The Legends of Lake on the Mountain Page 3

  Nearly dawn. John awakens in sweat. Light offers itself through his tiny window as he pulls the blanket over his eyes. He has to be at the mill soon to start work. He has to forget the unforgettable.

  ***

  “Sorry, George,” said John, out of hearing range of the farmer they were helping. “I didn’t know we’d be this busy.”

  George shrugged good-naturedly as he unloaded another bushel of wheat just outside of the stone mill. A year younger than John and French speaking, George Cloutier was never mistaken for John’s brother, although they had fast become friends. John’s freeflowing, dark curls, large nose and lean, tall frame was in contrast to George’s stockier, shorter build with a thick head of straight, greased hair.

  John tried to put last night’s dream out of his mind, losing himself in the anticipation of exploring once the work was done.

  “That is okay, mon ami – looks like we are almost done anyway.” He tossed the last bushel of wheat to the men in the mill and then they paused to watch. They surveyed the mill’s heavy stone, three feet wide, turn against a stationary stone with grooves cut into it from the centre to the ends. After the grain was ground, it eventually fell from the outer edges of the two stones.

  The wheel’s turns were powered from the waterfall cascading over Lake of the Mountain. Sifting the flour was done by hand above bins in the basement. Then the flour was hoisted up ladders to the second level where it was dumped on the floor to be raked back and forth until it cooled. After that, other men had to strain it by hand using a crank-powered flour sifter.

  With all the dust flying around from the mill work, George instinctively felt to make sure his hair was intact. As usual, it was combed straight back and held in place with grease from his mother’s cooking lard.

  “I cannot believe you have to go back to Kingston soon,” said George. “Soon I will have to watch out for Owen all by myself.”

  After telling George about his encounter with Owen yesterday, John wondered if his friend was more worried about his stiff hair being messed up than he was anything else. “Owen’s an oaf,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  John scrunched his shoulders down and hoarsely whispered, “Anyway, forget him. Maybe later we can explore...you know...where Whisky Wilson was.”

  He eyed the trees behind them and George looked up at the looming, forested mountain. “Sure – as long as we can stay away from the saw mill,” said George. He lowered his voice further. “I am not going near that place.”

  John laughed. George’s French accent always sounded more dramatic when he whispered.

  “Come on, George, you’ve got to learn to have more fun. What could Mr. Pitman do, really?”

  “He works with saw blades, John – do you not have an imagination?”

  John kept working as he grinned. “I can’t promise anything my friend. Sometimes it’s fun to sneak a peek at Mr. Pitman – have you seen how much wood he can lift with his bare hands?”

  Nathaniel Pitman, the saw mill owner, was a towering man and one of the most feared men in the village. He rarely had a word to say and seemed to have no friends in Stone Mills. On the other hand, he ran the only saw mill in the area which made him indispensable.

  John wanted to explore Lake on the Mountain but he loved the waters of the Bay of Quinte, too, which were practically right outside their door. Long stretches of water cut Prince Edward County off from the mainland, making it feel like an island. Anyone travelling to the county for the first time was always amazed at the scenery. Quiet bays, rocky bluffs, finely-sketched shores and reaches of long, watery fingers for miles.

  John saw his father happily talking to customers. That always put him in a great mood.

  The perfect time to see if George and I can get out of here.

  A movement caught John’s eye. He looked diagonally across the tiny village toward Pringle’s General Store. Stone Mills was small enough that everyone could see what others were doing if they were outside and paying attention.

  A baby-faced man with large eyes and a small nose and chin stepped out onto the porch, closely followed by the store’s proprietor, Hannah Pringle. John recognized the man as Darius Marshall, a farmer from the top of the mountain. Darius and Hannah said something to one another and then the farmer hopped up onto his wagon. It became obvious he was directing his team of horses toward the Macdonald’s mill. “Is he coming here?” asked George.

  John sighed. “I think so. Looks like a full load.”

  Chapter 4

  Darius

  John watched Hannah Pringle linger for a moment on her porch before returning inside. Darius Marshall couldn’t stop smiling as he pulled his team up alongside the mill. That didn’t necessarily mean he was happy. Many people who knew him said it was more of a facial tick than a smile. He just couldn’t control it.

  The horses made restful sounds as they were tied to a post. Darius, a middle-aged man with a younger man’s stride, hopped to the ground. His smile was pasted firmly to his baby-shaped face.

  “Howdy boys – well look at you two now. You look like someone just drank your last cup of tea, yes siree. That’s what we Brits drink all the time, right?”

  John and George exchanged glances. British people didn’t often refer to themselves as Brits. John also realized he didn’t seem to know George had a French background, not British.

  “We’re fine, Mr. Marshall, sir,” said John. “We’re ready to work.”

  “I see, I see,” he said, scratching his smooth chin while reading John’s face. “You young fellows were about to leave this place and find something fun to do. And then I pull up and ruin everything. Tell you what, I’m not one to wreck anyone’s good time so let’s work together quickly on this. If anyone else tries to drop their grain off, well…I’ll give them the evil eye, like this.” He rolled his eyes around in his head and John and George laughed.

  Darius Marshall had moved from York – which some folks still called Toronto – to Stone Mills about a year ago. But John didn’t know why he had ever left York for such a rural life.

  The round-faced farmer was strong and swift in his movements. He worked quickly with John and George and within twelve minutes the wheat had been stacked along the back wall in the mill.

  “Thank ya kindly, boys,” he said. He reached into his pocket and tossed an American five-cent piece to each of them.

  “Wow, thank you Mr. Marshall,” said John.

  “Yes, thank you,” echoed George.

  John had long observed that Upper Canada was a medley of currencies. One never knew what to expect when it came time for payment. John had seen his father paid in American bank notes and coins, Bank of Montreal dollar notes from Lower Canada or British pound notes from the Bank of Upper Canada. Even copper coins and tokens of differing quality were still accepted, despite discouragement from the banks. John knew his father would take them. The most common form of exchange was simply to barter.

  Darius looked up and down the dusty path of a road. “Looks like you two are freer than songbirds,” he announced. “That is, if you can convince your father.”

  John ran inside the mill again and found his father still talking to his customers. He easily got permission to spend time with George and they flew out of the mill. Darius, still smiling, tipped his hat to John and George as they ran by.

  Their immediate destination had changed with money in their pockets. They swooped past Abraham Steel’s tavern and over to Pringle’s General Store.

  “That was nice,” panted George. “The way Monsieur Marshall helped us.”

  John nodded. “Let’s hurry – I heard she was getting low on hard candy.”

  John bolted up the stairs of Pringle’s General Store just as his mother was exiting.

  “My word and what are you both doing here?” she
said. She adjusted the basket in her hand and eyed John and George as if they were horse thieves.

  “Mother!” said John in surprise. “Father said George and I could go to the store – Mr. Marshall gave us both a five-cent piece.” He held it in front of her as shining proof of legitimacy. George followed suit.

  “Lord love a duck! It’s still morning!” Helen said. “You think you need candy in the morning?”

  John wondered why candy might taste different in the morning instead of the afternoon but he sensed it was one of those times to keep quiet. Just a few more seconds.

  “Well, go on with you both. Spend it fast in case it burns a hole in your trousers.”

  John knew the permission would come. It paid to learn how to read people and he had realized long ago that he was good at it. “Bye Mother.”

  “Au revoir,” Mrs. Macdonald.”

  “Yes, yes…” she muttered. John could still hear his mother talking to herself as they bolted up the stairs and into the store. John inhaled the scent of fresh spices as they opened the door and he breathed deeply, as if to save it for later. He couldn’t imagine living on a farm, far from civilization. He liked the hustle and bustle of Kingston and even the small village charm of Stone Mills.

  “Good Mornin’ boys. Well if it isn’t another Macdonald – and a Cloutier, too.”

  John and George looked up to see Hannah Pringle. She was also known as the most eligible widow in all of Stone Mills and surrounding area, if adult gossip was to be believed. Her hair was long, straight and a faded gold, now streaked with grey.

  The grey came over the months that followed Mr. Asa Pringle’s death on Lake Ontario three years ago. A capsized boat had claimed the man’s life, just before the Macdonald’s had arrived in Stone Mills. Hannah found herself a widow at thirty-four and still one at thirtyseven. It wasn’t from a lack of suitors interested in her but it might have had something to do with her perfectionist streak. That’s what the adults said.

  John let his eyes travel across the store, taking in the long, maple shelves bracketed to the wall, holding an assortment of coffee, tea, spices and cans of raisins. Hanging from the ceiling were dried meats, smoked and salted to help them last longer. His eyes glazed over the dry goods section, filled mainly with materials like bolts of cloth, thread, ribbon, needles and pins. This was Moll’s favourite section, since she loved to sew. George pointed to the glass display case in front of the counter and John nodded. They knelt briefly to look at the knives.

  “Now are you two just lookin’ today or can I fetch you somethin’ in particular?”

  John beamed as he produced the five-cent piece and George followed suit. “Mr. Marshall gave us these,” said John.

  “For helping unload his wagon,” said George.

  “Now wasn’t that nice,” said Hannah, smiling longer than John expected. She walked past them to the front door and looked out towards the mill. John wondered what she was looking at and then saw Mr. Marshall glancing this way from the mill and smiling. Even though he always looked like he was grinning, John thought that this time it might be real somehow. He watched him tip his hat to her as she played with the ends of her hair.

  “Uhh, Mrs. Pringle?” said John.

  “Miss,” she said quickly. Her smile ebbed and then returned softly as she twisted her bare, ring finger. She marched into the centre of the store and began sliding a heavy pickle barrel into a different position. Observing the minor change she moved behind the wooden counter. As she did, a few of The Stone Mills Reformer news sheets whooshed off onto the floor. John bent down and picked them up, re-reading the headlines he had already seen at home.

  “Who do you think is printing these, Miss Pringle?” John asked. She took them from John and straightened them again, shaking her head.

  “I really couldn’t say,” she said. “I just believe in givin’ them some space. Healthier to have different opinions, I think.”

  George read some of the headlines. “‘Responsible Government: It’s Time.’”

  “What is responsible government, anyway?”

  “It’s government that’s more accountable to people instead of what we have now,” she said. “You must have heard the adults talk about the Family Compact?” George and John nodded. “You mean the Tories, right?” John asked.

  She nodded. “Some people are calling them that because it’s a small number of families, controlled by men folk, who make sure they do whatever they want whenever they want.” She lowered her voice. “Some people say they especially enjoy stuffin’ their own pockets with money. Not that I’m saying that, you understand.”

  The boys nodded. “But we have an elected assembly,” said John. “Right?”

  “Yes, with no real say. If the Family Compact doesn’t like a decision made by the Assembly, they just overrule it. Does that sound right to you?”

  John shook his head. “I guess not.” He made a mental note to ask the colonel a few questions about Hannah’s comments. She began stacking a new shipment of brown sugar on a thick wooden shelf. “Maybe the Americans know what they’re doin down there after all. I mean, that’s what some folks say.”

  ***

  Slurping on caramel hard candy and peppermint sticks, John and George moved behind the mill where the great, forested hill loomed. A few feet away they watched the thick thread of white, churning water shoot over the mountainside. From behind the waterfall, a pile of rocks stuck out on either side. Long ago, when loyalists first came upon the land, John had heard that the waterfall was like a white sheet.

  A rustling noise in the woods gave John pause. He pointed to where he had seen the foliage moving a few feet away. George nodded and they took a step toward the sound. Just then a grizzled, grey-haired man popped his head out. John and George leapt back in surprise. The man’s face was weathered and worn and he licked at his lips which were lost behind a shock of grey beard. He blinked away the bright morning sun and focused on John and George. Sticking out his long, spindly arm he curled his index finger in a movement that could only mean ‘follow me.’ Then he disappeared back into the woods. “Who…” George began.

  John leaned in. “Could that be Jeremiah Thacker?”

  “If it is, my father says he is crazy,” said George. He tapped his head at the temple. “Hi John!”

  Oh no...here comes Lou.

  “Hello, George. What are you doing?” She patted George’s larded-down hair. “Good work on your hair today, George. Say, are you both going into the woods?” George felt for damage to his stiff hair, while John clamped his hand over his sister’s mouth. “Shh. Don’t be so loud. Yes, we’re going into the woods.”

  She pried his fingers from her mouth. “I want to come, too!”

  Lou loved dangerous situations as much as he did, John knew. He stared anxiously into the thick trees. “Okay, but keep your mouth closed, you understand? I mean it, Lou.”

  She nodded, smiling. Underneath a thick canopy of oak and maple trees, John, George and Lou plunged into the forest behind the stone flour mill in pursuit of the strange man.

  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 th
e 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.