alone. I think of you often,

Yours Always,

Joseph

Chapter 18

Exodus

By the following day the word had spread. From on top of an outcropping of land over the bay, John, Moll and Lou watched the sun-lit waterway with open mouths. The bay was speckled with boat after boat of people who were on their way out of Stone Mills. The colonel had not yet ordered an evacuation, but many were choosing to leave anyway – especially those who lived on top of the mountain.

They could see Solomon Brook talking with people and it was obvious to John that they were begging him to let them buy the boats he had been working on for other customers, even those that were barely finished. On land, John could see the Carnahan family wagon moving through the village and making its way to the harsh Danforth Road.

“Look,” said Moll, pointing. “There's the Rutter's, too.” John looked and saw George and Abaline Rutter, farmers from on top of the mountain. In front of Prin gle's General Store they were loading several supplies onto their wagon. That could only mean a long journey was ahead. They had just moved here last year from Bloomfield.

John knew the people had simply had enough. Lake creatures, missing farmers, a bloody shirt in the lake, and now there was a missing police constable who had tried to investigate. The busiest man on the lake was the ferryman, Jacob Adams, who had been taking people across the short reach to Adolphustown last night and all morning.

“John, who is that?” asked Moll. From the south, a chestnut-coloured horse carrying a man clad in a black suit trotted into the village. A small gathering of dust encircled the horse's hooves as it entered Stone Mills. “It's Pastor Macdowell,” said John, squinting. “What's he doing here?”

Stone Mills didn't yet have its own church. Most folks who were Presbyterian made the trip to Hallowell, the largest town in the area, at least monthly if not more regularly. They wanted to hear the pastor's sermons. Hallowell also attracted people from Bloomfield, Waupoos and other small villages.

But with everything going on this week, he wondered how many people had actually left for church this Sunday morning. John, Moll and Lou moved toward the centre of the village where the horse and rider had stopped. Already, a small group had gathered.

“People of Stone Mills!” he hollered. “I understand this is a time of fear…a time of worry. I could see by your slight numbers at service today that I should bring the word of the Lord to you this afternoon. If you are so inclined, please join me at the clearing,” he gestured.

John whirled toward Moll and Lou. “Let's get out of here before Mother sees the pastor and decides …”

“John Macdonald! Moll and Louisa!” yelled Helen, beckoning all three.
Too late.

They sighed in unison. John, Moll and Louisa dragged their feet toward the grassy clearing where the pastor was directing. Their mother and father had already wandered over and nodded to the area where they should sit. John wished George didn't have family obligations for most of the day; he could have at least sat with his friend. Then again, George was Catholic and his family may not have wanted him to attend a Presbyterian service.

Pastor Macdowell was a veteran preacher. Having come to the area at the invitation of Peter Van Alstine, the original owner of the mills in the village, he was at home here. He walked about, coaxing and persuading people to join him, undaunted by the bay full of boats and the obvious feeling of anxiety in the village. He identified four, young men who could act as mes sengers to knock on doors throughout the village to let them know the pastor was in town for service. Two would work the lower part of the village; the other two would scale the mountain and let the people there know. Twenty minutes later, he had a small crowd before him, spread out over the clearing in roughly-created rows. Of the people who did choose to attend, John spotted the young boy he had knocked over last week. The boy who looked like James.

The young lad was sitting with what might have been his whole family, including his mother, father, grandfather and a younger sister. The boy kept staring at John so he waved and smiled. He looked away with spooked eyes. John realized the young boy was likely still afraid of him after getting flattened by a flour-covered, shrieking figure.

John tried to focus on the pastor's words but he had too much on his mind. Instead, he watched those who had come, reading the worry in their faces, including his own family's. They were fixated on Pastor Macdowell, leaning on his every word, hoping the clue to their anxiety was right there in his sentences.

“John,” whispered Lou.

“What?”

“I don't want to leave.”

John looked back at the boats in the bay. “Me either, Lou.”

She bumped him again. “Someone needs to find out what that thing is that we saw – do you think it could be a big fish?”

“Sure – sure it could be,” John said, trying to sound convincing. But John didn't believe himself as soon as the words left his mouth. “Someone will figure it out, Lou, don't you worry.”

Lou nodded and turned toward the pastor. Everyone acted polite and composed. But the pastor's words didn't resonate with John. It wasn't that John was a disbeliever. Everyone in good society was a believer and that was the way things worked.

But John wondered if he should be sitting back and waiting for God – or anyone else – to figure out what was going on in Stone Mills. He was worried God might not have the same timeline as he did. At the rate the village was shrinking, who knows how long his father would last before he'd see it as a reason to move on? Not to mention he had to go back to Kingston within only days. That might not matter so much to God but it sure mattered to John. But what could he do?

As he glanced around, John realized his uncle was nowhere to be seen. “Where's the colonel?” he asked his mother.

“I wouldn't know,” said his mother. “He left late last night and said he'd return soon. Now pay attention.” Her eyes turned toward the pastor. John faced the front where the pastor was speaking but he couldn't stop wondering where his uncle had gone. He hoped he wouldn't just vanish, like Mr. Rightmyer and Constable Ogden. John looked around more. Big Solomon Brook was spread out on the grass, along with his wife, Rachel. So were Hannah Pringle and Darius Marshall, who sat together. John wondered if Mr. Marshall was courting Hannah.

John could see Constable Ogden's wife, sitting with a friend, dabbing at her eyes as the pastor spoke. Darius and Hannah, who were sitting nearby, comforted her. He couldn't imagine what was going through Mrs. Ogden's mind, with her husband never returning from the lake. If it were anyone else and not the constable, John knew most would assume he was off drinking at a tavern. But not Constable Ogden. He didn't drink and everyone knew he was as dependable as an ox.

Even though he had been tuning out, John noticed Pastor Macdowell was avoiding direct references to the serpent of Lake on the Mountain. Moll leaned over and whispered, “Have you noticed Mr. Pitman isn't here?” John's eyes widened. Moll was right. Nathaniel Pitman didn't have many friends, but he almost always made the trip to Hallowell to hear Pastor Macdowell's sermons. At the real church, the saw mill operator usually sat in the back row, alone. When the service ended, he left first without talking to anyone.

Helen reached behind Moll to tap John on the shoulder. “Remember, once service is over, you're not to go to the lake – whether George is able to come over today or not.”

John nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mother. George and I have no plans to go to the lake.”

After what seemed like an insufferable long time, Pastor Macdowell closed his sermon with parting words about keeping faith in the hour of greatest need. As people began to file away, the Boggart family shuffled past. Owen looked at John but didn't try to run into his shoulder as he usually did, not with adults around.

Hugh found a group of men and began chatting. Even in times of stress John knew his father liked to socialize a great deal. At one point the men broke out into nervous laughter about something, no doubt trying to lighten the heavy mood. John saw his mother sigh. He knew she was worried about his father's focus lately.

John needed to think things through. He wondered if George was going to be able to make it here today, or if his parents would keep him home. Maybe they didn't like the rumours from the village either.

Many adults spoke with the pastor after his sermon and thanked him for coming. When John sensed it was an appropriate time, he approached. “Pastor Macdowell?”

“Yes, young John Macdonald, how have you been? Growing like a weed you are. Good to see you here today.” He put an arm around his shoulder for a moment and smiled. “It's a good last-minute turnout – although I don't see Nathaniel. That's a surprise.”

“That's what I thought,” said John. “I always see him at your church in Hallowell – not many would guess he's such a man of faith.”

The pastor nodded and rubbed the back of his head. “Well, when you've suffered like that man has, that can change you.”

“Suffered...how?”

Pastor Macdowell lowered his voice and John leaned in. “Quite a few years ago he ran a saw mill in Niagara. A little girl was killed when she and a friend sneaked into the mill.”

John swallowed. “How did she...?”

“Die?” finished the pastor. “While they were playing she slipped off a ledge and ended up dead on the blades below.”

“I didn't know...” said John.

“Sure, he wouldn't talk much about it. But he took it hard. Doesn't want kids anywhere near his mill – and who can blame him, really?” John made a mental note to tell George.

“Pastor Macdowell, I was just wondering – how come you didn't mention what's going on up on the mountain. About the creature everyone's seeing?”

The pastor sighed and led John a little further away from the crowd. “I don't want to encourage the stories, son. You see, I don't believe much in serpents and creatures that can't be explained. That's not to say I don't believe that there are some fantastic things, some wondrous things in our world. But that's not quite the same as a belief in sea serpents.”

“Well, does the bible mention sea creatures, Pastor Macdowell?” John asked.

The older man thought about it, stroking his greying whiskers. “Well, there is Isaiah 27:1 which references a great leviathan in the sea.” He cleared his throat. “Here's the gist of it.”

“…the Lord, with his…great and strong sword shall punish the leviathan…and he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Wow, a real leviathan?” Pastor Macdowell smiled. “I'm not so sure that Isaiah meant an actual leviathan. I've always found that a person's fear might be the greatest monster to overcome, John. Listen, it was good to see you again.”

John nodded and the pastor moved on to speak with others. He could feel the people moving around him, talking and visiting. But John no longer saw anyone. In his mind he only saw what the Mohawk called the Lake of the Gods. He wondered if he could survive against a leviathan. He wondered if he had the courage to try.