The Missing Skull

by John Wilson

  “Pulled pork at the Old Station it is,” Grandfather confirms. “My treat.”

  I stare through the windshield at the rolling farmland. It’s all so familiar. In a few minutes we’ll be in Barrie, where we usually stop to pick up supplies for a weekend at the cottage.

  I enjoy coming up here, especially in summer when we can go canoeing and swim off the dock. I also like walking on all the nearby trails, imagining that I’m an early explorer or a voyageur or a trapper. It takes a lot of imagination because it’s impossible to go far in cottage country without meeting owners out walking their dogs or running, but it gets me away from DJ. It’s not that I don’t like my brother—I’d do anything for him and he’d do the same for me—it’s just that I need a break from his organizing now and then.

  In fact, it was DJ who convinced Mom to let me go wandering off on the trails on my own. When I was eight or nine, I was always taking off. I never ran away. I just wanted to see what was behind those trees or over that hill or around the next corner. It drove Mom crazy, and it was DJ who calmed her down and convinced her I’d be okay as long as I stayed on the trails. He even got Grandfather to find me a trail map and teach me how to read it so that I wouldn’t get lost.

  It’s bit strange going up here without DJ and Mom or a selection of the cousins. I daydream through Barrie and well north as the landscape becomes more rugged and we flash past outcrops of broken rock. I must doze off, because I am jerked awake when we turn onto the dirt road to the lake.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Grandfather says as we pull up to the cottage and he steps out.

  I climb out of the Jeep and stretch. The sun is high, and the lake sparkles. A breeze rustles the trees above me and powers a couple of windsurfers out on the water. I idly kick at a few fallen branches and circle the Jeep a few times. Then I wander down past the cottage toward the dock. As I draw level with the woodpile I hear voices.

  “This is going to be more complicated than you think,” a woman says. “The plan is good, but if something goes wrong, I’m going to need more help.”

  My curiosity is piqued when I hear Grandfather’s voice. “Do what you need to do. I’ll sort it all out, and Carl will be there to help.”

  I round the woodpile and see Grandfather talking to a woman. He has his back to me, and the woman is facing me. She’s dressed in cargo pants and a red blouse, has long fair hair tied in a ponytail and looks surprised when I appear. She recovers quickly, and her face breaks into a broad smile. “Hello,” she says.

  Grandfather turns. He looks concerned for a moment, but then his face relaxes and he says, “Sorry I’m taking so long, Steve. This is Sophie. She and her husband, Carl, live here year round, and I pay them to look after the cottage in winter, clear snow and so forth. I’m just making sure that everything is in order in case winter comes early this year.”

  Sophie says, “Good to meet you, Steve.”

  “Are you heading down to the dock?” Grandfather asks.

  “Yeah, just stretching my legs,” I say.

  “Don’t go far,” he says. “I’m almost done here. I just have to grab something from inside and then we can be on our way.”

  “Okay. Nice to meet you.” I nod to Sophie and continue down to the dock. It’s one of my favorite spots. I love to sit on the end, surrounded by the lake, listening to the waves lap at my feet and the loons call out on the water. This time I sit and stare back at the cottage. Something is bothering me about what I’ve just seen.

  Grandfather is still in animated conversation with Sophie. A movement at the edge of the trees catches my eye. There’s someone there. I can’t see him clearly in the shadow of the trees, but I know it’s a guy. He’s tall and broad across the shoulders. His head looks shaved, and I think I see camouflage pants and a dark shirt. I wonder if it’s Sophie’s husband, Carl. He turns his back and moves farther into the shadows. Sophie says something to Grandfather and moves off to join the stranger, reinforcing my thought that it must be Carl. The pair move off along the lakeshore. Grandfather waves at me and heads around to the front door.

  As I watch the figures disappear through the trees, I remember what’s bothering me. Last year there was more snow than usual around Christmas, and we had to postpone a planned winter trip to the cottage. Grandfather came to visit us instead, and Mom asked if the cottage would be okay. Grandfather had said he was sure it would be because Bill always did such a good job of looking after it. Bill, not Carl or Sophie.

  I walk back up to the cottage and peer in the side window. Grandfather’s standing beside the fireplace, staring at the woodpile beside it. I walk around to the front. The door’s ajar, so I push it open and walk in. Grandfather spins around, looking startled, but he recovers quickly, stuffing what looks like a small envelope into his jacket pocket. “I think I heard a rat in the woodpile,” he explains, speaking rapidly. “I’ll have to get Carl to put some poison down. Just give me a minute and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Sure,” I say as Grandfather scans the bookshelves on the other side of the fireplace. “What happened to Bill?” I ask.

  Grandfather’s hand pauses on the way to the bookshelf. “Bill?”

  “Wasn’t it someone called Bill who looked after the cottage when there was all that snow last winter?”

  “Oh, Bill.” Grandfather relaxes and pulls a book off the shelf. “He’s going down to Arizona this winter, so I had to get Carl and Sophie. That’s what I was talking to her about—just making sure they know what to do.” He holds up the book, a hardcover that looks as old as the one he gave me. “This is what I was looking for.”

  I get a quick glimpse of a clenched fist in front of a ruined building. “It’s called Homage to Catalonia,” Grandfather tells me as he lowers the book. “It’s written by George Orwell, one of my favorite authors. I read this long ago and thought I’d enjoy rereading it on this trip. It’s about some time Orwell spent in a war in Spain back in the 1930s. You might enjoy reading it when you’re a bit older. Now, let’s hit the road and get some lunch.”

  Grandfather heads for the door, and I follow. What he said about Bill going south makes sense—lots of snowbirds head to Florida or Arizona for the winter—but I still have questions. Grandfather is behaving oddly. Normally he’s incredibly calm, but I’ve surprised him twice since we got here. Also, what’s so interesting about the woodpile, and what’s in the envelope in his pocket?

  FOUR

  After the best pulled-pork sandwiches in Ontario, followed by a dish of Rocky Road ice cream, we drive north for almost two hours. There’s plenty to see—trees, trees, rocks, trees, a bit of water, trees, rocks, trees and more trees. Eventually, we turn off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road. On our left I get glimpses of a lake and some really fancy houses. I’m certainly up for staying in one of those places, but we turn onto a rough track so narrow that the bushes brush the sides of the Jeep and the trees form a solid canopy above us. “This wouldn’t even show up on Google Maps,” I comment.

  “That’s right,” Grandfather agrees. “We’ve dropped right off the radar out here.”

  I don’t find this comment comforting but don’t get a chance to ask anything more as we bump around a corner and into a small clearing beside a lake. In the middle sits a cabin. Well, calling it a cabin is being polite. The toolshed at Grandfather’s cottage is bigger than this place—and in much better shape.

  The walls are roughhewn interlocking logs with what looks like dirt stuffed between them. I think the roof ’s made from wood shingles, but it’s hard to be sure through the thick moss. There’s a lean-to sheltering a woodpile on one side of the house, and a stone chimney on the other. The chimney’s easily the most solid-looking thing about the cabin. It’ll probably be here long after the rest of the place has rotted away, which, judging by the sagging front porch, won’t be long from now.

  “It’s old,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “More than a hundred years old,” Grandfather says. “It was or
iginally a trapper’s cabin. It’s been here since before this became a park.”

  “Park?” I ask.

  “We’re in Algonquin Park,” he tells me. “It’s Canada’s oldest provincial park. It was established in 1893.”

  “And we’re going to stay in a cabin that’s older than that?” I ask, horrified at the thought.

  “A chance to live like your ancestors did,” Grandfather says, sounding way happier than I am about the prospect. “Don’t worry—the park administration took the cabin over as a ranger station and upgraded it. They rent it out.”

  Probably not for very much, I think. “When was it upgraded, the 1950s?”

  Grandfather chuckles and opens the driver’s door. “Let’s get in and get settled.” He scans the sky. “I think there might be a storm brewing. We can get a fire going later and toast some marshmallows.”

  I sit and watch Grandfather head for the cabin. This isn’t what I expected. It’s more like a survival course than anything else. Maybe Port Hope would have been better. I flip my phone open to send Sam a text. There are no bars. “No cell phone reception,” I say out loud. This is getting positively Dark Ages. I’ll catch the Black Death or something—and there’s probably not even an indoor toilet. I stare miserably at the cabin. Toasting marshmallows! Does Grandfather think I’m still six? I sigh and get out of the Jeep. It’s going to be a long few days.

  I walk past the cabin, which looks sturdier close up, and down to the lakeshore. I groan inwardly as I notice an outhouse in the trees. There’s no dock, but the clearing slopes gradually into the water, which laps up onto a line of pebbles. An upturned canoe has been dragged into the trees. I can see a couple of islands out on the lake, and the trees of the far shore. The water looks gray and cold and stretches away to my right and left. The sky is dark and threatening in the distance, and the water is choppy away from the shore. Just as I’m thinking that Grandfather was right about a storm coming, I hear the first long roll of thunder echo down the lake. A few large raindrops rustle the foliage around me and splat onto the shore at my feet. Great. Now we’ll be trapped in the cabin and not even able to go canoeing or walking. I kick a stone into the water and turn back to the cabin.

  I’ve only taken a couple of steps when a loud crack from the trees over by the outhouse freezes me in place. I think, bear. No, I think, BEAR!!!! and spin around.

  It’s getting darker by the minute as the thunderheads roll in, so I have only a vague impression of a big dark shape lumbering into the gloom along the shore between the closely packed trees. I don’t run to the cabin, but I walk very fast, glancing often over my shoulder.

  As soon as I’m safely inside, I blurt out, “There’s a bear out there.”

  “Almost certainly,” Grandfather says in an annoyingly calm voice. He’s by the fireplace, breaking sticks for kindling.

  “It was over by the outhouse. I heard a noise and saw a shape moving away through the trees.” “Are you certain it was a bear? We often see what we expect to see.”

  I think back. True, I had panicked at the noise, and the first thing I thought was bear, but the shadow in the trees had been vague, just a large shape. It could have been a hunched-over man in a big coat. Now I am getting paranoid. If I go on imagining mysterious people lurking in the darkness, I’m not going to have the courage to use the outhouse. “I’m pretty sure it was a bear,” I say.

  Grandfather nods. “It was probably just curious. There are lots of bears in the park, but if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you. You just need to be careful to be tidy and keep all food and garbage out of reach. Attacks are very rare.”

  Very rare is more than one, so I don’t feel encouraged. Grandfather must see the worry on my face, because he stands up and moves over to the rough wooden table beside what passes for a kitchen. “This place is full of history,” he says.

  I join him. Here come the stories, I think.

  “We’re on Canoe Lake, where Tom Thomson died in 1917.” Grandfather pauses and looks at me expectantly.

  “Who’s Tom Thomson?” I ask.

  “A famous Canadian artist,” Grandfather tells me. “You’ve heard of the Group of Seven?”

  I shake my head and Grandfather sighs the way he does when he can’t understand how I know so little. “The Group of Seven defined Canadian art in the 1920s and ’30s. They traveled all over the country and painted the Canadian landscape like no one else ever had.”

  “And this Tom Thomson was one of them?” I ask.

  “No,” Grandfather says. “The group wasn’t formed until 1920, and Thomson was dead by then, but he was friends with many of them and influenced their styles. He died under mysterious circumstances while out canoeing on this lake.”

  “Mysterious circumstances?” I’m being drawn into the story despite myself. Outside, the rain is getting heavier, and the rising wind is rustling the trees.

  “He went out fishing in his canoe, and his body was found eight days later.”

  “So he fell out of his canoe and drowned,” I say. “Where’s the mystery in that?”

  “That was the official story,” Grandfather continues, “but if he drowned, why was there no water in his lungs? If he fell out of his canoe, why was there fishing line tied around his legs? Why was his canoe paddle never found either in the canoe or floating nearby? What caused the bruising on the left side of his head?”

  Grandfather sits back and smiles at me.

  “So what really happened?” I ask as the questions rush around my brain.

  Grandfather shrugs. “Accident? Suicide? Murder? Who knows?” He leans forward and stares at me intently. “Perhaps it wasn’t a bear you saw by the outhouse.”

  The windows rattle in a strong gust of wind. It’s getting dark in the cabin, and Grandfather’s smile is starting to look increasingly creepy.

  “What do you mean, not a bear?” I ask. This isn’t helping my anticipation of a trip to the outhouse.

  Grandfather speaks quietly, forcing me to lean in closer to hear what he’s saying. “Some folks hereabouts,” he says slowly, “claim they’ve seen Thomson’s ghost.” The windows rattle extra loudly, and something bangs against the outside of the cabin, making me jump. “They say the ghost won’t rest until the mystery is solved and the person responsible for Tom Thomson’s murder is punished.”

  FIVE

  The storm is violent but it’s over quickly. While Grandfather brings in wood from the pile outside and builds up the fire, I look around the cabin. It doesn’t take long. There’s only the main room and two tiny bedrooms at the back, each barely large enough for a single bed, small table and closet.

  The main room has a loveseat and a couple of chairs arranged around a low table in front of the fireplace. There’s a collection of about a dozen tattered paperback books on the mantel. Opposite, there are four rough chairs around the table, a countertop with a washbasin, assorted plates, a two-burner propane stove and a row of hooks with pots and pans and kitchen utensils hanging from them. Several framed photographs of the lake, some of which look quite old, hang on what open wall space there is. There’s also a Google Earth image that shows part of the lakeshore with what I presume is our cabin marked with a red circle. We seem to be right at the beginning of a row of much bigger cabins and empty lots.

  When the rain eases, we bring our packs, the cooler and the boxes of food in from the Jeep and heat up some chili. As we wait for supper, Grandfather tidies up, straightening the pictures on the walls, adjusting the dishes, even sorting the dog-eared books on the mantel.

  “I like to keep my books tidy,” he says over his shoulder. “Alphabetical by author, a at the beginning and z at the end. That way I always know where to find my favorite authors.”

  I’ve always known Grandfather can be annoyingly tidy, but this borders on obsessive—and how many books is he planning to read while we’re here? I don’t say anything though.

  As we eat, Grandfather tells me more about the mystery of Tom Thomson.
“Thomson was an experienced canoeist and outdoorsman, so an accident seems unlikely.”

  “Maybe he killed himself deliberately,” I suggest.

  “Suicide’s a theory, but he left no note, didn’t seem unhappy and took supplies of food with him. And how did he get the bruise on his head? Did he hit himself with a rock?”

  “If his death wasn’t an accident or suicide,” I say, mopping up the last of my chili with a piece of bread, “it must have been murder, so who killed him?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Grandfather says. “There were rumors that Tom was engaged to a local girl and that she was pregnant. This would have upset and annoyed her family, but enough to kill Tom?

  “Also, the night before he disappeared, Tom apparently had an argument with a local man, Shannon Fraser. Fraser later said he helped Tom go out the day he died, so he had opportunity. Fraser was an unpleasant man who was disliked by many, including Tom’s fiancée and the local park ranger.

  “Alternatively, there was a lot of game poaching going on in the park, and poachers might have reacted violently if Tom ran into them. There was also a railway line that ran through the park, carrying soldiers off to the First World War. Sometimes these men deserted, and they wouldn’t want to be caught.”

  “So the murderer was someone in the fiancée’s family, the unpleasant Shannon Fraser, a poacher or an army deserter.”

  “Those are the main suspects,” Grandfather agrees.

  “It’s like the game of Clue,” I say with a laugh. “I think it was Unpleasant Fraser in the Parlor with the Poker.”

  “You might not be too far off the truth,” Grandfather says. “One story that’s been suggested is that Fraser punched Tom during their argument, and Tom fell and hit his head on the fire grate. Either he died right away and Fraser dumped the body next day, or Tom died the next day from bleeding in the brain.”

  “That sounds like the most reasonable theory. Have we solved the mystery?”