Out of the Mist (24 page)

They looked up as car headlights bobbed up
the lane, punctuated by sounds of a struggling engine and tell-tale
clatter of loose stones.

“
Finally,” Perley mumbled.
Twilight was fast approaching

Andy stepped forward as Charlie pulled up
and shut off the engine. When he got out, he glanced from one to
another, seeking an explanation to his sudden summons.

“
Well,” said Joe, “we’d
better fill in Charlie on why we asked him for his help. It’s
getting dark and we need to get going. Andy?” Joe directed his gaze
at the tall, stoop-shouldered farmer.

Andy cleared his throat and looked at the
ground, avoiding the other men’s eyes.

“
I found somethin’ in the
woods.” He paused. The men waited for Andy to continue. They knew
better than to rush him through a story.

“
Me and Ike here,” he
indicated with a nod the black Lab at his feet, which looked up at
him with a brief tail thump at the sound of his name. “Me and Ike
were out looking for Roxy, my heifer. She gets out of the pasture
every so often, and she went missing this afternoon. We set off for
the thicket near the brook, where Roxy likes to hide herself. She
sometimes gets into trouble in the swampy spots. I took this rope
along to pull her out in case she was stuck.”

“
We were almost to the
brook where it comes down from the old quarry, when he started
growling and snapping his teeth. Now, Ike never does that with
Roxy. He knows his job, to sniff her out and wait for me to lead
her back.” Andy tapped the coiled rope against his leg. The men
waited.

“
All I had with me was
this here rope. I never thought of takin’ the .22. It’s been years
since that cougar sighting. Ike knows to steer clear of skunks and
porcupines, so this was strange. I didn’t know what was up with
him.” Andy cleared his throat again, unused to such a long
speech.

“
Ike kept up his growlin’
and pointed his nose at the dense brush around that huge old oak
tree. He and I started over, slow-like, Ike growling the whole
time, takin’ care not to make too much noise in the brush. Just
when we got close, Ike started to barking, short sharp barks. I
haven’t heard him bark like that since, well, since the whole herd
got out through the broken fence, about five years ago.”

“
Well,
then
what? What was it?” Perley couldn’t help
himself.

“
Shush,” said Joe. Perley
shushed.

Andy said slowly, “Well, it wasn’t a cougar.
I saw something blue, and something else, whitish.” He paused for a
second. “No animal I know is that colour. So, I took firm hold of
Ike’s collar and we pushed through the undergrowth until we got to
the old oak. That’s when I saw it.”

“
It?” squeaked
Perley.

“
Shush, Perley! Let Andy
finish!” Charlie spoke for the first time.

“
I hope to never see that
sight again.” Andy shook his head from side to side, and brought
his hand up to his hat as he told them about his
discovery.

***

Doc tightened his grip on the black bag.
Charlie let out a low gasp and Perley a louder, “Ohhh,” as if he’d
been punched in the gut. Joe Peary stood motionless before speaking
slowly and firmly in his deliberate, calm manner.

“
Okay. Now you know what
we’re here for. Andy did the right thing—he went straight back to
the house and called me. Then I got hold of Doc and Perley. Perley,
do you have those tarps in your truck?”

Perley nodded. “Yes, sir.
Always keep extra ones, just in case….” His voice trailed off,
momentarily and uncommonly at a loss for words.

“
Doc, you know what needs
to be done. You and I are doing the police work on this. I got hold
of the station sergeant up in Yarmouth; their men are tied up with
a case and can’t get here. Andy, you and Charlie and I will be the
muscles. We’ll need a knife, more rope and a lantern.” Andy
disappeared into the barn.

“
Now, we’d better get
going, or it’ll be dark before we get there. Doc, you and Charlie
ride up in the cab with Perley. Andy and I’ll climb in the back.
We’ll take the truck up the quarry road as far as she’ll go, then
walk the rest of the way.”

Andy reappeared with the requested items
plus a pair of black rubber boots. “These here should fit the Doc,”
he said. “He’ll need them where we’re going.” Andy called to Ike,
bent and lifted him into the truck bed. They all climbed in.

“
I told Mae to keep the
children inside,” said Andy.

“
Good idea,” said
Joe.

Not one of the men uttered the thoughts
foremost in their minds, as the truck crept along the narrow,
rutted cart track. They realized their task would be grim, and
Joe’s even more so.

The diminishing evening light made the
underbrush blacker and impenetrable to the naked eye. Branches
scraped eerily along the truck sides, causing Perley to wince
slightly as he navigated the ruts in the gathering dusk. Each man
thought about their families and about the children who played
innocently in these woods, silently grateful that it was Andy and
his dog who had chanced upon their grisly discovery.

Perley braked, ground the gears and silenced
the engine.

“
This is as far as she’ll
go,” he declared. “Out we get.”

The men clambered out, gathering up the
tarps, tools and rope. Andy grabbed the lantern, patting his breast
pocket for matches. Doc stooped to pull on the boots, which came up
to his knees.

“
Andy, you lead with Ike.
We’ll fall in behind. Remember, no one touch anything when we get
there, until Doc Johnson has a look.”

The men nodded grimly, resigned to their
mission, not questioning Joe’s leadership.

“
Let’s get this
done.”

After their journey into the woods, the
lantern-led procession arrived back at the farmhouse to be met by a
policeman who’d finally arrived after confusing directions sent him
onto wrong turns on country lanes in the dark. His black and white
cruiser seemed out of place beside the barn. Mercifully, it had
been camouflaged by nightfall as it navigated the steep lane. Joe
Peary was relieved to see the uniformed officer, which meant that
his responsibility was lightened and shared. After they transferred
their burden from Perley’s truck to the accompanying hearse,
protocol was followed, details re-told and forms were
completed.

Scene Four –
Reunion

The forlorn little group
gathered beside the open grave, weak sunlight shining on their
bowed heads. Falling leaves drifted to lie gently on the
still-green grass, dropped to the mound of fresh earth, and
alighted on polished granite headstones. On the perimeter of the
scene, the undertaker waited respectfully beside his vehicle.
Farther away stood the caretaker, hat in one hand, shovel in the
other.

Jimmy stood beside his
father, Joe Peary and Andy Murray, apart from the grieving parents.
He watched the husband in his grey Sunday suit, hat clutched to his
chest, his arm around his wife’s shoulders. The faint words of the
minister reached his ears, “...dust to dust...,” a sanitized
version of death’s immediate aftermath. What his father and the
other men had discovered had been transitioned to a stark rectangle
cut sharply into the earth.

For once, Charlie had overruled his wife’s
protests, allowing Jimmy to accompany him to the graveside service.
They were the only attendants at this sad farewell. Their wives
stayed at home and prepared small offerings of comfort—covered
casseroles and collections of sweets on china plates—to take to the
couple later on.

Jimmy thought about his
dad and the other men, and what they’d found. He wondered exactly
what had happened, since his father did not tell him the
details.
Nor would
he
, thought Jimmy. His imagination
tried to fill in the gaps in what he knew. For the first time in
his life, he allowed himself to wonder what it was like for grown
men to be fathers and to know other men who had lost their
sons.

Jimmy noticed a small tree
nearby; it was an oak sapling, rare for this part of the county. He
and his buddies had climbed the big oak tree near the quarry
countless times. The woods near the old quarry were not far from
where they stood in the cemetery glade.
As
the crow flies…,
thought Jimmy.

As the group dispersed, Jimmy wandered away
from the older men. He avoided looking at the deep hole or at the
heavy casket, and tried not to notice the caretaker preparing to
shovel the displaced earth into the open grave. He looked for the
exact spot he’d been a few nights previously. He hadn’t told his
father about what had happened in the car that night, because he
wasn’t sure how to explain what they had seen.

He edged closer to the
headstones on the far side of the new grave and tried to read the
inscriptions on the two identical stones. He glanced at his father,
who was engrossed in a conversation with the other men. He stooped
and noticed that one stone was engraved with a military cross, plus
a name and dates. The other stone bore the same last name, and only
the years of birth and death.
What a short
life
, he thought.
He wasn’t much older than I am
.
There was no stone yet for the newest grave. He’d overheard his
dad’s comments to his mom after he returned from the farm that
night. They spoke in hushed tones of shock and sadness, the words,
“...a horrible tragedy....” barely audible.

Gravestones tell only part
of the story
. Jimmy figured that the older
people in the community knew all about family histories, or thought
they did. Secrets can outwit the cloak of night in small
communities, seep over telephone lines, and root in neighbours’
houses, accumulating truths and half-truths along the
way.

He thought about the two
ghostly figures he and Marie had seen.
Perhaps at night, when the cemetery was once again peopled by
ethereal beings, they get together to take inventory and meet up at
the most recent graves to share tidbits of ghostly
gossip
. He could almost hear them
saying,
“Did ya hear about this one? They
said he was a handsome young devil, but up to no good. Too bad, so
sad, he shoulda known better. He coulda been someone! Ha! Well, at
least they’re all together now, toes up and all that. See y’all
next moonrise!”
The imagining
helped
divert his thoughts away from the
open grave and its new occupant.

Jimmy didn’t know how
eerily accurate this was. Late that night, long after the cars had
left and the cemetery was quiet, a dense milky mist crept through
the thickets, entwining threadlike wisps around the little sapling,
creating floating wreaths around the pinnacles of ornate tombs.
Gradually, two wavering figures took shape, one in a type of
uniform, the other in ordinary work clothes. Instead of gazing at
the ground below, they appeared to be chatting together. The mist
swirled at their feet, rising into a third shape, shorter than the
other two, clad in a loose shirt and dungarees, a cap perched on
the back of his head. These three hovered for a while above the two
older graves and the mound of earth topped by fresh flowers, and
chuckled together, as if sharing a joke or funny story.

Not that there was anyone there to see.

~~~***~~~

Never Go Across to that
Island

Tom
Robson

I can’t remember a summer
I didn’t visit my grandfather’s cottage. I still go there, even
though it’s been years since he died. The cottage has lots of
memories, but the one I will never forget happened on a hot, August
day, when I was 14.

Mom, Dad, and Grandpa had
gone into town. My sister, who was 15 and never missed a chance to
go shopping, went with them. I was supposed to go, but I persuaded
Grandpa and Mom that it was safe to leave me alone; I would be
careful and wouldn’t do anything wrong, foolish, or dangerous. I
would have promised them anything to get out of a boring
15-kilometre trip to the three-aisle supermarket and on to the
hardware store.

But I soon discovered it was just as boring
back at the cottage when I couldn’t go near the lake, or ride
grandpa’s ATV, or go through the woods to the top of the bluff. Of
course, there was no television out there, and computers and phones
were a long way from being today’s electronic devices. Grandpa’s
old dog wouldn’t even wake up to play with me.

I walked down to the dock and gazed across
the lake. I dared not go out in the boat with the outboard, but
what harm was there in going for a paddle in grandpa’s canoe? I
would wear a lifejacket and I was used to paddling it alone. No one
would know. The sun was shining; there was no wind and there were
very few clouds in the sky. It was great paddling weather.

I grabbed a lifejacket and the paddle
Grandpa had made for me. I put a bottle of water and some cookies
in my backpack. I had at least two hours before the family came
back and, besides, I wasn’t going far.

I locked the cottage, hid the key in its
usual place, and began a trip I wish I had never taken.

Once in the canoe, I had my second foolish
idea. Grandpa had always said, “Never, ever go to that island just
off Beaver Point.” I’d heard that said to every visitor, kids and
adults, every year, at least four times a year. The explanation was
that it “isn’t safe! In fact it is really dangerous there!” Grandpa
said it was haunted. His stories would have you believe that the
ghost of Silas the Miser, who had lived on the island for years,
and who had died there, kept people from finding his hoard of
money. He also claimed that the island was booby trapped.