by William Bell
“How … do you mind if I ask you something?”
“That’s okay.”
“How come you’re here?”
“I live this place.”
“No, I mean, you’re … you died, didn’t you?”
“Yep. Long time back.”
I felt stupid asking it. “So you’re a ghost.”
“I’m spirit now. Lost real body long time ago. Still can smoke these, though.”
He took another long drag and sucked it deep into his lungs. Then he blew a couple of smoke rings and smiled, showing his yellow, stumpy teeth. His smile gave me confidence.
“What I’m wondering is, how come you’re in … this life. I mean, I’ve never seen a ghost before.” I thought of Noah’s dad. “And most of the people I know don’t even believe in ghosts.”
When he talked, I noticed, he made his words at the back of his mouth, sort of. And his S’s sounded halfway between a whisper and a whistle.
“Spirit world is all around us. My peoples always knew that. Most peoples now, though, even this one”—he pointed to the freshly dug earth at my feet—”don’t believe no more. My job, I got to lead the new dead peoples to the spirit world. Been doin’ that long time, now. This one,” he pointed to the fresh earth again, “I got to wait till he’s ready to go across to the Other Side. Sometimes takes a while to let go this world.”
“How did you get that job?” I felt like we were talking about a job pumping gas at the Canadian Tire twenty-four-hour gas bar.
He looked uncomfortable and a little embarrassed and stared off above the trees in the direction of the lake. I thought maybe I had asked something I shouldn’t have, but he answered me.
He tugged at his earlobe. “Somethin’ I did wrong when I was still ‘live. Bad wrong. I got to pay for that.”
So Noah was right, I thought. Chief Copegog was doing some kind of atoning, or whatever the word was.
He stuck the cigar into his mouth—it was pretty short by this time— and looked away into the trees as if someone had called him.
“Got to go now,” he growled, getting down from the gravestone. He dropped the cigar stub onto the fresh earth.
“Wait! Please! I wanted to ask you something!”
I tried to grab his arm but my hand went through him, as if I had grabbed a handful of fog.
“I need to talk to you!” I shouted as he turned away. “Please stay!”
He turned back to face me. His face wasn’t sad now. He looked like a kid does when he’s done something really bad, and he’s really sorry, and he feels … small. He wanted to go. I could see that, but I wanted him to stay. There was so much I wanted to ask him.
“You come back ‘nother time, maybe,” he said, and he started walking toward the trees, just like always. But before he got to them, he faded. Faded into nothing.
I stood there shivering for a minute, staring at the spot where he had been. I was so frustrated I could have screamed. But I just swore under my breath and stamped my foot. Then I turned and left the graveyard, stomping angrily across the rough ground in the slanting sunlight. The only sounds were the birds and the long dry grass swishing on my feet.
I got back to the rowboat without any problems, but I sure had problems when I got there. The northwest wind had come up like it often does at nightfall. There were waves out on the lake. And the wind had bashed the boat against the rocks and the bow was all scarred where the paint had been scraped off.
Oh, great, I thought, just what I need. Wait’ll Dad sees that.
I tossed the pack into the bow and climbed in. I pulled on my life jacket, tied it, and started rowing, feeling really low, wondering if things were ever going to get better.
The boat lifted and fell as I rowed hard against the waves into the setting sun. The wind was blowing me down the lake as I went and my back and arms were already getting sore. I remembered what my dad told John and me one time when we were out fishing in the boat. I had hardly listened at the time. He said that you should row and let the wind move you down the lake as you went, then when you got closer to shore you swung the bow right into the wind and rowed straight. The main thing, he said, was not to fight the wind because it would always win.
I remembered that, and nothing terrible happened. By the time I got close to shore it was dark and I had been blown way down the lake from our house, past the park and the government dock. My arms and shoulders felt like they were made of lead. But all the lights from the buildings and the street made it easy to see what I was doing. Through the big windows of the Legion, I could see lots of people standing at the bar and crowding the tables and laughing. A couple of guys were throwing darts. Past the Legion, people were sitting out on the terrace of the seafood restaurant and there was cowboy music coming from the Champlain Hotel. The liquor store was still open.
But I was rowing alone on the dark water. And I was dead tired.
I steered the bow into the wind, which was a lot tighter this close to shore, and rowed up the lake toward our house. My shoulders and back were so sore they were almost numb. I passed inside the stone break wall near the government dock, past the jetties sticking out into the water at all angles.
Soon I was passing the Couchiching Park beach where the lifeguard towers were. I was so tired I decided to pull in there and rest.
It was easy to row when I got close to the beach because the wind was off shore. I clambered out into the knee-deep choppy water, hauled the rowboat up onto the dry sand and walked up on shore. There were a few kids playing on the swings, a couple of dogs sniffing around the big maple trees, and a few people strolling around.
I walked past the swings and slides, across the road and onto the grass. I plunked myself down on the grass to rest, feeling a little silly, because from there I could have almost seen our house if it hadn’t been dark. Silly and sore. Every bone in my body ached and complained.
I glanced around and for the first time since I was really little I looked at the big shape looming above me in the dark, lit up by bluish floodlights. It was the monument, the big hunk of stone and bronze that, along with Stephen Leacock’s old summer home, made Orillia famous. There was Samuel de Champlain, perched high on a grey stone slab, standing against the dark sky. He was dressed like one of the three musketeers, wearing a short cape and holding a wide-brimmed hat with a huge feather sticking out of it. His left hand was hooked in his belt and there was rapier hanging at his side. His boots came up to his knees. A pretty dashing figure, as Mom would have said. But he looked a little dumb standing on a rock down by the water as if he was guarding the swings so the little kids wouldn’t have too much fun.
I got to my feet and walked up to the statue. I remembered from all the boring history we took that year that Sammy Dee, as we called him, had been a hot-shot French explorer in the 1600s and that he had come right past here. In fact, our teacher told us, there was a legend that he had lost an astrolabe right around here—one of those funny-looking things they used for navigation.
I always felt strange about all that stuff we learned in school, like how Sammy Dee discovered this and discovered that and how he claimed everything he saw for France. I couldn’t figure out why the teacher said he discovered a place or a lake when the Natives knew it was there all along. I mean, they lived there. I talked to my dad about that and he agreed with me. He said that a bunch of the Chippewas from the territory across the lake ought to pile into a pick-up truck and go down and “discover” Toronto and claim it for their nation.
I walked around the statue. On the right side was a bald priest with a beard, wearing long robes. I remembered John had told me the Hurons had called the priests the Black Robes. This one was holding a cross up above his head and in his left hand he was holding a book—the Bible, I guessed. There were two almost naked Natives sitting at his feet on thick fur robes. They were sort of looking at the book, but not quite.
I walked around the back of the statue to the other side. There was a bronze fur trader st
anding there wearing a long coat, long pants and knee boots. He was holding a musket in his right hand and a string of beads in his left. There were two Aboriginals sitting at his feet too, with fur robes across their knees, holding axes. I guessed that represented a trade.
I went around to the front of the statue and tried to read the bronze sign that was cemented into the stone.
1615-1915
Erected to commemorate the advent into Ontario of the white race under the leadership of Samuel de Champlain the intrepid French explorer and colonizer who with fifteen companions arrived in these parts in the summer of 1615 and spent the following winter with the Indians, making his headquarters at Chiague, the chief village of the Hurons, which was near this place.
A symbol of good will between the French and English speaking people of Canada.
How come the Natives got left out of the “good will,” I thought. And I stood there wondering if Chief Copegog could see the Natives sitting at the feet of the white men, getting religion on one side and beads on the other while Sammy Dee watched the show. I hoped not.
I turned my back on Sammy Dee and dragged myself back to the rowboat. I pushed off from the beach, rowing with the waves till I got clear of the beach. Then I swung toward the house. As I hauled on the oars I was thinking. I was so mad I didn’t feel tired anymore.
Late Monday Evening
I was lying on my waterbed, aching all over from my trip to the island, and frustrated because I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Chief Copegog. I had taken a hot shower and changed into light cotton pajamas. It was about eleven o’clock and Minnie had been in the sack for half an hour.
I was reading Anne of Green Gables for the millionth time and I was at the part where Anne is floating down the river in the boat pretending she’s Elaine, the Lily Maid, when I heard John and Noah clumping up the stairs. They went into John’s room and put some music on. A few minutes later I heard them coming down the hall to my room.
Knock on the door. Even though I knew it was them, I jumped. Boy was I nervous.
“Yeah,” I shouted, not too friendly.
“It’s us. Can we come in? We’ve got some news.”
Oh, no, I thought. News is one thing I don’t need. I’ve had enough “news” to last me a hundred years. I had already decided not to tell them about visiting the island that night.
But what could I say? If I told them to buzz off they’d be hurt.
I hauled myself off the waterbed, pulled on my housecoat and unlocked the door.
“Okay, come on in,” I said, and went back to the bed.
John came in first, face shining like a little angel. His blue eyes sparkled the way they always do when he’s turned on to something. His bands sparkled too, he was grinning so hard. He was still wearing his jogging shorts and tank top.
Noah looked pleased with himself too. His white T-shirt and black jeans were all wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them.
“We got it!” John announced like a guy on TV.
He and Noah were both carrying notebooks and Noah had a thick book that looked a million years old.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re gonna love this, Karen. We found out who killed—”
“Wait!” John shrieked. “Let’s tell it in order.”
His voice sounded so silly I had to laugh. “John, can’t this wait till—”
“No, no, you’ve got to hear this.” He stepped across the room and settled on the window ledge. Noah turned my desk chair around backwards and sat down, leaning forward against the chair back. The wedge of hair half covered his face.
“This is pretty hot stuff, Karen.” He smiled. “We worked hard, and now—”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” John cut in.
“I know the beginning,” I said. “All I don’t know—and I’m not sure I want to—is who murdered the lawyer guy.”
“Bond,” Noah said.
“Whatever. So, who was it? Gimme a name so I can go to bed.”
John looked hurt. “Aw, come on, Karen. What’s the problem?”
Noah was looking straight into my eyes.
“Oh, nothing, I’m just tired. Go ahead, guys. Let’s hear it.”
“Okay,” John said. “Tell her, Noah.”
Noah looked surprised, but only for a second.
“Okay. Remember Bond was sort of the town creep, skating along on the edge of the law all the time?”
“Yeah.”
“Built his house on land he cheated from an old lady client. Got his housekeeper’s daughter pregnant. Probably got her into bed by promising to marry her. So she hanged herself, right? Then he had a record of getting hammered and beating up on the old guy who worked for him.”
Noah paused and scratched the ear with the cross hanging from it. I thought of Chief Copegog, the way he pulled his big earlobe sometimes.
“So,” John continued for Noah, dragging out his words, “somebody puts a blade through rich Mister Bond’s hard, cold heart.”
He smiled, pleased with himself.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “His hard, cold heart. So who was it, the mother of the girl who hanged herself or the old man?”
“Guess again.”
Noah groaned.
“All right, I will,” I said, just to speed things up. “Um, let’s see. The old man was beaten up a couple of times, isn’t that what you guys told me before, Noah?”
“Right.”
“Okay, then it probably wasn’t him this time. I mean, why would he? Unless you’re going to tell me the maid was his long-lost niece or something. Or that he was in love with the poor girl.”
John shook his head.
“Or that—hey, wait! I know! The old man and the housekeeper were really secretly man and wife and the maid was their daughter! So that’s why he did it.”
Noah groaned again. “You ‘re making this sound like a soap.”
“I’m making it sound like a soap? Blame that on your research partner!” I pointed at John.
John ignored what I said. “So what’s your guess, anyway?”
“The mother did it. Because Bond ruined her daughter’s life and made her commit suicide.”
“That’s what we thought,” Noah said.
John cut him off. “Until we really got into the records. That’s when we found out about the Chippewa man.”
John was loving this. He had forgotten that he had asked Noah to be the storyteller. If I let him, he’d feed me bits of information the way you’d feed seeds to a canary and keep me going until I went out of my head.
“What Chippewa man? Look, guys, I don’t wanna rain on your parade, but why not just tell me straight out. With no games and suspense.”
Noah nodded. He had his calm grown-up voice back. “She’s right, man. Just lay it out for her.”
John shifted his position on the window ledge. I could see his back reflected in the window, along with my bed room, and I could see Noah sitting by my desk. John nodded, then ran his hand through his almost-blonde hair.
“Okay, here goes. We were all wrong. I mean, totally. Bond was murdered by a Native who got into the house one night, jabbed a knife into his cold”—John saw the scowl I pasted on my face—”okay, okay, his heart, and left him to bleed to death in the hall.”
He pointed to my door. “Right out there.”
My eyes followed his finger and a chill crept down my spine. I was glad the boys had shut the door on their way in.
John sat there saying nothing. I knew what I was supposed to say.
“Did they find out who did it?”
“Yeah,” Noah said in a low voice. “The newspaper reports said the chief of the Chippewas did it.”
“The thing is, Karen,” John added, “the chief’s name was Copegog.”
An explosion went off in my head. I heard myself groan as I raised my hands to cover my face. This is never gonna end, I thought.
“We figure—”
I cut in on Noah. “I know what you figure.”
<
br /> “It’s gotta be him,” John said.
“Why does it have to be him?” I knew I was being stupid. Just like I knew what Noah was going to say before he said it.
“Remember I thought that when you opened the medicine bag you released a kind of power into the house and that’s what triggered the poltergeist? Well, now we know. It’s a real apparition. It’s a ghost that’s banging around here at night. We know whose ghost it is now. And we know who killed him. It must have been Chief Copegog, our friendly, cigar-smoking spirit. It was his medicine bag, and it brought out the ghost of the man he murdered.”
I didn’t want to believe it. How could the lonely old man whose spirit I saw be a murderer? Then I remembered the eyes. They were black and fierce, and they punched right through you like those pointed metal things they use to jab holes through leather.
I didn’t want to believe it, though. My mind said it was logical. It made sense. But my heart refused to accept it.
Then I had a flash.
“Wait a sec,” I said to John, “didn’t you tell me that the new grave on Chiefs’ Island was for a guy named Copegog? Isn’t that the name you copied down?”
“Yeah, but—”
I turned to Noah. “And didn’t you say he was the chief on the Reserve just before he died last week?”
“Sure. So what?”
“So this. There must have been tons of Chiefs over the years named Copegog. What’s to our ghost is the one who stabbed Bond the Creep? Who probably had it coming anyway.”
Noah scrunched up his face and said, “Hmmmmm,” then scratched his ear again. “Good point.”
“Not so good,” John said. “Because our guy is about the right age.”
“How can you tell how old he is?” I said. Maybe this was going to work out, I thought.
But Noah smashed my hopes.
“Karen, remember what he said when I asked him how long it had been since he had a smoke?”
“Oh. Yeah, I get it. Wait! Maybe he had a brother who was chief too. That’s possible.”
“Get real, Karen.” John sounded mad. I realized then that the two guys were probably almost as disappointed as I was. They wanted our ghost to be a friendly old Native too, with lots of exciting stories about hunting and battles and stuff. Now he was just a murderer.
