The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (6 page)

Chapter 8

Macpherson

As the bateau drew closer, Lieutenant Colonel Donald Macpherson's posture heightened. He was wearing his full British military uniform, his own eccentricity considering he was a retired officer. John remembered his father saying the colonel was the kind of person who could never really retire. He saluted John in mock greeting while standing on the bow. John smartly saluted back the way his uncle had taught him years ago. Cornelius Larue didn't operate the largest bateau in the Bay of Quinte-Kingston area but he rarely had an empty one, either. It was partly thanks to his reasonable rates but also because of his personality. He had the kind of intelligence that worked well in dealing with people, even though he had little formal schooling. Cornelius plied his trade along Lake Ontario and its many bays, carrying goods back and forth between Kingston and the small communities to the west. The bateau – which he had dubbed
Morning Bloom
– shifted abruptly and the officer lost his stance. Cornelius, slope-shouldered and wiry, gripped the long pole used in the operation of the bateau and suppressed a smile.

“Can you handle this no-good, floating death trap?” asked the colonel. He was red-faced at having lost his regal stance.

“My apologies, Colonel,” said Cornelius. He hopped out of the boat onto the shore. The boatman dragged one foot behind him, leaving single footprints and a streak of sand. Despite his pronounced limp, he could move quickly.

“Do you need any help, Mr. Larue?” asked John.

“No, no thank you, John.” As he moved to tie up his boat he caught John looking at his leg.

“This old thing? Not too graceful on land, is it?” he said, patting his leg. It's probably why I prefer the open water, where a man's legs don't matter much.”

John smiled. The colonel grumbled as he warily climbed out.

“That's better – land. Not so many variables now.” John approached the colonel and shook his uncle's hand. “It's good to see you sir,” said John. “How is everything in Kingston?”

“All the duller without your company, but otherwise just fine my boy.” John laughed. As he studied the colonel's face he decided his father was probably right. This was no ordinary visit.

Solomon Brook approached, wiping off wood shavings from his shirt. John noticed that he carried a paper in one hand. He shook the colonel's hand and exchanged pleasantries. John surmised that working along the bay ensured Solomon got to know most everyone who arrived by water. The shipbuilder handed the colonel the paper, then wandered over to Cornelius' bateau and knocked on the wood. “Cornelius – I see you're still using this tiny death-trap with its leaky planks.”

“It's not tiny, it's manoeuvrable,” said Cornelius, patting the boat like a child while he secured it. “And she has a name, you know – it's
Morning Bloom
. Or you may simply call her
The Bloom
if you'd like.”

“The shipbuilder in me thinks of her more as
The Doom
,” said Solomon.

Cornelius sighed while John smothered a smirk. “I'm surprised you sell any ships with your personality,” said the bateau operator.

“I'm surprised you're not my best customer,” said Solomon. “My men can build you something that will last a lifetime, if you should change your mind.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Cornelius, “although she shows no signs of fatigue.” He banged on the boat to demonstrate and a splinter of wood flew off and stuck to Solomon's shirt.

“Here,” said Solomon, handing it back to him. “You might need this to get back home.” Cornelius mumbled something under his breath. Solomon turned his attention toward the British officer, who was absorbed in the news sheet. “The latest one just appeared a couple of days ago.”

John realized the shipbuilder had handed the colonel a copy of
The Stone Mills Reformer,
the news sheet his father had been talking about earlier. Colonel Macpherson shook his head as he read the headlines.

“John, my boy, you better let me get settled in,” said the colonel. “I've got work to do.”

Chapter 9

The Lake Serpent

Deep into the forest John, George and Lou wandered, as brooding elms extended their arms to slow their progress. Pulling branches aside, John stopped and listened. Only the deceiving sounds of crickets filled the evening air and he paid them little heed. “Well, do you see anything?” John asked. George looked around. “Yes, oui my friend.” “What?”

“Trees – lots of trees,” said George. He tried to suppress a smile and John slugged him in the arm. “Ow!”

“Don't hit George,” said Lou. She tried to pat his head but George shrunk away.

John squatted and unrolled the treasure map again. The colonel was now settled in and John had gone back to the mill to help his father for the rest of the afternoon. But he was now free and supper with the colonel wouldn't be until later in the evening. John regretted that Lou had to be included. Little sisters were so intrusive.

“Let's look again. I thought that perhaps this large tree stump here is near the treasure,” said John.

George scowled. “You think that is a tree stump? I thought it was the stone pile where we made that hideout up by the lake,” he said, squinting at the sketches on the map.

John sighed. “No wonder Mr. Thacker had so much trouble.” He stood suddenly. “Let's head for the stone pile, then. We're halfway there anyway.”

A few minutes later, out of breath from their climb, the three sat at the edge of Lake on the Mountain. The large pile of stones sat in silence on the north side of the lake. Settlers had stacked the rocks when they had cleared their fields years ago. From where they sat, they could see fields on either side and Nathaniel Pitman's saw mill on their left, to the south. But as John looked at the mound of stones there was no obvious place on top of the mountain where someone would have left treasure.

“I just realized there's one problem with your stonepile theory,” said John. “The French admiral who drew this map did it in...what...1759, according to Mr. Thacker. That's sixty-nine years ago! Probably a lot on the mountain has changed.”

George looked at him and then it hit him too. “These stones weren't here sixty-nine years ago!”

“Exactly,” said John. “Or at least they weren't all in one pile like this – they were all over the fields before the farmers cleared them.”

They looked out onto the quiet lake, where deep shadows were already thrown across its edges as the sun dropped further in the sky.

“Do you think we'll see what Whisky Wilson saw, John?” asked Lou.

John shrugged. “I'd love for the Mohawk legends to be true.”

“Well, Monsieur Wilson said he saw a strange shape in the lake,” said George.

“Whisky Wilson,” said John.

“That's rude,” said Lou.

“It's true,” said John.

“Still rude.”

“Still true.”

George sighed. John shrugged and leaned in to speak more quietly. “All I'm saying is that you can't put much faith in what a drinker says.”

John selected a small, smooth stone and executed a four-bounce skip across the lake.

“Why do you think your uncle is here?” George asked, switching topics.

“Partly that news sheet,” said John. “I think they're worried that those kinds of attitudes about the govern ment will reach Kingston.”

Squatting low for his next throw, John miscalculated and plunged it into the evening water on first contact. “Also,” John added, “I know the colonel is upset Father ever left Kingston. They always argue about that.”

“Why would he care?” asked George, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“He hasn't exactly made it a secret that he believes Father made a mistake leaving Kingston years ago,” said John. “He thinks he should have made a better go of it in ‘civilization' as he calls it. And never mind repeating any of this, Lou, or I won't bring you up here anymore.”

Lou stuck her tongue out at John and then quickly retreated when John glared at her. She smiled sweetly at George who ignored her and fingered a smooth stone he found. “My parents sometimes miss Montreal,” he conceded. “Running a farm is a lot…different here,” said George, searching for the right word in English.

John didn't say anything but he wondered how difficult it could be when the Cloutier's had several farm workers to help them out. They were country squires from Montreal, looking to have a quieter lifestyle in the Stone Mills area.

John instinctively felt his inside vest pocket now and then to make sure the bulge of map was still there. Looking over at the looming saw mill, he turned to George. “Let's go around to the other side of the lake. This is where we were before when Mr. Pitman came up beside us.”

George whirled around. “Not the tree!” George said. “Yes, of course the tree,” said John.

Lou smiled at George. “I'll look after you, George.”

“Stop saying that! Now why must we go to the tree?” George asked.

There was one tree on the lake that was an obvious favourite for young people who liked a bit of risk and danger. John knew George Cloutier was not one of those young people, but he would drag him there nonetheless.

“Come on, George – you don't have to actually be on the tree. Follow me.”

A twisted oak, magnificent in size, arced over the water at an impossible angle. It was so bent and half uprooted that it allowed someone to climb far out onto the lake with an impressive number of tributary branches, too. As they walked along, John realized he wasn't seeing anything specific related to the map, as far as he could tell. He stopped abruptly.

“Do you hear something?”

“No – what is it?” asked Lou.

“I don't know.” He looked behind them. “I thought I heard footsteps.”

John shrugged and they kept going. Sullen oak and maple trees competed with one another for space in a wide circle around the mysterious lake. Twilight had just begun to purple the lake and forest around it, creating an eerie sheen. Even though the days were longer now, the area around Lake on the Mountain was heavily treed and sheltered which muted the light. Now and then a clearing appeared where a farmer had painstakingly sawed trees and dug enough stumps to create lake access.

Arriving at the great oak, John balanced his way out over the lake beginning with its misshapen trunk. Lou followed closely behind while George stood at the base of the tree and folded his arms across his chest.

“Come on, George,” said John without turning around. He knew his friend was waiting to be convinced. “Just a little ways out – the view is much better.”

George kicked at a stone and watched it plunk in the water. “Fine. But not for long, right?”

“Of course not,” said John.

They could see deep shadows further out, where the sprawling branches created a natural canopy over the water. George was nearly as far out as John and Lou.

“Be careful, John – you nearly slipped,” said George. “If you drown you will just ruin the whole summer – do you not you remember the terrible drowning?”

John rolled his eyes. “No – and neither do you, George. It was before our time.”

The tragedy happened where the Macdonald's had formerly lived, near Adolphustown across the water's reach. On August 29, 1819, ten years ago, eighteen people – most of them youth – had set out in a boat to attend church at the old Adolphustown Methodist Church. They had to cross Hay Bay from the west, about a mile-and-a-half wide on a clear morning.

When the boat started leaking, many people panicked which caused the boat to capsize. Only those people who could swim well or had the sense enough to hold onto the edge of the boat survived. Ten of the eighteen drowned. It was a local tragedy that everyone knew. Parents used it to warn their children to be careful near the water – like choosing not to walk on a bent tree hanging over a deep lake, for instance. “Let's all sing the song,” said Lou.

“No – not that dreadful song!” said George.

Most houses in the district still had copies of a song one of the pastors had written to remember the tragic day. Ignoring George, Lou picked out a verse.

“The boat being leaky, the water came in To bale with their hats, they too late did begin.

They looked at each other and began for to weep.

The boat filled with water and sank in the deep.”

“Hush up now, Lou,” said John. He slowed and then came to a stop. Lou swayed but righted herself before crashing into John. George barely stopped in time before hitting Lou.

“What's going on?” asked George.

“Why did you stop?” asked Lou.

John squinted in the shadows where the long tree branches hung in the water, a natural haven for fish and fishermen. “I thought I saw something in the lake.” George peered around their shoulders. “You are just kidding me, right? If you are joking, tell me now.”

John resumed his careful movement along the bent oak. “Are you still worried about lake monsters?” asked John. “I told you it's Whisky Wilson's drinking and… Lou – stop shaking the tree!”

“It's not me!”

Raucous, familiar laughter prompted John to look back near the base of the tree.
Owen Boggart.

The hefty boy was shoving the tree as hard as he could at its base, making it difficult for the three to keep their balance. Not getting the result he was after, Owen edged his way closer up the length of the tree and began stomping with his full weight.

“Three of you at once – too good to be true,” said Owen. He snickered and wheezed at the same time. It was all John, George and Lou could do to hang on. As Owen looked up again to see if he was getting close to toppling them, John noticed the boy's pieshaped face had quickly drained of all colour. Owen hastily turned around, jumped from the tree, and fled. It was this last action – his weight leaving the tree so suddenly – that caused George to tumble over the side. John reached over Lou to try and grab him and then fell off the tree himself. Lou crouched down and hung on, avoiding them both.

Crying out the two boys hit the surface of the water at the same time. John surfaced first, sputtering and grasping one of the aged oak's drooping branches. As he held on, George broke through the lake water near him and John extended his hand. George grabbed it as John helped him kick his way to his own nearby branch. Lou's laughter could be heard above. “John, if you drown do I get your room?”

“Not funny Lou! Just...oh no, the map!” John thrust his hand inside his inside vest pocket and held the map, which was wrapped in cloth, above the water. “Take it, Lou. Unwrap it and dry it on your dress, hurry!”

Lou bent down to take the map. She swiftly unwrapped the dripping cloth and pat-dried the old paper on the frill of her dress. “It's just a little smeared – but I think it's okay!”

“Good,” said John. “What happened, anyway?”

“We fell,” said George, still gasping.

“
We
didn't,” said John, also breathing hard while floating in the cool lake. “You did and then I tried to save you and that made me fall!”

“But – ”

“Never mind that,” John said, “why did Owen leave so fast?”

“I don't know. I saw him look that way and…” George looked over John's shoulder, out into the lake. “What…what is that?” George began.

John's eyes adjusted and stared out toward the middle of the water. The sun was low and the shadows were thick. But in the subdued light of the lake there was no mistaking it. A huge, curved hump emerged from the water. As it moved the hump dipped below the surface of the lake. In its place, a long serpent-like neck emerged. The creature was swimming toward them. “Go! Go!” John yelled.

Both boys sloshed and swam their way to the shore while Lou moved as quickly as possible down the oak toward its base. John chanced a look behind him, even as he arrived on shore. The long neck of the creature bent down, completely submerging in water. As it did, a hump rose up behind it at the same time. It was still coming.