The Legends of Lake on the Mountain (8 page)

Chapter 12

The Lake Effect

Constable Charles Ogden never wanted to be a constable. Who would? The money was poor and the rewards were almost none. Up until now, the most action he had ever had in the job was impounding three horses someone found wandering along the edge of the village.

As he swished his morning tea around in his cup his wife busied herself in the background of their modest home. Living only a quarter mile from the centre of Stone Mills, he was generally in a good position to keep an eye on the community, both below and above the mountain.

Oh, he knew something more difficult was bound to happen on his watch. That's just the way things are. He would never have suspected this, though – not in a hundred years. The whole village was going mad. Lake serpents! And now he had a missing person and a bloody shirt was found.

Constable Ogden was interviewing each and every person who had claimed to have seen this lake serpent. He surveyed the faces of the two boys in front of him, John Macdonald and George Cloutier. Both had been involved in their fair share of mischief – especially the Macdonald boy – but only of the typical variety for this age. Apparently John's younger sister had been there, too, but Hugh Macdonald had wanted to spare her any more talk of lake serpents. The younger ones were prone to nightmares and he couldn't blame him for wanting to leave her out of this.

The constable glanced over at Hugh who was nervously smoothing his large moustache beside them. Seeing Hugh Macdonald made him think about Lieutenant Colonel Macpherson again. What was a retired British colonel doing in his village anyway, other than visiting family? He had never liked the colonel. He always got the impression from him that he had little time for common folk.

“Now when you say ‘lake serpent' just exactly what might you mean by that?” asked the constable.

John and George looked at one another. Hugh nodded, urging them to get to the point.

“It was getting dark, sir, Constable Ogden,” began John. “But what we saw seemed to have two humps and a long, snake-like neck.”

Hugh fidgeted. “Like he said, Charles, it was dark. Could have been anything, right? I didn't even know about this until John told everyone last night, after Peter Goslin's story.”

The constable looked at John who was clearly irked at the lack of belief from his father.

“Are you saying you think they imagined it completely?” the constable asked.

“No, I'm not saying that, Charles. But a lake serpent? It seems...” his voice trailed off.

“Crazy?” the constable finished.

“Yes – crazy as can be,” said Hugh.

The constable drank the rest of his tea and set it on the table. Within a few seconds his wife had cleared the cup and began to wash it.

“The trouble is, Hugh, these boys aren't the first now, are they?”

“I suppose not,” said Hugh.

“And it's not just old Wilson we're talking about either, as you know,” said Constable Ogden. “In addition to the Goslin's, who we just heard from, William Blair also said he saw something when he was fishing that he couldn't explain. A long neck, then humps moving through the water. He was so sure of what he saw that he left his fishing pole and even his farm. He loaded what he could on a large bateau and hitched a ride off to Kingston. That was just two weeks ago. You knew that.”

Hugh nodded. “Just thought there had to be another reason – that Blair was exaggerating, was all.”

“And the thing is,” said the constable, “it's always the same description of this thing, too. Not sure how I account for that.” Hugh said nothing.

“And Frank and Eleanor Eddy were taking an evening walk near the lake when both of them felt there were moving shadows across the lake at first, then a long neck and head. She wants to move to York and he's not sure at this point.”

John and George looked at each other in tight-lipped vindication.

“The interesting thing is that it was either evening or night when folks said they saw this thing.”

Hugh folded his hands in front of him. “Do you know how terrible this is for business, Charles? If the farmers around the lake end up moving away how am I supposed to make a living?”

He shook his head. “It's not good for anyone's business, Hugh, except maybe mine, eh? But I sure don't need the adventure.”

The constable got up to stretch. What was he supposed to tell the high constable about this? Not that he'd care, sitting in his office in Kingston, he mused. Nobody cared about what happened in the small villages of Upper Canada except the villagers themselves. He'd have to take matters into his own hands. Devil's lake indeed.

Chapter 13

Democracy is Coming

Moll smoothed her dress, deep in thought, as she made her way to the general store. Her woven basket hung in the crook of her arm. The porcelain-skinned girl looked out at the bay and watched the aging sunrise leak over the water. A flock of birds lifted in unison and flew into the sun, as if propelled by an urgent request.

There was a quiet sense of alarm in the village today. Moll could feel it. People were worried about the safety of their families and for their businesses. She was anxious, too. She didn't want to leave Stone Mills. Like John, she believed their father would move them if business began to suffer. She wondered what it was like for John and George right now, having to meet Constable Ogden first thing this morning. She wondered what they could have possibly seen.

As Pringle's General Store grew closer she made a mental note to have Lou help her gather more greens from the garden before the rodents took everything. Moll glanced up at the lit, wooded mountain rising up behind their home and the mill. Strange, how whatever was living in that lake was only appearing now.

She was also worried about her brother. Last night she had heard him through the walls of her room, obviously dreaming something terrible. She wondered if it was about little James. Or maybe the lake serpent...or both? He wouldn't talk about it though. Boys were odd at the best of times and her brother was no different.

Moll took in the dark, brown of the two-storey general store with its yawning porch. Out back, a long, twisted storage shed was in need of repair. Climbing the steps of the store she could see the tilted handwriting of Hannah Pringle. The note read ‘back in a moment.'

She gathered her dress underneath her and sat on the porch and waited. Moll desperately needed a bolt of dark green cloth to finish sewing the quilts Mother had asked her to prepare for the fall. As well, they were almost out of tea and brown sugar. That wouldn't do with the colonel here visiting.

After five minutes had passed Moll peered into the window on the front door but didn't see any movement. Thinking Miss Pringle might be out back, Moll set out to find her. There was no sign of anyone. She was about to return to the front when she noticed the door of the back storage shed was slightly ajar. Moll made her way to the old shed.

For some reason her heart was racing and she tried to take longer, deeper breaths. As she reached out to push the door, she thought she could hear someone inside. “Miss Pri –?” she began.

“Oh!” Hannah Pringle held her arm up in self-protection seeing Moll's outstretched hand about to push the door open. Moll jumped back and held her racing heart. “I'm sorry, Miss Pringle. You sure scared me,” said Moll.

Hannah, looking very much like Moll, with one hand over her heart, nodded and shut the storage shed door behind her. “That makes two of us, young miss. I'm sorry if I was longer than anticipated.”

She touched her hair, ensuring it was still in place. “What can I do for you today?” she asked. She glided back to the front porch as she spoke. Moll admired her rose-coloured, summer dress. Then she wondered if Miss Pringle would ever look for another husband or just remain a spinster.

“Just a bolt of dark green cloth, Miss. Pringle,” said Moll. “And a little tea and sugar.”

“I'm fresh out of dark green but there's this dark blue shade here, or a lovely rich brown,” said Hannah, holding up the cloth.

Moll pictured the quilts for the fall at their house.

“I'll take the brown, then, thank you.” Hannah was someone Moll had long admired. Perhaps it was her independence she found so attractive. As Hannah began to measure the brown sugar, Moll could see a streak of black on the right side of her neck.

“Miss Pringle…you have a long, black mark – here,” said Moll moving toward her and pointing to her own neck.

“Oh – thank you,” she said, backing up from Moll and nearly tripping. “I can get it with a rag in the back. In fact, why don't you just write down what you need to take here,” she said, pushing a ledger forward on the counter. “I'll simply put it on your tab. Yes, that will work just fine,” she said, answering for Moll. “Take care now.”

“But…”

The store owner rushed into the back room and closed the door, leaving Moll to finish shopping for herself.

***

Darius Marshall sat on a wooden stool facing Anson Rightmyer. He gently stroked the back of the feeble sparrow with his thumb and hummed. He had noticed the bird struggling to fly last week, its left wing in distress – likely from a larger bird. It might need some extra attention and rest before it could fly again.

His eyes drifted to a copy of the news sheet which questioned the politics of the Tories. It was perfect timing, he had to admit. He wished he had made it himself. But whoever the printer was, he was grateful for the man's timing.

Looking up, Darius smiled at the shirtless Anson Rightmyer. He didn't want it to be this way and yet his men were overly protective. He tried to broaden it beyond the grin that was usually plastered across his face. As he stared at the sweat beading on Anson's forehead, he wondered what it was that separated a killer from a kidnapper. Courage? Caution?

Darius straightened his back, then stood and leaned against the cabin's rough wall to consider his own question. In the past, he had been trained to kill as a soldier and would do so again if the situation suited him. For now, that would accelerate plans too swiftly. The wandering, nine-fingered farmer had gotten too close for his own good. Darius and his men had no choice but to take action.

The others moved like cougars in the forest, as he had once done, always aware of their prey, always committed to victory.

Darius knew he was out of practice compared to the eight, younger men who worked for him. And yet they respected him for past glories. They were allowing him to once again lead them because Darius told them he was on a secret mission with the backing of U.S. President John Quincy Adams.

He was going to bring democracy to this sad, pathetic colony. A colony that took so much from its people. Just as the Family Compact drove him out of York. Just like one of these same godless men stole his wife, Sophia. He would bring the one thing the Tories could not deal with – a complete loss of control.

He and Sophia had moved to York after the ‘incident,' as he liked to call it. With a great deal of practice, they had shed their Kentuckian accents and took their place in Upper Canadian society. Ironic, wasn't it? He had fought so hard against British North America, only to end up living among them.

But Sophia hated York. It was too rough for her sensibilities, no matter what Darius tried to do. She blamed him for the downturn her life had taken.

And that's when Edgar had shown up, born and bred into the Family Compact. A smug, rich Brit with a sense of entitlement, if ever there was one. He and Sophia had met at a dance they had all attended. Within a month, she had declared she was leaving him for Edgar.

Darius bit into his tongue as he remembered the humiliation. That was when he left York and wandered into Stone Mills, numb and alone. The setting soothed him. There were tongues of land formed by the endless arms of the Bay of Quinte. The massive trees and the great hill, capped by an unexplainable lake. For awhile, this life was all he needed or wanted.

But then the people started opening their mouths. He had to hear their stupid British thoughts and their stupid British rules. They were all the same as Edgar, he soon decided. Cheaters, liars, and followers of the king.

Had he not fought against this? Had he not lifted a long gun against this way of living? He knew he had to return to his roots and fight for democracy. These Brits might not appreciate it now. But their children would, when they had a chance to grow up free.

Over in York, Mackenzie was perhaps the only one who understood how important it was to work against the Family Compact. He had the heart of a true American beating in him. He would love to meet him someday. Mackenzie's newspaper and other upstarts like the
Stone Mills Reformer
would help him in his quest to bring real democracy to Upper Canada.

Darius watched Anson's eyes flit to the left and then the right. The captive man's brow grew thick with sweat and Darius felt the shadows behind him flinch. Two of his men had returned to the hidden cabin. He turned toward them slightly as he set the sparrow down on the table.

“I'm glad to see he's alive,” said Darius.

“Why?” asked one shadow. “He's no one.”

“It's not time,” said Darius. “We'll keep them guess ing for now. The bloodied shirt will only increase the anxiety.” Anson's breathing was rapid and shallow behind his gag.

“What about the British colonel?” asked the other shadow. “You saw him arrive.”

Darius shrugged. “Of course I did. He's merely an unwanted family member, dropping in to see the Macdonald's. He isn't a concern.”

“He's not the only Macdonald who's a concern. The boy has been poking around over here, too.”

“Oh, I doubt he'll be back.”

“And if he – or his Brit uncle – keeps it up?”

“Then we will deal with them decisively.”

Darius stared at the pleading eyes of his neighbour. He began to realize his men were growing crazy with wait. He suddenly realized that if he left Anson alone here for more than a few hours at a time he'd likely be a dead man. The only thing to determine now was whether or not he cared.