The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (2 page)

Chapter 1

Ghosts

Here lies John A. Macdonald.

Born January 11, 1815 in Glasgow, Scotland.

Died August 20, 1828, in Stone Mills, Upper Canada.

A clever boy
–
but just not clever enough.

John considered how his tombstone would read as he sweated underneath Owen Boggart's armpit. Although he had escaped the heavy-set man-child and his meaty fists all summer, John had finally pushed his luck too far as Owen dragged him across the ground.

Owen was not so inclined to win spelling bees or solve complex sums in his head. What the fourteenyear-old was known for was his effectiveness at wreaking vengeance – especially on those who might be poking fun at him.

Lanky and far lighter than his adversary, John was surprised to find himself being dragged to the stone flour mill. It was John's father, Hugh Macdonald, who ran it. He pictured the overweight boy crushing him into flour. The Macdonald's house was only thirty feet away, but no one was outside to hear the commotion. John saw another perfect sunset washing across the bay, bathing the village in a painter's light. He was sorry he had to see it through the filter of Owen's armpit. Stone Mills was a small, bustling community that sat on the edge of the Bay of Quinte, a magnificent collection of long, watery fingers that stretched out into Lake Ontario. Not only did the village sit along the bay, supporting the Macdonald's flour mill and other businesses, it also rested at the bottom of a spectacular, forested, flat-topped hill nearly two-hundred-feet high. The locals just called it a mountain.

On top of the flattened mountain was a small, mysterious lake, which John desperately hoped he would see again, if he survived this ordeal. There was nothing he loved more than to explore its twisted shoreline. John had even heard rumours lately that there had been sightings of something strange in the lake – something incredible.

The mill grew closer.

Perhaps Father was still working at the mill?
John's silent question was answered by Owen, as if he could pluck it out of his head and spit it back at him. “Your father's not there. You think I'm stupid?” asked Owen.

John bit his tongue. He was often amused by such obvious questions. As the hot breath of the furious boy scorched the back of his neck John kicked and thrashed in vain. He realized the mill would have recently shut down and his father would be putting in time helping the Robinson's with their new barn, as he had been doing all week.

The sun winked out of view as they entered the main floor of the three-level mill. John hoped to see one of his father's employees still working. Only the silent millstones stared back at him. He could hear the lull of the waterfall behind the mill, which powered everything. John listened for sounds from the basement where the meal bins were located but didn't hear anyone there, either. Finally, he craned his neck upwards in case anyone was still in the grain storage area of the attic. No sound. No one.

“You better not scream, Johnny. If you do, you'll only make things worse for yourself.”

Owen was bold enough to humiliate John on his own property. In fact, he was even bold enough to call him ‘Johnny.'

“Listen,” said John, “Obviously there is some clear misunderstanding. What is it exactly that you think I've done?”

The boy grunted. “You know what you did. You and George put a dead squirrel in my hat when I had it off at the bay yesterday. And now yer gonna get what you deserve – and George is next.”

John, despite being folded underneath Owen's unpleasantly-scented armpit, managed to pop his curlyhaired head out and feign shock. “Now what would give you the impression that George and I would do such a thing?”

“Hilda Scott saw you both do it.” With that, Owen head-locked John again and continued dragging the slimmer boy toward a corner of the large, open room.

“Hilda Scott!” John snorted. “You know you should never take the word of a Scot.”

John began to sweat more as he realized his humour wasn't going to secure his escape this time. It was time to change tactics. “You're right. It was a dastardly prank,” said John. “Perhaps I could help you in school with your worst subjects?” John wondered if that would mean ‘everything,' but didn't say so.

“You should know I don't go to school anymore, Johnny. Not that I ever did with you anyway. Not everyone gets to go to a fancy grammar school in Kingston. Some of us just make do with what's here.” Owen tightened his grip on John's neck.

“You show up in the summer here at Stone Mills, thinking yer something special,” Owen said. His fleshy face was heated. “Well this summer, maybe you'll figure out yer nothing special…”

The sound of voices outside in the distance prompted Owen to release his grip slightly. John wondered if he should try to break free and run as Owen jerked his round face toward the noise. The powerful boy forced John up against a huge pile of flour sacks that were sitting in the corner. One of the sacks was torn open, already oozing ground white flour.

The thickset boy shoved one of his paws in swiftly and scooped a generous amount of flour. He rubbed it all over John's face and curly locks of dark hair until every inch of his hair and face were covered in dusty, white flour. John gasped and coughed as some went up his nose and in his mouth. With a satisfied smirk, Owen shoved his instant ghost to the ground.

“Yer lucky that's all you got, Johnny,” spat the giant boy. And without another word Owen hulked away from the mill, running east along a dirt path, wiping his white hand on his shirt as he ran. John watched him go from a small window in the mill, blinking flour from his sweating eyelids. When he felt he was out of view, John punched the air with his fist in glee and let out a long whoop.

He had survived Owen Boggart! John mentally dismantled the tombstone he had created earlier, then burst from the darkened doorway. He ran west and at the last second, John locked eyes with a young boy, perhaps four-years-old, who was out walking with his grandfather. The boy opened his mouth and screamed at the ghostly image charging toward him. The flour-covered John began to scream because he thought Owen must be behind him. John barrelled the young boy over, tripping himself along the way.

“Dang fool!” he heard the older man yell.

“Apologies!” hollered John, who had already picked himself up and scurried along the shore. His bare feet splashed along the bay, forcing warm sand between his toes. He fled to the very edge of Stone Mills, laughing so hard he had to clear tears from his eyes as he ran.

The more he ran, the more he thought how much the young boy had reminded him of his younger brother, little James, who had died at age five. John remembered how James had followed him everywhere, in the way little brothers do, even though John had only been seven.

As the sunset bled across the bay, John collapsed in a ghostly heap on the shoreline. Memories of the tavern in Kingston flooded his mind and he pressed his palms to his eyes. His tears of laughter had already turned to tears for the cruel death of his little brother.

He rolled over onto his knees and looked into the water at his smeared, white features and bit into his lip. As much as he could escape the Owen Boggart's of the world, there was one thing John believed he would never be free from – knowing that it was his fault his little brother was murdered.

As the waves shifted, he touched the side of his face. John slid his hands beneath the water and let the flawed image strain between his fingers.

The trembling water soon settled. Once again, the ghost had returned.

Chapter 2

The Survivor

Anson Rightmyer was a survivor. Sixteen years ago he had survived the War of 1812 in dramatic fashion during his first outing as a soldier. As a sweaty palmed, twenty-two-year-old scarecrow, he had hidden in a ditch, crouched down with seven other British soldiers and three Indians.

As he stood to take his first shot of the war an American infantryman shot a bullet into his head. Of course, it had only nicked the top of his skull, giving him a lifetime of bad haircuts. But he had made it, hadn't he?

He felt his unusual, double-hair part as he walked, one natural, the other bullet-made. Touching this area several times a day helped him remember what he could get through. The strange sounds he had heard coming from the forest beside his own farm this evening didn't scare a man like Anson Rightmyer as much as peak his curiosity. The woods were thick and uninviting here, even for hunters. He thought he had heard a number of voices but who could be mucking about so deeply in the forest? Maybe he'd hang right and go to the edge of the lake.

After the war, when he and his wife Mary Ann first broke land to farm on top of Lake on the Mountain, they had almost died that first winter. The crop had been so poor they had nearly starved. But with a little begging and borrowing from established neighbours and lots of creative cooking from Mary Ann, they had made it. God rest her soul, she had made sure of that.

Last spring Mary Ann caught the consumption and couldn't hang on. After Mary Ann's death, Anson lost his baby finger on his left hand from a saw mill accident. Then he stumbled and fell into a ravine six months ago and sprained his ankle. Two weeks ago, he had thrown up from eating bear meat he had tried to save for too long. As he walked, he pondered another possibility; maybe he was only a survivor with Mary Ann? Maybe he couldn't sense the shape of his life without her.

Anson used both of his slim, white arms in front of him to shove back the thick bush. Disturbed bugs flew into his mouth and he hacked and spit until they expelled. He stumbled from the outskirts of the forest to the edge of the small, mysterious lake. Lake on the Mountain stared back at him in the twilight and he sighed, realizing he would have no luck in the dimin ished light. As he watched the lake, he saw something break the surface of the water. A dark hump rose up then dipped below again. Another hump, right behind it, took its place. “What the…”

Then a long, serpent-like neck broke through the surface and turned towards Anson. In his petrified state – and just before he was about to scream – he felt a cold, strong hand clamp over his mouth.

***

“Moll!” John called in a hushed voice. He could see his eldest sister in the semi-darkness, fetching water from their well. Her porcelain-like features were muted by twilight.

“John, where have you been?” Moll asked. “And what happened to you?”

John could see she was eyeing his hair and face. He had tried to clean up at the bay, but he was bound to have missed some flour.

“Let's just say Owen Boggart wasn't too happy with me.”

“Well, now Mother isn't, either,” said Moll, finishing her task. She drew a full pail of water from the well. At fourteen-years-old, Moll was a year older than John. When John wanted to talk about something or play chess, he turned to Moll. When he wanted to play outside or even roughhouse, he turned to his younger sister, Lou. Although Lou played chess, too, Moll offered more of a challenge, since she was older.

John sighed. “Alright, but never mind that for a second. Did you hear anything new about the sightings in the lake?”

Moll turned with the full pail and set it down. “No – but I think Father might know more. I heard a few people talking to him today at the mill about it when I was walking by. He isn't home yet.”

John nodded and looked at the front door. “Guess I have to go in?”

“Sooner or later,” said Moll. She grabbed her bucket and John reluctantly followed.

Helen Macdonald, their mother, was cleaning the kitchen when they walked in. She met him with a stern scowl.

“I declare, you nearly scared the new Clancy boy half to death, John Macdonald!”

John sat with his head in his hands on a thick wooden bench at the kitchen table. He watched the stuttering oil lamp melt the late evening darkness away. His mother's tall frame cast over-sized shadows on the wall behind her. John knew his father, Hugh Macdonald, would soon trudge through the door – tired and talkative. “That boy's grandfather was just here complaining about your scandalous behaviour. The poor lad will likely have nightmares.”

John pictured the young boy who had reminded him so much of his younger brother. It had been five years and no one ever talked about James.
Ever.

John always got the impression that remembering James was somehow wrong.

“Don't you have anything to say?” his mother demanded. “If not, that'd be a first, wouldn't it?”

John stuttered a few words but then halted and just sighed.

“You – looking like some sort of common ruffian – and knocking people over. I didn't raise you to be some kind of heathen, did I? What were you thinking?”

John held up his hands in exasperation at the long kitchen table. A glance at a small, hanging mirror on his way in told him his face was clean but he had streaks of white flour in his mop-like hair which had artificially aged him.

“I'm sorry, Mother. I was trying to escape Owen Boggart – he dunked my head in the flour and I was just trying to get away.”

“Hmmph. Now why would that boy do such a thing? You must have done something to deserve it.”

Helen Macdonald was nobody's fool – even when it came to her own children. She knew that John Macdonald – as proud as she was of him for his clever brain – had something of the living mischief in him.

“Mother!” replied John, looking astonished. “George and I, knowing what an animal lover Owen Boggart is, merely left a squirrel in his care – thinking he would take good care of it.”

Her eyes narrowed as her looming shadow followed her. “And this squirrel, it was the alive kind?” As a large-boned woman, she even looked down upon John's father.

“Mother, all I can say is that I saw some movement from the squirrel when we left it for him.” John recalled yesterday's windy day and the fur of the dead squirrel blowing about. Technically, the squirrel was moving. He hoped his mother would stop questioning him.

Just then John heard the main door creak. Hugh Macdonald opened the door and mumbled hello but immediately headed to the wash basin to soak his face and wash his hands. As he did so, Helen caught him up on John's ‘trouble' as she called it.

John's father sat down opposite of his only son. He rubbed his head with both hands like he always did after work. Then he rubbed his hands lower toward his eyes and rubbed some more. Hugh blinked away the stars he had created in front of his vision and John could not help but notice his large moustache was now askew.

Helen set a cup of hot tea in front of her husband. He nodded his thanks.

“I'm not going to say anything more about this, John, because it sounds like your mother has dealt with it. But you stay out of the mill after hours, you hear? We can't afford to have any equipment broken. And I'll say something else...”

John bit his tongue.
I thought you weren't going to say anything...

“We don't need any trouble from any of the farming families, you hear?” Hugh slurped his steaming tea. “But Father, they... ”

Hugh raised his hand to cut him off. “Do you know how important this time of year is for us?”

John sensed the shift in tone from his father – this would probably be the speech about milling and farming existing in partnership.

“You should know by now that milling and farming exist in partnership,” said Hugh.
I knew it.

“..and that means the farmer expects quick and reliable service from us. It's late August now and we're just getting started with the harvest. We can't be giving them any reasons to take their wheat elsewhere or ship it off to some other place.”

“Yes, Father.”

Helen chimed in. “Just wait ‘til September rolls around if you think this is busy. While we pay for you to be able to attend school, this place will be packed with farm folks. You won't see all that in Kingston, though.”

John bit his tongue. On the one hand, his parents sent him to Kingston to go to a proper school for the good of the whole family. They expected him to make something of himself. On the other hand, his parents always pointed out how much he was away, as if he was missing out on real work.

A scuffle from John's sisters' room could be heard, before ten-year-old Louisa – who was Lou to everyone – fell half out into the main room.

“Oh, hello Father,” Lou said. She said it as if it was perfectly natural to fall out of one's room. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders and she picked herself up, reclaiming her stern look, which was her most natural one.

“There's my Lou!” said Hugh, motioning for a hug. Lou approached smiling, casting a glance toward her older brother.

“Father,” said Lou, “Moll was just wondering if you heard any news about the...well, that is, about the thing in the lake?”

“Louisa!” said Moll, exiting from their bedroom. No one called Lou by her real name unless they were angry with her. “I did not wonder – it was you!” Hugh laughed while John's ears perked up. He wanted to know everything about any lake incident, too. Perhaps he and George could visit there tomorrow.

“If by news of the lake you mean more ‘creature sightings' then no – no more news,” said Hugh. “In other words, Whisky Wilson hasn't likely been drinking as much – at least for today.”

‘Whisky Wilson' was actually Walt Wilson, though no one ever called him that. As his father had explained it, late yesterday afternoon Whisky had run into the centre of the village to say he had just seen a serpent with two great humps swimming in the lake. He had even told Constable Charles Ogden, the only real law and order presence in the area. However, even as Whisky told his story his left hand gripped the neck of a jug – likely whisky – and only a few people were willing to listen to him for long.

As manager of the mill, Hugh Macdonald was the centre of the town and he didn't miss many rumours. He had a gift for the gab and people tended to open up to him naturally.

“The Mohawk believe the lake is haunted,” said John. “Maybe it is.”

“Well, that's nonsense,” said Hugh. “Listen, haunted lakes are bad for business in case anyone here hasn't thought of that. We run a flour mill the last time I checked. It's too easy to get people whipped up about nothing. We don't need to be adding to the nonsense.”

Helen began adding oil to two lamps that were low. “Don't forget the colonel is coming tomorrow.”

“Yay!” said John, echoed by Moll and Lou. Hugh grunted, gulping the rest of his tea down. His jovial features darkened some.

The colonel was Lieutenant Colonel Donald Macpherson, John's uncle by marriage. As a retired British officer, the colonel lived in Kingston and he and his wife, Anna, originally hosted the Macdonald's when they arrived from Scotland when John was just fiveyears-old. He was a veteran soldier who had fought twice against the Americans – once during the War of Independence and again in the War of 1812, sixteen years ago. John was especially close to him and saw him often during the school year in Kingston. He and the colonel would often watch the red-coated British soldiers emerge from Fort Henry to march to a military drum beat and the forlorn sounds of bagpipes. Sometimes they would even watch the great sailing ships speckle the open water of Lake Ontario.

Hugh and the colonel had a different kind of relationship though, bordering more on the adversarial.

“And now I know why he's coming, too.” From his pocket he pulled out a sheet of paper and spread it out on the table.

“Not another one,” Helen said. It was the second time they had seen
The Stone Mills Reformer
, a single-page news sheet that condemned the current system of government. The first one, just last month, had contained similar headlines. Helen read over his shoulder.