Chapter 21
Kele and I were on our feet at once. “How’d you get here?” I was trying to calculate paddling times and distances.
“Easy on.” Bob sat down beside the fire. “I did my whack. I phoned Pica. She met me at the edge of ‘awk Lake. Motorboat, you know. Great bloody inventions, eh wha? Far as I know the pictures will make the front page of The Globe tomorrow afternoon.”
“I thought they wouldn’t be concerned about a few more Indian carvings,” Kele said. He walked over to the sleeping Patrick and took the gun. He ejected a couple of shotgun shells and pocketed them.
“Your missus,” Bob turned to me. “She’s got some barmy professor quoted as saying these carvings are going to make the United Nations world ‘eritage list. She’s got all her chairs at home, that one.”
“Want some chocolate tofu mint jerky?” I asked him.
“Not in this lifetime,” Bob said.
“I’ll have some,” Kele said. I raised my eyebrows. “A test of courage,” he said.
I turned to Ned. “You guys can have one of my sleeping bags, too. We brought extra in case the weather turned cold while we were camped here,” I explained.
He nodded. It was dark, although it couldn’t have been much past eight by this time, but we woke Patrick and got him into a sleeping bag and settled onto a mossy area. He fell asleep again.
The rest of us returned to the fire. “How old are you?” Ned asked me. I told him. “Shit,” he said. “You’re a year older than me. You can have the lawn chair.”
What the hell. I took it and let Ned settle uncomfortably onto the log I had vacated.
Ned and I looked at the bottle beside the fire. I looked at Bob, and he nodded, so I poured him a half cup. I did the same for Ned. Myself, I’d had too much already.
We talked about life and geology and gold mines and how different trees like different landscapes. Bob knew more than any of the rest of us about the trees, but Ned knew how each tree fit into the soil it lived in.
I drank herbal tea that Aisha had packed for me and talked about my years in the corporate world. Economics is a dismal science with 20-20 hindsight, but large companies are willing to pay people like me to tell them what just happened.
Then I told them about my years in the Economics faculty of the university, with some amusing anecdotes. I got a lot of laughs, but it might have had something to do with the tension on the hilltop.
Bob told us about his first court-encouraged canoeing trip with a bunch of other delinquents. His mimicry of some of the others on the trip had me snorting tea up my nose.
Then we all got to talking about the places we’d canoed, and all the funny stories of canoeing and camping, spills and bears and the things we took and didn’t need and the things we’d discovered too late that we’d forgotten.
Patrick got up once, swore at us, then crawled back into his sleeping bag and went back to sleep. We ignored him.
About ten or so, a thin layer of clouds covered the stars, and I started yawning like I’d never stop. I took to my sleeping bag, and slept pretty soundly all through the night, not counting the seven times I got up to take a leak, or the one o’clock and five o’clock rousals to take some codeine pills for my pounding head. At one, there were only Kele and Bob around the fire, talking quietly. I wondered what Ned and Patrick had brought in their heavy packsacks, but both packsacks were stashed between the two of them.
My morning came late, and when I got up Ned and Patrick were gone, packs and all. Bob and Kele were still asleep. I started the fire going again, then got the big pot to get some water.
I ambled over to the edge of the hill, and spotted the geobuddies along one shore of the lake, tying yellow ribbons to some trees, and making slash marks on others. It looked like they were working their way around the lake, so I clambered down the slope and dipped a pot of the cleanest water I could find from the lake. Lake water is never perfectly clean, even in fall when the cool temperatures precipitate out some of the solids. You do the best you can, pick out the more obvious debris, then hope boiling takes care of the rest.
There was a bit of mist on the lake, and some birds were getting noisy in the trees beside me. Another skein of geese went overhead, going west. The hill was damp with dew, a dampness that seemed to soak into me. I headed back towards the soul-healing warmth of the fire. The country was Eden, but the year was getting old, and so was I.
Kele crawled out from under his tarp as I was starting the pot on to boil over the fire. He walked past Bob’s tent, shook it and called out, “Morning time, you Limey Bastard.”
“Me ma told me if I came to Canada the Indians would kill me. She was right,” came Bob’s voice from his tent. But he was up in less than a minute. He looked at me. “You were dead on about your snoring. You spent ‘alf the night driving pigs to market.”
By the time they were at the fire, I had a cup of tea, and my stove was cooking up some dehydrated camp food Aisha had made for me. I added some oatmeal and chips of beef jerky.
“They’re gone,” Kele said, indicating the place where Ned and Patrick had been sleeping.
I pointed to the edge of the hill. “They’re staking a claim on the whole lake, it looks like.”
Both Kele and Bob went to check on this, and came back shortly after. “They’re up to their nuts in swamp at the far side now,” Kele said.
I finished my tea and called Aisha to tell her about the latest developments.
“Let them stake a claim,” she advised. “There’d be hell to pay if someone else did it now. If I were them, I’d do the same thing. Are they claiming the hill?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” I said.
“Don’t worry, then. They’re just covering their bases.”
“I hear you got some professor quoted as saying these carvings are really important.”
“That’s old MacAdam. He owes me a couple of favors , and anyway he’s got tenure. Aside from being a bit senile, if you remember. He’s happy to say you’ve got pictures that prove the Aztecs or Egyptians or whatever helped carve the pictures. By the time we work through that, someone’ll be calling for protection.”
“Has he seen the pictures?” As far as I could tell, this place wasn’t nearly as big a find as the famous petroglyphs not far to the southeast.
“They’ll be back from the photo shop in an hour or so. We’ll find something good on them. If not, you’ll have to carve a Roman trireme real quick-like.”
“Ah…”
“Just joking. I’ve got the video copied to VHS and the TV station is going to pick it up in a few minutes, I hope. Who shall we put down as the discoverer?”
“I might have made a deal,” I said, “with Ned. We might have to give him discovery rights. And name the lake after him.”
“Oh?”
“We talked about it last night. In return for him promising to protect the site.”
“You obviously had too much to drink last night,” Aisha said. “Is your head a bit sore?”
“A bit.” I felt like a couple of octopoid aliens were having it out above my right ear.
“You’re a slow learner.”
“I am, that.”
“Well, I think it’s a good idea, anyway. Got any quotes for me.”
“Got a pencil?”
“Always.” This was true.
“He said that the mining industry’s finally learning to respect the land. That history is more important than money.” I was thinking as fast as my hammering brain would let me. “That he’s claiming the diamond site to protect the petroglyphs and intends to be their guardian till the province decides what to do with them.”
“We didn’t tell anybody anything about the diamond ore.”
“It’s time. Don’t be more specific. It’ll come out soon enough. It should make a good story, and if we don’t rush the details, it’ll give Samuel enough time to organize a sit-in.”
“What’s the name of the lake you’re at.”
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“I don’t know of any name,” I said. “I told Ned we’d name it after him.”
“I’ll say you guys have temporarily named the lake DeVincent Lake. But it probably won’t stick,” Aisha said.
“I figured that out, but it’ll keep Ned happier for a while.”
“Do you think he planned to destroy the carvings?”
“I don’t know,” I told her truthfully. “They brought a couple of heavy packs that they haven’t opened except to get food and booze out of.”
“Well, I’d keep those packs away from the fire, if I were you,” Aisha said.
I explained the developments to Bob and Kele. “Damn,” Kele said, “Samuel isn’t going to like this at all.”
We made tea while we waited for Ned and Patrick to return from staking a claim on the lake. I took some video footage of them struggling through the rougher areas just for the heck of it, though.
Ned and Patrick arrived back at the campfire, cold, wet, and muddy up to their chests. We built up the fire to help them dry out and poured them some tea.
Then I laid it on Ned, the whole thing, from my throne on the lawn chair, while Patrick made his way down the steep hillside to rinse the mud out of their clothes. Ned stood by the packs, buck naked and covered with goosebumps, and listened to me. He slowly rotated by the fire, getting ashes in his hair.
While I was talking Bob brought over the empty shotgun shell from Patrick’s blast last night. I looked at it, nodded, and passed it to Kele, who passed it to Ned. The shotgun, it appeared, was loaded with buckshot. Buckshot’s good for larger animals, and not much good for ducks. And nothing but ducks and rabbits were open season. Ned tossed the shell into the fire. I looked over towards the tree where the shotgun still leaned untended.
“So I’m to be the hero,” he said, his eyes tight and more ash settling on his shoulders, chest hair, and dreams. “The protector of the petroglyphs. The man who doesn’t care about money.” The wind picked up, dumping more ash on him, and making him shiver. Patrick came back up the hill, still in his wet clothes, although I could see that he’d gone for a dip to get most of the mud off. Ned took his wet clothes, wrung some of the water out, and hung them over branches and twigs to the wind. Patrick added a few branches to the fire, and stood carefully to one side, shivering a bit.
“If you’ve got mud in your pants,” Kele pointed out, “You’ll have a sore crotch by the time you get back to your boat.” Patrick nodded, but didn’t disrobe.
“Have you guys reached a decision?” Patrick asked, looking around to Ned.
“They’re offering me fame instead of fortune,” Ned said, who was now drying his shorts and socks on a stick over the fire. “I get credit for finding everything, and maybe the lake named after me. I repeat my offer to you to share everything.” He looked up at his partner.
“Maybe I’ll change my mind,” he said. “But I don’t think so right now.”
There was a long silence. The morning got older, the year edged closer to cold white snow, and across miles of hills and golden woods and past some small blue lakes an old, old man was going into winter watching his diamond dream slip through his fingers. We made tea for both of them, and served it into the cups they hauled out of the big packs.
The morning dragged on. Ned eventually put his underwear and socks on, then checked the rest of his clothes, shrugged, and put them on. He hauled a bottle, half filled with good Irish whiskey, out of a pack. “It’s all that’s left,” he explained. We followed him when he set off for the petroglyphs, Patrick following right behind.
At the petroglyphs, he poured a little bit onto the rock, then handed the bottle to Patrick, who took a very large swallow. I passed Ned some pipe tobacco. He set it onto the ground, then stood up.
“I guess us protectors had better get going,” he said, “take good care of these fine pictures.”
“We should get some pictures of you, standing near these,” I said. “Someone might want them someday.”
“One picture,” he said. He looked at Patrick, who finished the bottle and shook his head.
I took a good one. You could see a bit of the ash in his hair, and a sad look on his face.
They shook hands all around. “Send me a copy of the picture, when you’ve got it developed,” he said.
“Don’t forget the shotgun,” I reminded him.
“You guys keep it. I designate you three as my assistants to guard the place.”
He turned to follow Patrick, who was already disappearing into the bush. He didn’t look back.
“Anyone for a cuppa?” Bob asked, when we were sure they were gone for good.
“I’ve got some apples,” I said. “I think I’ll take a couple over to the edge of the hill and eat them.” And a couple more codeine pills for my head, I thought.
We sat most of the afternoon making small talk, and watching the turkey vultures circle in the wind. They didn’t understand autumn. To Kele and Bob, half my age, there would always be more winters, more summers. The turkey vultures were just birds.
I wondered if they were the same birds I’d seen circling over Thomson Lake, the day I found George.
“This is life, as I’d like to live it,” Bob said, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t I just. I’m ‘aving the best cracking great time I’ve ‘ad in donkey’s years. Have a deco at that ‘ill over there.” He waved out past the circling birds. “Done up like a dog’s dinner, it is.”
“This guy, he speaks English too?” I asked.
“And Canadian when he feels like it,” Kele said.
“And this is it?” Bob asked, looking over the lake to where hills in the colours of fall stood in the forest. “We’re ‘ome and dry? Nobody gets charged with owt? Nobody gets killed, except maybe for poor George? Nobody uses ‘igh explosive to blow away ‘alf a flippin’ ‘ill? Not even an ‘ey-lads-‘ey with knives and guns? Maybe nobody ever finds out if there are diamonds under our feet?”
There was a long pause. I looked at Kele. Kele looked at me. Kele shrugged: “Welcome to Canada.”
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Death on a Small, Dark Lake Page 22
