The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (3 page)

“Increase the Power of Elected Members. Family Compact Must Go. Responsible Government: It's Time.”
She looked at Hugh. “Who's printing these?” Hugh scoffed. “I wouldn't know – but it's something more that's bad for business, that's what it is.” John wondered about the news sheet, too. Criticizing the government so strongly seemed overly harsh – something Americans were more inclined to do.

“Alright, to bed with you three,” said Helen. “John, you be available to your father tomorrow morning when the wagons start arriving with wheat. You can help with all the unloading.”

John drooped. “But Mother, what if George shows up? He said he might be able to come by tomorrow morning.” He had envisioned skipping stones across the bay and maybe exploring the lake for Whisky Wilson's humped creature.

“Good for George,” said Helen. “That's one more pair of hands that can help out.”

John could feel his mother's eyes remaining on him. He wilted further to see if he could change her mind.

“Listen,” said Helen, softening. “We know you'll soon be going off to Kingston. You'll get some extra time to have fun.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow at his wife but didn't say anything.

“But that doesn't mean you get to do as you please whenever you want, understood?”

“Yes, of course, Mother.”

John retired to his bedroom for the night as did Moll and Lou. He lit his oil lamp for the few minutes that were allowed to get settled. Having it on too long would be considered a waste of fuel, so he didn't linger.

Before he blew it out, John reached for his carving knife and felt the handle mould to his palm. Under his blanket he found a stick he had been whittling. John made extra care to whittle in silence in the darkness while he thought about a creature roaming the depths of Lake on the Mountain. He had heard the Mohawk legends since they first arrived in the area. But this was the first time someone had reported anything, even if it was Whisky Wilson.

The gentle sounds of the waterfall behind the mill were comforting. John could picture it careening down the mountain from the mysterious lake. The water gathered into a long, wooden raceway into a thick, white, watery thread as it continuously pounded into the grist mill's wheel.

His parents were talking in low voices, but John had learned to hear through their murmurs and over the sounds of the falling water. He stopped whittling. He didn't want to miss anything.

“...it makes no sense...even if he's not happy about the news sheet what's he going to do?” said Hugh. “He doesn't work for the Tories...just an old man who's always voted Tory.”

Hugh's voice hummed across the sitting area. John couldn't hear what his mother replied. He slid his knife and stick underneath his bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulder. With the colonel coming, John wondered if he'd have to go back with him early to Kingston to prepare for school in the fall.

He didn't want to be cheated out of more time at Stone Mills. With a haunted lake to explore, he wasn't ready for summer to end just yet.

Chapter 3

Milling About

Kingston's streets are wide and frightening. Stone taverns and brick storefronts in row after row of crooked lines are etched upon the landscape. Faceless people are moving about, mingling in dishevelled clothes or military uniforms. John can see the April sun is low in the sky, as it always is in this dream.

The edges of the dark tavern are blurry and threatening. How many times has John been here? He has the same dream almost every month. The shapes of the buildings change, shrinking and growing without reason. The faceless people rise and fall in number. But the end result is always the same. For six, long years, the dream has always been the same.

First, the alcohol. The foul taste of whisky pressed hard against his seven-year-old lips. Worse, he must watch as his younger brother, James, endures the same. The man's gruff hands grab the back of his little brother's head. He forces him closer to the bottle, even as John hangs from the man's arm, pleading that he stop. Two other men snort their approval from their corner of the tavern.

As the man momentarily walks to the bar to buy more alcohol, John does what he always does in this dream. He makes the same mistake over and over – the one that kills his little brother. He grabs his brother's hand and they run.

John bursts through the tavern door, the pounding sound of mindless laughter ringing in his ears behind him.

No, don't run this time!

As usual, the John that he sees running, with James barely keeping up, doesn't listen. The sound of the tavern door opening a second time with a terrible slam overwhelms his ears. He runs faster. They make it only to the large oak tree when little James stumbles, falling flat on his face and scraping his right cheek. It's then that the lumbering man, Kennedy, catches up to them and raises a thick, wooden cane. In his dream, John never sees the impact of the cane. He cries over top of his younger brother, vaguely aware of the fleeing, distorted shape of the man who once worked for his father's store in Kingston.

Nearly dawn. John awakens in sweat. Light offers itself through his tiny window as he pulls the blanket over his eyes. He has to be at the mill soon to start work. He has to forget the unforgettable.

***

“Sorry, George,” said John, out of hearing range of the farmer they were helping. “I didn't know we'd be this busy.”

George shrugged good-naturedly as he unloaded another bushel of wheat just outside of the stone mill. A year younger than John and French speaking, George Cloutier was never mistaken for John's brother, although they had fast become friends. John's freeflowing, dark curls, large nose and lean, tall frame was in contrast to George's stockier, shorter build with a thick head of straight, greased hair.

John tried to put last night's dream out of his mind, losing himself in the anticipation of exploring once the work was done.

“That is okay, mon ami – looks like we are almost done anyway.” He tossed the last bushel of wheat to the men in the mill and then they paused to watch. They surveyed the mill's heavy stone, three feet wide, turn against a stationary stone with grooves cut into it from the centre to the ends. After the grain was ground, it eventually fell from the outer edges of the two stones.

The wheel's turns were powered from the waterfall cascading over Lake of the Mountain. Sifting the flour was done by hand above bins in the basement. Then the flour was hoisted up ladders to the second level where it was dumped on the floor to be raked back and forth until it cooled. After that, other men had to strain it by hand using a crank-powered flour sifter.

With all the dust flying around from the mill work, George instinctively felt to make sure his hair was intact. As usual, it was combed straight back and held in place with grease from his mother's cooking lard.

“I cannot believe you have to go back to Kingston soon,” said George. “Soon I will have to watch out for Owen all by myself.”

After telling George about his encounter with Owen yesterday, John wondered if his friend was more worried about his stiff hair being messed up than he was anything else. “Owen's an oaf,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You'll be fine.”

John scrunched his shoulders down and hoarsely whispered, “Anyway, forget him. Maybe later we can explore...you know...where Whisky Wilson was.”

He eyed the trees behind them and George looked up at the looming, forested mountain. “Sure – as long as we can stay away from the saw mill,” said George. He lowered his voice further. “I am not going near that place.”

John laughed. George's French accent always sounded more dramatic when he whispered.

“Come on, George, you've got to learn to have more fun. What could Mr. Pitman do, really?”

“He works with saw blades, John – do you not have an imagination?”

John kept working as he grinned. “I can't promise anything my friend. Sometimes it's fun to sneak a peek at Mr. Pitman – have you seen how much wood he can lift with his bare hands?”

Nathaniel Pitman, the saw mill owner, was a towering man and one of the most feared men in the village. He rarely had a word to say and seemed to have no friends in Stone Mills. On the other hand, he ran the only saw mill in the area which made him indispensable.

John wanted to explore Lake on the Mountain but he loved the waters of the Bay of Quinte, too, which were practically right outside their door. Long stretches of water cut Prince Edward County off from the mainland, making it feel like an island. Anyone travelling to the county for the first time was always amazed at the scenery. Quiet bays, rocky bluffs, finely-sketched shores and reaches of long, watery fingers for miles.

John saw his father happily talking to customers. That always put him in a great mood.

The perfect time to see if George and I can get out of here.

A movement caught John's eye. He looked diagonally across the tiny village toward Pringle's General Store. Stone Mills was small enough that everyone could see what others were doing if they were outside and paying attention.

A baby-faced man with large eyes and a small nose and chin stepped out onto the porch, closely followed by the store's proprietor, Hannah Pringle. John recognized the man as Darius Marshall, a farmer from the top of the mountain. Darius and Hannah said something to one another and then the farmer hopped up onto his wagon. It became obvious he was directing his team of horses toward the Macdonald's mill. “Is he coming here?” asked George.

John sighed. “I think so. Looks like a full load.”

Chapter 4

Darius

John watched Hannah Pringle linger for a moment on her porch before returning inside. Darius Marshall couldn't stop smiling as he pulled his team up alongside the mill. That didn't necessarily mean he was happy. Many people who knew him said it was more of a facial tick than a smile. He just couldn't control it.

The horses made restful sounds as they were tied to a post. Darius, a middle-aged man with a younger man's stride, hopped to the ground. His smile was pasted firmly to his baby-shaped face.

“Howdy boys – well look at you two now. You look like someone just drank your last cup of tea, yes siree. That's what we Brits drink all the time, right?”

John and George exchanged glances. British people didn't often refer to themselves as Brits. John also realized he didn't seem to know George had a French background, not British.

“We're fine, Mr. Marshall, sir,” said John. “We're ready to work.”

“I see, I see,” he said, scratching his smooth chin while reading John's face. “You young fellows were about to leave this place and find something fun to do. And then I pull up and ruin everything. Tell you what, I'm not one to wreck anyone's good time so let's work together quickly on this. If anyone else tries to drop their grain off, well…I'll give them the evil eye, like this.” He rolled his eyes around in his head and John and George laughed.

Darius Marshall had moved from York – which some folks still called Toronto – to Stone Mills about a year ago. But John didn't know why he had ever left York for such a rural life.

The round-faced farmer was strong and swift in his movements. He worked quickly with John and George and within twelve minutes the wheat had been stacked along the back wall in the mill.

“Thank ya kindly, boys,” he said. He reached into his pocket and tossed an American five-cent piece to each of them.

“Wow, thank you Mr. Marshall,” said John.

“Yes, thank you,” echoed George.

John had long observed that Upper Canada was a medley of currencies. One never knew what to expect when it came time for payment. John had seen his father paid in American bank notes and coins, Bank of Montreal dollar notes from Lower Canada or British pound notes from the Bank of Upper Canada. Even copper coins and tokens of differing quality were still accepted, despite discouragement from the banks. John knew his father would take them. The most common form of exchange was simply to barter.

Darius looked up and down the dusty path of a road. “Looks like you two are freer than songbirds,” he announced. “That is, if you can convince your father.”

John ran inside the mill again and found his father still talking to his customers. He easily got permission to spend time with George and they flew out of the mill. Darius, still smiling, tipped his hat to John and George as they ran by.

Their immediate destination had changed with money in their pockets. They swooped past Abraham Steel's tavern and over to Pringle's General Store.

“That was nice,” panted George. “The way Monsieur Marshall helped us.”

John nodded. “Let's hurry – I heard she was getting low on hard candy.”

John bolted up the stairs of Pringle's General Store just as his mother was exiting.

“My word and what are you both doing here?” she said. She adjusted the basket in her hand and eyed John and George as if they were horse thieves.

“Mother!” said John in surprise. “Father said George and I could go to the store – Mr. Marshall gave us both a five-cent piece.” He held it in front of her as shining proof of legitimacy. George followed suit.

“Lord love a duck! It's still morning!” Helen said. “You think you need candy in the morning?”

John wondered why candy might taste different in the morning instead of the afternoon but he sensed it was one of those times to keep quiet.
Just a few more seconds.

“Well, go on with you both. Spend it fast in case it burns a hole in your trousers.”

John knew the permission would come. It paid to learn how to read people and he had realized long ago that he was good at it. “Bye Mother.”

“Au revoir,” Mrs. Macdonald.”

“Yes, yes…” she muttered. John could still hear his mother talking to herself as they bolted up the stairs and into the store. John inhaled the scent of fresh spices as they opened the door and he breathed deeply, as if to save it for later. He couldn't imagine living on a farm, far from civilization. He liked the hustle and bustle of Kingston and even the small village charm of Stone Mills.

“Good Mornin' boys. Well if it isn't another Macdonald – and a Cloutier, too.”

John and George looked up to see Hannah Pringle. She was also known as the most eligible widow in all of Stone Mills and surrounding area, if adult gossip was to be believed. Her hair was long, straight and a faded gold, now streaked with grey.

The grey came over the months that followed Mr. Asa Pringle's death on Lake Ontario three years ago. A capsized boat had claimed the man's life, just before the Macdonald's had arrived in Stone Mills. Hannah found herself a widow at thirty-four and still one at thirtyseven. It wasn't from a lack of suitors interested in her but it might have had something to do with her perfectionist streak. That's what the adults said.

John let his eyes travel across the store, taking in the long, maple shelves bracketed to the wall, holding an assortment of coffee, tea, spices and cans of raisins. Hanging from the ceiling were dried meats, smoked and salted to help them last longer. His eyes glazed over the dry goods section, filled mainly with materials like bolts of cloth, thread, ribbon, needles and pins. This was Moll's favourite section, since she loved to sew. George pointed to the glass display case in front of the counter and John nodded. They knelt briefly to look at the knives.

“Now are you two just lookin' today or can I fetch you somethin' in particular?”

John beamed as he produced the five-cent piece and George followed suit. “Mr. Marshall gave us these,” said John.

“For helping unload his wagon,” said George.

“Now wasn't that nice,” said Hannah, smiling longer than John expected. She walked past them to the front door and looked out towards the mill. John wondered what she was looking at and then saw Mr. Marshall glancing this way from the mill and smiling. Even though he always looked like he was grinning, John thought that this time it might be real somehow. He watched him tip his hat to her as she played with the ends of her hair.

“Uhh, Mrs. Pringle?” said John.

“Miss,” she said quickly. Her smile ebbed and then returned softly as she twisted her bare, ring finger. She marched into the centre of the store and began sliding a heavy pickle barrel into a different position. Observing the minor change she moved behind the wooden counter. As she did, a few of
The Stone Mills Reformer
news sheets whooshed off onto the floor. John bent down and picked them up, re-reading the headlines he had already seen at home.

“Who do you think is printing these, Miss Pringle?” John asked. She took them from John and straightened them again, shaking her head.

“I really couldn't say,” she said. “I just believe in givin' them some space. Healthier to have different opinions, I think.”

George read some of the headlines. “‘Responsible Government: It's Time.'”

“What is responsible government, anyway?”

“It's government that's more accountable to people instead of what we have now,” she said. “You must have heard the adults talk about the Family Compact?” George and John nodded. “You mean the Tories, right?” John asked.

She nodded. “Some people are calling them that because it's a small number of families, controlled by men folk, who make sure they do whatever they want whenever they want.” She lowered her voice. “Some people say they especially enjoy stuffin' their own pockets with money. Not that I'm saying that, you understand.”

The boys nodded. “But we have an elected assembly,” said John. “Right?”

“Yes, with no real say. If the Family Compact doesn't like a decision made by the Assembly, they just overrule it. Does that sound right to you?”

John shook his head. “I guess not.” He made a mental note to ask the colonel a few questions about Hannah's comments. She began stacking a new shipment of brown sugar on a thick wooden shelf. “Maybe the Americans know what they're doin down there after all. I mean, that's what some folks say.”

***

Slurping on caramel hard candy and peppermint sticks, John and George moved behind the mill where the great, forested hill loomed. A few feet away they watched the thick thread of white, churning water shoot over the mountainside. From behind the waterfall, a pile of rocks stuck out on either side. Long ago, when loyalists first came upon the land, John had heard that the waterfall was like a white sheet.

A rustling noise in the woods gave John pause. He pointed to where he had seen the foliage moving a few feet away. George nodded and they took a step toward the sound. Just then a grizzled, grey-haired man popped his head out. John and George leapt back in surprise. The man's face was weathered and worn and he licked at his lips which were lost behind a shock of grey beard. He blinked away the bright morning sun and focused on John and George. Sticking out his long, spindly arm he curled his index finger in a movement that could only mean ‘follow me.' Then he disappeared back into the woods. “Who…” George began.

John leaned in. “Could that be Jeremiah Thacker?”

“If it is, my father says he is crazy,” said George. He tapped his head at the temple. “Hi John!”

Oh no...here comes Lou.

“Hello, George. What are you doing?” She patted George's larded-down hair. “Good work on your hair today, George. Say, are you both going into the woods?” George felt for damage to his stiff hair, while John clamped his hand over his sister's mouth. “Shh. Don't be so loud. Yes, we're going into the woods.”

She pried his fingers from her mouth. “I want to come, too!”

Lou loved dangerous situations as much as he did, John knew. He stared anxiously into the thick trees. “Okay, but keep your mouth closed, you understand? I mean it, Lou.”

She nodded, smiling. Underneath a thick canopy of oak and maple trees, John, George and Lou plunged into the forest behind the stone flour mill in pursuit of the strange man.