Читать книгу Tom Thomson's Last Paddle - Larry McCloskey - Страница 11

Nikki expressed his feelings about not being part of all the commotion by bellowing into an otherwise calm Hour of the Dead. The stranger’s eyes lifted slowly to the shore. “Dog’s good for huntin’.”

Dani attempted to summon the courage to speak to the stranger claiming to be Tom Thomson. A number of reasonable arguments aimed at persuading the scary man in the canoe to leave worked their way through her methodical mind. She hooked a hand through each of her soaking overall straps in final preparation for speech. But as she opened her mouth, Caitlin answered the stranger.

“His name’s Nikki, and he’s never hunted before. He doesn’t know how, and we wouldn’t want him to learn, right, Dani? Say, what’s your real name, mister?” Then, looking back at her exasperated friend, Caitlin said, “Gosh, Dani, did you know your teeth are chattering?”

Dani’s teeth continued to chatter as her eyes rolled. She opened her mouth to speak a second time, but the stranger spoke instead.

“Catch a cold if you stay in the water, girls.”

Dani swiped at a wet strand of hair on her forehead and folded her arms. “And we could die of fright from strange men appearing at our campsite in the middle of the night.”

Dani’s protestation finished on a shrill, angry note. The stranger’s eyebrows moved together into a slight frown as his pipe played upon his ivory keyboard.

“I thought you said it was the Hour of the Dead, Dani,” Caitlin observed. “And look, there’s a bit of pink and yellow over where the sun’s gonna come up.”

Dani plunged her hands into overalls pockets that now had the consistency of used diapers. An inaudible “yuck” crossed her lips as she promptly removed both hands and held them unnaturally by her sides. A little giggle escaped Caitlin’s lips but not Dani’s attention. “Caitlin! This isn’t a laughing matter.”

“I know,” Caitlin said, giggling, “but it is kind of silly.”

Dani bared her teeth as if she held a pipe in her own mouth, then motioned her eyes toward the stranger. “Caitlin,” she whispered, “we have to keep our wits about us.”

“And apparently to ourselves,” Caitlin replied.

“Sorry, girls. Didn’t mean to scare ya. Didn’t hardly know how to approach. Thought this might be a good time.”

“’Cause it’s the Hour of the Dead,” Caitlin said, wide-eyed.

“Nope. ’Cause it’s the best time for fishin’.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said with obvious disappointment.

“Been fishin’ round here a long, long time.” The stranger’s eyes moved slightly in both directions as if to survey the lake. “Used to camp at this… at your campsite pretty often. Was my favourite.”

“But you don’t camp here anymore? Is there something wrong with this campsite, mister? Do you know of a better one?” Caitlin asked as she might question the librarian about the latest exciting kid’s novel.

“This here campsite’s the best,” the stranger said, motioning with his pipe in his mouth. “Don’t camp anymore. Can’t. Just travel in this old canoe.”

“You mean all day, everyday, you just paddle, fish, and smoke your pipe?”

The stranger nodded. “And all night.” Then, with a slight, ironic smile curled on his lips, he added, “Even during the Hour of the Dead.”

Caitlin shivered and shuddered. “But for heaven’s sake, why?”

During this exchange, and no doubt partly because of the soggy conditions, Dani fidgeted, fussed, and fumed. Now she asserted herself with big words and big splashes as she clambered up the clammy shore. “I’m sorry, mister, but the thing, is we’re terribly busy at our campsite, since we’re part of an outdoor-education program and we’re improving our self-improvement—”

“We are?” Caitlin’s question was greeted by an exasperated look from her friend. “Dani, are you okay? ’Cause you kinda sound like your dad.”

Dani enunciated her words in her best elder-sister, know-it-all voice. “Yes, we are Caitlin.” And then she said to the stranger, “We’re involved in an outdoor-education program with our school, and we expect our teachers, all twenty of them, here any minute, ’cause they’re going to evaluate our camping performance. So maybe you better just keep on fishing.”

Caitlin’s feigned whisper echoed across the lake. “Wow, Dani, you sound just like our older, bossy sisters, but you’re talking like this stranger, with your teeth kind of clenched.”

Dani opened her mouth to speak, but dramatically folded her arms instead when Caitlin continued with another quick question to the stranger.

“Say, mister, what was the reason you said for canoeing, fishing, and smoking your whole life?” Caitlin cocked her head to one side with real beaglelike puzzlement.

The stranger surveyed the girls, the campsite, and the emerging glimmer of light for several moments in silence. The pipe slowly worked its way along his white teeth once again before being removed with great care. His expressive eyes belied his placid expression as he searched for words. “Never did say what the reason was. Hardly know how to start. Best to come to the point.” And then he curled his lip slightly and revealed a hint of a smile. “Never been good at painting pictures with words.”

“Huh?” both girls said.

The crease of a smile disappeared, and the stranger drew a deep breath from the vaporous mist. “My name is Tom Thomson. I have canoed, fished, and smoked my pipe on this lake since I was murdered on July 8, 1917. And if you help me prove my murder to the world once and for all, I’ll make you a warm fire and cook breakfast with these fine fellows.”

The stranger, or Tom Thomson, held up a chain with two big fish hanging from it. With their dead eyes and large mouths grotesquely open, the fish resembled, only a little, the girls who stood agape and wide-eyed in front of them.