“I don’t know,” he said. “Just a hunch. Probably nothing to it.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
“Not really,” he said, sighing. “Is that OK?”
“Sure,” Christina said. “But can I at least ask about what happened in ’52? I’ve never had a chance to hear the story from anyone who wasn’t actually just trying to scare me with some dumb ghost story.”
“Well-what happened?”
“In a nutshell,” he said, “the young graduate student, Richard Weal thought he heard voices coming from inside Spirit Rock. He attacked one of the team members and put him in the hospital.”
She sounded disappointed. “That’s it? That’s all there is?”
“Pretty much,” he replied. “The interesting thing is the history
Christina perked up. She leaned forward, and Billy caught a whiff of violets when her hair moved. “What history?”
“Well,” he said, “there have been some similar incidents reported over the years-and by ‘the years’ I mean over the course of the last three hundred years or so, so we’re talking in historical terms now, so maybe ‘legends’ is better than ‘history,’ since the source of some of the stories are a little obscure, not to mention unverifiable.”
“Now you really sound like a professor,” she teased, but it was teasing of an unmistakably gentle variety. “Go on, please.”
“The St. Barthelemy mission was attacked and decimated by an Iroquois raid in 1629 or 1630,” Billy explained. He was trying not to sound professorial, but doubted he was succeeding very well. “Everyone was killed, including the priest, a Father de Celigny, There seems to be precious little information on what actually happened, which is odd considering what great historians the Jesuits were when it came to their missions in New France. They never rebuilt on that site-as far as my father could tell, the site encompassed the area around Bradley Lake. More or less where Parr’s Landing is today.”
“Go on,” Christina said again. “Please.” This time, there was no teasing, only what appeared to be genuine interest on her part. “This is really interesting.”
“Well, it’s interesting stuff,” he said, warming to the topic. “Around 1702, two members of a brigade of trappers were camping on the shore of Lake Superior and wandered inland-the area in the account suggests that if it wasn’t actually nearby, it was close to here-and disappeared for a week. Only one of the pair found his way back to his brigade, and he was half-starved and raving about demons-do you know what a ‘Wendigo’ is?”
“I think so,” Christina said dubiously. “It’s some sort of evil spirit, isn’t it?”
“Something like that,” Billy said. “It’s a spirit that possesses a man and makes him crave human flesh. Anyway, the trapper told them he’d murdered his friend and drank his blood. At least that’s what the story says happened. The other members of the brigade were terrified and they turned on the fellow and killed him. When they returned to Quebec, they were exonerated at trial because all of them testified that the man who murdered his friend had been insane. The court believed them. It wasn’t unusual in those days for people out here to lose their minds because of the isolation.”
Christina shuddered involuntarily. “What a horrible story.”
“There are more,” he said. “In 1850, a minor British men’s adventure writer and explorer named Timothy Gentry came to this area to produce a revised map of the lake systems and islands in this part of Lake Superior. His brother, Adam, came with him as a sort of secretary and record-keeper. When neither they nor their guides had returned by the expected time, another set of guides was dispatched. The guides found Adam roaming the forests at night with his brother’s head in his rucksack. Adam’s fingertips had literally been worn down to bloody stumps. Before he died of his infected wounds, he told the Indians that he’d been trying to claw a hole through the rock.” Billy pointed to the window of the cafe. “Up there. Those rocks.”
“How do they know it was those rocks?”
“There were Gentry’s maps and diaries-none of which mention what happened to him and his brother, mind you, because the entries stop after they landed. But the Indians described the area perfectly, including the cliff paintings.” He paused. “There is at least one verifiable account from the nineteenth century of occurrences involving miners working up there, including one that dates from the early years of the Parr family-your family-buying the land and starting to develop it.
“In the 1895 instance, the miner in question disappeared. It was considered to be an accident, and the mining company was held liable. In another separate instance in 1902, a brawl apparently erupted underground between two of the men. One man killed the other with a rock and hid his body for three days before another member of the crew found it. They charged the miner in question-Rod MacNeil, I think his name was-with the murder. They hanged him in 1903, even though his lawyer argued at trial that he was insane. The body was described as ‘torn and plundered, as though by furious beasts.’
“And yes,” he added, winking. “That’s a direct quote from the
“Jesus,” Christina said in a hushed voice. “I had no idea. I grew up here all those years and didn’t have a clue about any of this.” She took another sip of her coffee. It was cold, so she put the cup down. “Is this what your father was studying in 1952?”
Billy laughed, a big full-hearted laugh that made Christina smile, and made a few of the other patrons of the cafe turn around to see what the ruckus was about. Billy waited until they’d turned back to their own companions before answering her. “No, he was studying the settlement itself, looking for artefacts,” he said. “My father had a great passion for that part of Canadian history. He always felt that the Jesuits, though well-intentioned, did a lot of damage when they arrived on these shores.”
“May I ask…” Christina began, then blushed. “I’m sorry, it’s too personal and invasive. I apologize. Never mind.”
“No,” he said kindly. “What is it?”
“Is that why… well, is that why your father adopted you? Because of what… well, because of history?”
Billy was quiet for a moment. Christina was sure she’d offended him and was ready to apologize again, and leave before she said anything else equally stupid. Then Billy said, “No, he adopted me because he loved me. Really. Don’t feel bad, it’s a natural question after what I just told you. Don’t worry about it. It’s OK.”
Christina was moved by the simple, unadorned love implicit in Billy’s statement. She thought of Jack and Morgan, naturally, and how much he’d loved his daughter. She looked down at the plain gold wedding band on her left hand and, when her eyes began to fill in a way that was becoming altogether too familiar and commonplace, she mentally shook her head,
“Oh, I really have to get going,” she said briskly, looking at her watch. “It’s later than I thought. Billy-thank you for the coffee. It’s so nice to speak to somebody from Toronto.”
He hesitated, then thought,
“Christina, do you think… I mean, would you like to have dinner sometime while I’m here? You know,” he said, “just to hear some more horrible Wendigo stories, if nothing else?”
“Billy-things aren’t very good at the house right now,” Christina said. She saw the disappointment in his face and kicked herself for being the cause of it. “My mother-in-law is a difficult woman.”
“I know,” he said. “I remember.”
“You remember?” She frowned. “What do you mean, you remember? You know my mother-in-law?”
“No, not personally,” he said. “But she gave my father a pretty hard time about permits in 1952, when he was setting it up. I know they spent some time together that summer at the beginning of the dig. He didn’t ever talk about it so I assume it was more of the same.”
“She’s not an easy woman to get along with. And we’re on tenterhooks up there at the house. My brother-in- law, Jeremy, has a difficult relationship with her, as well.”
“I understand,” Billy said, feeling embarrassed for having put her in the position of turning him down, let alone for having put himself out on a limb like this. “Don’t give it another thought.”
After they had shaken hands and parted, each went about their own particular business, Billy walking back to the motel to change into his hiking gear, and Christina aimlessly circling the town limits of Parr’s Landing in the Chevelle to delay her inevitable return to the house. Both were surprised that each could still feel the other’s hand
