The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (4 page)

Chapter 5

Treasure

John caught sight of the old man again in the distance, walking straight up the side of the two-hundred-foot mountain. They trudged after him through the brush, looking for some semblance of a pathway.

“I think he's going all the way up to the lake,” said John, digging his heels into the mix of leaves, soil and twigs. John's feet were bare, as were George and Lou's. No one wanted their shoes ruined from playing outside when they were so expensive to replace.

“Remind me again why we are following a crazy man into the forest?” George asked. He swiped bugs away as he walked. The hill was a dramatic, steep incline from this angle. Most adults went around the mountain where a rough road gradually led to the top. Going straight up the mountain from the bay side was only for the young and the young-at-heart.

“Keep your voice down...you said he was crazy, I didn't,” corrected John. “I said most people think that.”

John grabbed the rough bark of a massive, maple tree for support as he stooped to climb the great hill. The mountainous ridge of thick forest had already swallowed them whole. They were invisible to anyone near the mill or along the shore of the bay. The sound of the waterfall cascading over the side of the mountain behind the mill created a constant, tranquil background noise.

John caught sight of the wiry, old man again who had obviously made it to the top. He was standing upright until he was confident that John had seen him and then disappeared over the ridge.

“We're almost there,” said John. “Come on.”

“But what if he goes right to the edge of the lake?” asked George. Lou looked up with wide eyes. John recognized the anxiousness in George's voice and the apprehension in his sister's eyes.

“The lake is not haunted. There's no such thing – hurry up!”

John, George and Lou made it to the edge and grabbed hold of smaller saplings to finish pulling themselves to the edge of the great hilltop. They ran a few feet and then looked back. The webs and fingers of waterways known as the Bay of Quinte extended for miles around. It was a view John never tired of seeing.

Yet only thirty-feet away was an even greater marvel. Following the narrow waterfall which ran over the cliff, the three arrived at the edge of a small, impossible lake which provided the water's source. The locals called it Van Alstine's lake, after the Van Alstine family who were the first settlers of the area. But John and George preferred to call it Lake on the Mountain.

The lake shared its water freely, sending it over the cliff to power Hugh Macdonald's flour mill at the bottom. But what made the lake nearly impossible was that it had no known water source. How the lake continued to remain at the same level was the subject of much speculation. Many people believed there was an underground spring which fed it all the way from Lake Erie. Then there was the Mohawk's theory. They called it Onokenoga, or Lake of the Gods, and believed that spirits dwelled within its deep waters. Each spring the Mohawk offered gifts to the spirits to ensure a successful crop in the coming year.

“Let's go!” John said, running for the lake, deftly side-stepping the trees. The forest was thinner here where settlers had cleared them for their nearby homes and farmland. As the tallest and fastest, John arrived first and came to an abrupt stop as he reached Lake on the Mountain. No matter how many times he encountered the calm waters, it always took his breath away. Even though the mountain was more like a very large hill or mountainous ridge, the fact that a lake could be sitting on top was nonetheless extraordinary.

“I don't see him, John,” said George. “Did we lose him?”

“Here,” said a wobbly voice from behind them. A man emerged from behind a maple tree, more twisted and weathered than the tree that had hidden him. His sand-coloured pants were ripped and dirty at the knees. A long-sleeved, plaid shirt was open, revealing great curls of grey chest hair.

“The name's Jeremiah Thacker...and I want to give you something.”

Everyone froze. “Sit, now. Sit,” he said, extending his hand to a fallen birch tree. “Old Jeremiah's not goin' to hurt you.”

The three looked behind them at the fallen birch and sat slowly, saying nothing.

“I was only fourteen – not much older than you two,” the man said. He sat on a rotted tree stump two feet away and faced them, his eyes hungry and tired.

“Guess it was 1759. Yes – that's the year. I was walkin' along the shore ‘bout a mile from here – just walkin,' lookin for tall ships. Didn't know what my life held. You see, my father died young. When that happened, my Ma – well, she took off and made a life somewhere. Don't know where – but it wasn't with me, that much I can tell you.”

John started to take a breath as if he were about to speak but Jeremiah held up a withered hand.

“So I was tryin' to figure out what to do with my life. That's when I found him, just crawlin' along the shore, leavin' a trail of blood.”

“Who?” blurted George.

“A sailor,” Jeremiah answered. “Not just any sailor – a French admiral. Back then, the Seven Years War was on, you have to remember. Battles were all down the big lakes and in the port towns. The British were mounting forces in the area for some of the final battles of the war. So I ran up to him and I made him look at me – so I could see his eyes. Even then, I knew he was a goner.”

The old man pointed to his own eyes to explain. “It was as if there weren't enough life left in the eyes. That admiral, he was tryin' to say somethin' to me, before he died.”

“What did he…” John began.

“What did he say?” Lou blurted at the same time.

“Take this,” Jeremiah said softly.

John looked puzzled. The old man grabbed John by the wrist and pretended to force something into his hand. Jeremiah's eyes were ablaze.

“He said, ‘take this.' That's all he said. And that's when he died – and my life ended.” He let go of John's wrist. John rubbed it instinctively but didn't take his eyes off Jeremiah.

“What was it?” asked John.

“What was it? Thought it was everythin,' that's what. Thought it was the answer for my life,” said the old man. He scratched one side of his wild, grey hair and caused some of it to stick out.

“Didn't know it would be the only thing I'd ever come to know.”

“He gave you a map,” John said. He took a chance that the rumours he had heard about the old man were true. “It was a treasure map.”

Jeremiah stood from the stump he was sitting on and cackled. “Map, maybe. Treasure map? My whole life says it can't be. Can't be.”

He stood in silence for a moment and John, George and even Lou tried to stay quiet, too.

“But what if it is real?” Jeremiah finally said. “Spent my whole life believin.' Maybe it just wasn't for me to find. Maybe it will be for someone else.”

Jeremiah reached into a roughly-sewn inside pocket of his patched shirt. He pulled out a curled scroll of paper, battered and frayed. “Here – take it.” The older man thrust the map into John's startled hand.

“Don't know if it's real,” the man said as John unfurled the map with George and Lou crowded around each of his shoulders. It was roughly drawn, with arrows pointing behind – or into – what looked like lines representing the trees of a forest. It looked like he may have tried to draw a large hill, but the lines could also have been something else, John reasoned.

“Always thought the treasure was on this mountain somewhere here in the forest, near ‘bout where I found the admiral. When I couldn't find anythin' I began to explore the entire area between here and Kingston by foot, back and forth, lookin' for an area that seemed similar. Even went west, past Hallowell, to where the shores are nothing but sand for as far as the eye can see.”

John had heard of the great sand shores west of Hallowell but had never seen them.

“I'm no closer for it,” the old man added. “Maybe it is here but not meant for one like me.”

“Why give it to us?” asked John.

The old man shrugged. “I've seen you around, here and there. You seem to have lots of family, unlike me. Hopefully that'll make all the difference. Give you perspective, maybe. Never had anyone do that for me – never had anyone to help shape me.”

“Did any friends help you search?” asked George. He shook his head. “Likely a mistake. I didn't want any friends. You see, gold and money does that to a person – sometimes even just the thought of it. Leaves you mistrustful. Makes you do crazy things. I was afraid of what would happen if I let go of this ‘til it became all I knew.”

“Where will you go?” asked John. “What with no family and all.”

The man tried to chuckle and re-scratched his head, somehow fixing the tuft of hair that had been sticking out. “No family, true. Too late for that. But I'm going to try to let this go. Maybe explore some new place without thinking of maps or gold. Maybe I'll head northwest – see what's beyond Upper Canada.”

“Beyond Upper Canada?” said George. “There's nothing there.”

“That's what folks always say ‘til they find something,” said Jeremiah. He wished them well then turned on his heel and abruptly moved deeper into the forest before they could properly thank him.

After Jeremiah left, John huddled around George and Lou. John said, “Don't you remember hearing any stories about the man who has spent his whole life looking for treasure, somewhere between Kingston and Stone Mills?”

“Yes, but I didn't think it was true,” said George, eyes wide.

“No one can know about this. Not Mother, not Father, not Colonel Macpherson – no one.” Lou frowned. “What about Moll?”

Another sound made all three friends swing their heads around. John shrugged as a large black bird moved from one tree to another. John let his eye travel the perimeter of the lake.

“Okay, you're right. No one except Moll. But that's it,” said John firmly.

“I want to help search, John,” said Lou.

John sighed. “You can help look sometimes. But I'm not guaranteeing you can always come. You're not old enough to always play with George and me.”

Lou made a scoffing sound and cracked a twig with her bare heel in frustration. John ignored her and looked around. Then his face brightened.

“Before we look for treasure we should peek into the saw mill since we're already here. Maybe we'll get to see Mr. Pitman yelling at his employees.” George shook his head. “Let us just stay here…”

But John was already moving.

“John!” called out George in a hushed tone.

“Come on George,” said Lou. “I'll protect you.”

“That is not funny,” he said, scrambling behind Lou.

The great, wood-framed building rose up on the edge of the mountain, dark and hungry. He peeked through a missing chunk of wood in one of the building's planks to see the monster within. There, hunched over a long plank of wood with one of his employees, was Nathaniel Pitman. Lou bumped him on the arm and whispered, “Let me see.”

Although it was true that they usually stayed away from the saw mill, John couldn't always resist. It felt exhilarating to be peering through its walls. The mill was the opposite of his father's flour mill, John realized. The Macdonald mill was a community hub where people came to gossip and share information; this mill was lonely and silent, other than the sounds of sawing and cutting.

The three of them took turns watching from their vantage point at a corner of the mill. John watched the huge saw, held taut on its upward stroke by a spring pole overhead. Nathaniel Pitman and another man, slim and muscular, worked the saw up and down using a wooden beam attached to a crank on the mill wheel.

A few moments later it was George's turn to watch but he declined. “No, thank you – Lou can have my turn, too,” he said, whispering hoarsely.

“Oh, you really do like me – thank you, George,” she said, patting his thickly-larded hair. George winced. John could see Lou looking perplexed as she stared through the crevice of the board.