LITMIR.BIZ

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at it, look for anything that might connect her to Whispers Island.”

      “Come to think of it, it was a short name,” Mother continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “English name. Started with a ‘w’ I believe. Yes, a ‘w’. Winter, Waters, something like that.”

      “Sounds like a good starting point. Let me know the minute you find anything.”

      “She went crazy, you know. Tried to drown herself in the lake, but was saved by one of those Indians. She spent several years in an asylum, so your grandfather said. She had another spell, shortly after you were born. This time that Indian woman looked after her.”

      “You mean, Whispering Pine?”

      “Whistling Tree, whatever, one of those silly Indian names.”

      “Enough, Mother.”

      “I’ll never understand how Agatha put up with that miserable woman. Why, she never said boo.”

      “You know full well Aunt Aggie couldn’t have survived without Whispering Pine.”

      “You’re just like Agatha. Care more about those wretched Indians than your own flesh and blood. Why Agatha treated—”

      “I said, enough.”

      “You’re just lucky you got Agatha’s money, not—”

      “Stop it. I suggest we end this call now.”

      It was all I could do not to slam the phone down. But I guess she was used to it. It was a frequent ending to our conversations.

      My heart went out to poor Aunt Aggie. Little wonder she was so sad. I should’ve guessed a man had been the cause.

      As I placed the photo back on the mantel, Sergei suddenly barked. I dropped it, and it smashed on the stone hearth, sending shards of glass in every direction. I tensed, waiting for Sergei to bark again. He didn’t, so I retrieved the damaged photo from the ground. As I lifted it from the frame, something other than glass floated to the ground.

      Sergei barked again, this time with real warning. Visions of stalking yellow pushed everything else from my mind. Sergei leapt to the window. For a moment, I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to know what was out there. Then, deciding I wouldn’t relax until I knew, I moved to the wall and poked my head around the window sash, careful to keep my body away from the window. The last thing I wanted to do was present a full frontal to this guy.

      I didn’t see anything, not even a hint of yellow. Sergei continued yelping at the door, so someone was out there. And then I saw a small dark shadow lumber slowly towards a tree on the edge of the light.

      “Damn you, Sergei! You didn’t have to scare me like that!” I threw a cushion at him. He continued barking, desperate to chase after the raccoon. I was afraid to let him out. Wait a minute, this was crazy. There was no one out there, except that stupid raccoon.

      I opened the door just enough to let Sergei get through and slammed it shut. He streaked across the driveway as the raccoon scurried up the trunk twitching his tail.

      This was absurd, letting my fears get the better of me. If I kept this up, I’d be packing my bags by the end of the week. I refused to let that happen. I would shove all thought of yellow from my mind and close my ears to strange sounds. I breathed deeply, counted slowly to twenty and let the air out. I felt better. I was going to conquer this fear of darkness for once and all.

      I swept up the splinters scattered over the floor and the carpet. I cut my finger on one and accidentally ground a few others into the hard maple flooring. This was obviously not one of my good nights. The sooner I retreated to bed, the better.

      After ensuring the doors were locked and the lights on, I started towards the bedroom. Then I remembered the object, which had escaped from the frame. I searched the hearth, where I thought it had landed, but found nothing. Nor did I find it on the floor. Deciding it was just a piece of backing that had become unstuck, I gave up and went to bed.

      TEN

      Next morning, I woke up to a hundred woodpeckers pounding my head, while my mouth tasted as if it had become the pit of Aunt Aggie’s old privy. I gingerly raised one heavy eyelid and snapped it shut when the morning sun flooded in. I was disgusted with myself. I’d given in. After lying wide-eyed awake for an hour the night before, jumping at every squeak and rustle, I’d run to my tonic and poured myself a hefty glassful, in fact several. At least, the vodka had done its job. It had put me to sleep, a state I’d just as soon return to right now.

      Why not? I had nothing planned for the morning. Eric and I weren’t going to Whispers Island until the afternoon. I rolled over and groaned. Not only was my head pounding, but my body, after yesterday’s encounter, felt as if a herd of caribou had trampled me.

      However, within seconds I was sitting up, staring at my clock. I’d forgotten Marie. Seven o’clock. If I didn’t go now, I wouldn’t find out what she wanted until the end of the day.

      So once again I found myself bumping along the dusty tree-lined road to Marie’s homestead. This time I drove more slowly, and not just with the interests of my truck in mind. The last thing my head or body needed was more pounding.

      And once again, the pile of wood in the middle of her lane prevented me from driving right to her cabin. I climbed out of my truck and walked along the strip of gravel between the logs and the bordering trees. On the other side of the wood pile, the sun was starting to melt a veneer of frost that coated each roughly sawed log. Flies, sparked by the warmth, buzzed in and out of the gaps. They swirled up as my shadow passed over, then settled back down again.

      I was amazed that Louis would be cutting firewood this late in the season. Even I, the city slicker, knew freshly cut wood required a summer to dry out, otherwise it would produce more smoke than heat. I supposed this only confirmed Eric’s low opinion of Louis. Just as leaving the wood in the middle of the road did.

      According to Eric—for Marie would never tell me—Louis wasn’t up to much. Other than tending his traplines in the bush or taking on the odd job as a hunting guide, Louis spent most of his time collapsed on the sofa with a bottle of piquette, the Quebecois version of moonshine. He preferred to live off the money Marie earned as a housekeeper or the benefits she could receive as a registered band member. Although Louis appeared to have some Indian blood, he wasn’t registered as one, and therefore was not entitled to band-specific social assistance.

      Eric acknowledged that she had at least had the smarts not to give up her status by marrying Louis. And even though the Indian Act had subsequently changed, she still hadn’t married him. On the other hand, Eric couldn’t understand why she stuck with him. Unfortunately, I could. I knew too well the vice-grip of a love-hate relation with a man who worked on all your insecurities to keep you grovelling at his feet.

      The front yard looked as if it suffered from the same lack of energy. That is, if you could call it a yard. It was really just a patch of dried weeds and dirt that had been hacked out of the surrounding bush. The rusted remains of several cars and a snowmobile were scattered amongst rotting tree stumps. At the far end, a canvas canoe with a gaping hole in its side was propped against a battered oil drum.

      Underneath the front windows of her log cabin, Marie had created a small strip of garden with the daisies and phlox I’d given her. I remembered the sparkle of life it had provided in the summer. Now it was faded to a few scraggly blooms and shrivelled stems that rustled in the faint autumn breeze.

      As I silently approached, the small, square cabin stared back at me, equally silent. No smoke rose from the blackened chimney. Under the weight of its rust-streaked metal roof, the cabin carried a look of defeat. Strips of bark were peeling from the cedar log walls. Not a single speck of paint graced the weathered exterior. But a spark of defiance at this surrender seemed to leap out from the two front windows that shimmered with a reflected sheen that only came from frequent polishing. Marie wasn’t going to give in.

      Not wanting to get splinters from the door’s rough wood, I knocked on its small pane

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