Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 29

The murmuring chants of a smudging ceremony came to greet me as I silently paddled through the black water of Forgotten Bay towards a growing circle of light. The breeze carried the faint scent of burning sweetgrass.

As I tied my canoe to the Fishing Camp dock, a voice whispered from the shadows, “Here, Meg. Put this on.” John-Joe passed me a container of a dark, greasy substance. “To blacken your face. We’re calling this our Oka war paint.”

I then noticed the others, ghost shadows against the lake’s shimmer, their black faces invisible in the veiled light of a waning moon, their eyes lit by the low flame of the burning sweetgrass. About twenty were sitting in a circle around a chanting elder, whom I recognized to be Eric under his camouflage.

Eric motioned me to where he sat in its centre with a container of burning sweetgrass. With his eagle feather, he washed the smoke over me, while I rinsed myself with its pungent odour, the way he’d taught me. He then gestured for me to join the ceremonial circle by entering it in the clockwise direction, he, as its elder, had set. We sat in silence while Eric chanted. With the container in hand, he slowly walked around the circle, stopping to cleanse each of us in turn.

“This will give you strength,” he said, as the smoke gently flowed around me.

When he was finished, he sat for several minutes in quiet contemplation, then he reached over to a pile of long iron spikes and began passing them out. Afterwards, he told us the plan.

Each canoe was to work as an independent unit spiking every fourth tree in a designated part of the ancients’ forest. The idea was to spread the spiking throughout the old growth stand, making it impossible for CanacGold to clear-cut. He and John-Joe would post the warning signs. Although the sound of hammering would eventually alert the CanacGold men staying on the island’s north end, Eric felt we’d be able to spike enough trees before they reached us on the ridge.

He finished by saying, “Remember, the word is quiet. I do not want to hear a single squeak out of you as we approach the island, not a splash or a whisper. If they hear us coming, it’s game over. So be quiet. Don’t even breathe!”

As we loaded ourselves very silently into the canoes, two people to a boat, John-Joe passed each of us a long slender hawk feather, intended to give us the eyesight and lightning strike of a hawk.

I stuck mine into the side of my black toque, pointing its tip skyward. I imagined myself an ancient Anishinabeg warrior about to descend upon an unsuspecting camp of squatters, which CanacGold was, as far as I was concerned.

My fellow warrior was Tommy, which surprised me, since Eric had told me he was in Somerset looking for his mother.

“Did you find her already?” I asked, crawling into the stern of my canoe. “Or was it the police?”

His eyes glared back at me like two glittering orbs from his blackened face. “What do you care? You won’t believe me anyway.” He clambered into the bow with such force that he almost tipped us over.

“Easy,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, it was a mistake, okay? I wanted to believe you were hiding her. Tell me, how’s she doing?”

“No idea. I haven’t found her yet, and I don’t think the police have either. I’m only here because Eric needed me. I’m going back first thing tomorrow.” He thrust his paddle deep into the water and shot us towards the other canoes.

“But how can I completely believe you, if you don’t always tell the truth?” I asked. “It turns out you were at the Fishing Camp the day your mother disappeared. Why did you lie to me?”

He turned around and gave me another angry glare. “None of your damn business.” And he jabbed his paddle into the water with such force that it propelled us to the head of the line.

“Shush . . . keep it quiet,” hissed someone from behind us, which put an immediate stop to further questioning.

Twisting my paddle into a j-stroke, I turned us towards the opening of Forgotten Bay. Under the dome of the midnight sky, we followed what Eric called ke’taksoo wowcht, the spirits road of the stars, towards the invisible island. We slipped through the black shimmering water like a ghost armada, propelled by a chorus line of silent paddles.

Tommy and I followed the knife-edged trail of Eric’s canoe, which, like the rest of the flotilla, merged with the wavering shadows of the shifting ripples. We were all but invisible to each other and hopefully to any watchers. The only indication of our presence was the sound of the bow waves slapping against the moving hulls.

The wind had died, leaving a breathless air, heavy with the pungent smell of northern woods and nervous sweat. It was a night when even the merest brush of a paddle on the gunnel would be heard on the distant shore. From behind us came the quiet plop of a jumping fish while the haunting call of a barred owl drifted from another shore.

Before long, the solid mass of Whispers Island loomed into sight. All was still as we stole past the shrouded shore. The only sign of life was the limp flutter of the CanacGold flag under the harsh brilliance of a floodlight. I trusted Charlie and his men were back in the village and the CanacGold men sound asleep in their tents.

Further along, John-Joe turned inshore, where he and his partner were to wait for sounds of our activity before beginning the task of placing the warning signs. I could hear the gentle roll of gravel as they pulled the canoe up onto the land. We slid past, our destination an indentation in the rocks around the point, which thankfully was at the opposite end from the CanacGold camp.

With only a few scrapes, I managed to manoeuver the canoe through partially submerged boulders towards a flat sandy wedge. Using our paddles for support, Tommy and I stepped one after the other onto rocks. And with a final heave, we hauled the dripping hull onto the low bushes skirting the bottom of a cliff wall. Several canoes swooped in behind us.

Our target was the group of pines towering high above the ridge. The way up the cliff face looked impassable, but Tommy knew of an ancient hunter’s trail that would lead us to the top, hence the need for his involvement. Like mountain goats, we crept single file upward along the narrow ledge of rocks that formed a path considerably more treacherous than the one Eric and I had used as our exit from the infamous beach. The footing was slippery and precarious, with only an occasional shrub for support. Several times, I almost slipped and was only saved by firm hands from behind.

We were almost to the top when a sudden clang shattered the stillness. We froze and waited. Dead silence, then a hoarse whisper drifted from below, “It’s okay guys, only me.” We waited several breathless minutes, before regaining enough confidence to resume our slow inching skyward.

Tommy was the first to reach the top. He stopped, signalled us to do likewise and waited. I strained my ears for anything out of the ordinary, an abrupt movement, an alien sound. Nothing, only the soft muttering of the pines above my laboured breathing and the chilling howl of a lone timber wolf from a distant hill. We continued our crawl upwards and over the ledge.

The terrain was a covert warrior’s dream. Flat with a centuries’ thick carpet of pine needles to deaden all sound and clear of crackling underbrush to warn possible watchers of our arrival. But it was dark, so dark I could barely discern a path around the massive tree trunks as I attempted to follow Tommy to our designated part of the forest. The thick canopy of pines blocked all but a few stray strands of dying moonlight, which twinkled off the metal clips on Tommy’s backpack.

The muffled footfalls of a nearby group of ghost warriors mingled with the soft murmurs of the waiting forest. The sharp clink of metal against metal rang out from somewhere deeper in the forest. Someone had begun to spike a tree.

After another five minutes of walking, Tommy stopped and gestured for me to do likewise. We stood at the base of a large craggy veteran. I dropped the heavy pack, which landed with a faint clanking sound on the ground.

“Shush,” hissed Tommy.

I slowly unclipped the top of the pack and carefully extracted one long, cold spike. Tommy reached for his axe.

Suddenly, the night erupted with screeching howls and piercing whistles. A dozen shapes sprang from behind nearby trunks. Night burst into day as they leapt towards us, spraying shafts of blinding brilliance.

“Run for it!’ shouted Tommy as he flung the axe in their direction. It landed with a thud. For one long paralyzing minute it was as if the VCR were on pause. And then it surged forward.

I turned and raced away from the crashing forms and searching lights. I heard the grunt of someone being tackled, followed by the thump of a body landing on the ground. I ran down the slope, towards what I hoped was the water. I was a strong swimmer. If I made it, I could escape to the distant shore.

Close behind, the panting of someone gaining. “Go left . . . go left!” a man shouted. It was Tommy. Further back, the quickening pace of many feet. I raced in and out of the trees towards the growing brightness of open space.

The trees were thinning, the underbrush thickening. Suddenly, they disappeared and with them the ground. A ten foot drop fell before me. I stopped, uncertain what to do.

“Jump!” shouted Tommy. I jumped and landed on a soft mound of sand. Tommy landed beside me. Springing up, I started to race towards the sound of lapping waves, but the way was blocked by a mass of roots. I looked around, searching for a gap through the tangled mess. Above my head, thundering feet were fast approaching.

“This way!” hissed Tommy, pointing to the water.

But I knew where we were. “No! this way!” I cried as I started to shove my way through the snarled roots. Overhead, the din of snapping branches and strained breathing grew louder. I stopped. The pitch-black cave entrance yawned before me. From it drifted the remembered odour, which had grown to a putrid, cloying, nostril clenching stench.

“No! Not in there!” hissed Tommy. “Our chances will be better in the water.”

The running footsteps stopped. “Where did they go?” a harsh voice rang out.

“Too late, Tommy.” I knocked the brittle roots aside, stooped down and plunged into the blinding darkness. Tommy stood silently for another second, then followed me in.

The smell was unbelievable. Even through clenched nostrils, I could smell the rancid odor of decay. I wasn’t sure how much further into the blinding depths I wanted to go. Outside, feet thudded on the wet sand.

“You wanted it, you might as well go all the way,” whispered Tommy.

“Do you think the bear or whatever is gone?” I feebly asked.

“Bear? Sure. He’d be letting us know by now, if he weren’t,” was the reply, mixed with a brittle laugh.

I dropped down onto all fours and crawled into the dank darkness of the cave. At my heels, Tommy did likewise. I crawled a few more feet to ensure we were well away from the entrance and stopped. The stench was unbearable.

“God, this is awful,” I whispered.

From behind me came a low singsong murmuring.

“Are you crazy, Tommy? They’ll hear us,” I hissed.

The chanting stopped, then continued barely above the sound of my panting.

I tried to peer through the gloom, but saw only a wall of pitch black. Outside, I heard the dull thump of someone else landing on the sand.

“Do you see or hear them?” shouted someone outside. Tommy and I inched further into the cave.

“No, I don’t hear a thing,” was the reply almost at the cave entrance. “They must be hidin’. I’ll look around here. You check the shore.”

I crawled further inside. The abominable odour crowded out all other senses. At this point, I felt more than saw the cave widen, but in the impenetrable black it was impossible to tell. I could no longer see even the faint outline of Tommy’s bent form behind me. From the depths of the cave came the intermittent tapping of dripping water.

I ran my hand along the ground in front of me. The earth felt damp and cold, but clear of any barriers. I inched deeper into the putrid tunnel. The stench permeated every pore in my body. It was as if I’d become the smell. I stopped, almost gagging. I wasn’t sure if I could go any further. Tommy hissed at me to continue on.

I moved my hand forward, but instead of feeling hard firm ground, I touched something soft and pliant, like a piece of clammy rubber. Startled, I jerked my hand away, then curious to know what it was, swept my hand back over the ground directly in front of me.

Encountering only damp earth, I thought my imagination had overreacted, but then my hand brushed over something soft and fibrous that moved with my touch. Steeling myself, I followed the shifting tendrils until I felt the cold and clammy object once again. I ran my quivering fingers lightly over the surface, which felt smooth and round, like boiled sausage.

Abruptly the texture changed to a rough fabric. For a moment I stopped, then with bated breath, I moved my fingers along the fabric until I felt a strange stiffness. And then something slimy crawled onto my hand. “Yuuuk!” I screamed and reared backwards.

A bright light suddenly shone into my eyes. “Who’s there!” came a harsh cry from behind the light. “Don’t move!”

I looked away from the blinding dazzle, back towards the interior of the cave. On the ground a short distance from my knees lay long tendrils of black hair, bloated fingers of an outstretched hand, and a writhing jumble of blue and gleaming yellow pierced by broken sticks of white.

“Oh, my God! It’s Mooti!” Tommy groaned. And I vomited.