Mosquitoes of Summer

by Julianna Kozma

  “Mom, we’re going to go look at some kittens at a neighbour’s, but we’ll be back soon,” yelled Hannah, fast disappearing around the house with Lucy and Emily.

  “Do you have the tape recorder?” Lucy asked.

  “Yes, and some paper and pencils for all of us, if we need them.”

  “I’ll draw a map of Mr. Simpson’s house and the road and whatever he saw. I’m good at that,” said Emily, eagerly balancing on her tip-toes.

  Hannah gave Emily a queer look, but realized that it was better to keep her sister busy with small tasks. A pencil in her hand had a strangely calming effect on her hyper sibling. Bouncing along the road, the older girls followed Emily as they quickly made their way to Simpson’s house.

  When they caught up to Emily, Hannah pulled her aside and said, “If Mom asks, the kittens were adorable and you want one, OK?”

  Emily stuck that tongue out again. “I’m not dumb, you know. We’re undercover detectives and we can’t let anyone know what we’re doing. And by the way, I want the black one with white spots. OK?”

  Simpson’s house, a bright yellow clapboard, had one of the finest views in French River, a fact he never tired of repeating to anyone he met. It was ideally situated overlooking the picturesque French River Harbour, one of the most photographed locations in PEI. Rustic and multi-coloured fishing shanties of red, blue and green crowded together alongside a small pier and neat piles of lobster traps greeted tourists.

  The man of the hour was sitting outside his porch, mending one of the many fishing nets lying at his feet.

  “How was the fishing this morning Mr. Wayne?”

  Turning a squinty-eyed look on Lucy, Simpson nodded slowly and said that the fishing was just fine.

  “Water was calm, and that were a big help in bringing up the nets, it was,” he replied. “And who have you brought along with you today missy Lucy? Scallywags to 36 help me unload the boat? They don’t look like much.”

  Lucy ignored the subtle hint of work, and got right down to the reason of their visit.

  “Remember the night of the storm when the wreck washed up on Arrowhead? My friends want to hear all about it. Hannah’s writing a story for her school’s creative writing club and could use some ideas.”

  “What you want to hear? I got loads of stories, but whatever happened that night remains a mystery to me,” said Simpson. “Mind you there’s not much to tell.” He sat back in his straight-backed wooden chair and let the net fall at his feet. He folded his arms across his narrow chest, and began his tale. He loved an audience.

  “The night was wild. Everyone was inside, as they should be, me included. Storms like this are not good omens. The sea was angry, and was punishing the earth. Maybe it resented all the fish and like that we took from her. Lots of things get washed up on shore after weather like this. So I was not surprised that the wreck was there the next day. Many things got torn from the depths of the Gulf that night. Maybe even that mermaid in Malpeque.”

  The girls exchanged amused looks. Mermaids? Then, in a much less dramatic fashion, Simpson continued his story.

  “What did surprise me was seeing someone out in weather like this. He must have been crazy. He was coming down this here road, and passed right in front of my window. Came from up there,” said Simpson, pointing up the road. “Up from Arrowhead. Nothing much out that way except woods, sand and water. No houses so no neighbours to visit. My guess is he was an eager-beaver beachcomber.”

  Hannah frowned. If it was a dark and stormy night, how could Simpson see anything? She voiced her doubts and then fiddled with the tape recorder as Simpson turned his eyes on her.

  “Dearie, see that there light next to the red fishing shanty,” he growled, pointing straight ahead and across the road. Perched on the corner of the roof, a round aluminum umbrella sheltered a light bulb, and it was aimed on the road. “We call it Little Mabel because it was the now late Mabel Higgins who first suggested we put it up, God rest her snooty soul. It lights up the whole road and part of the harbour. Helps me keep an eye on things at night, if you get my meaning.”

  They didn’t.

  “Can you describe him?” asked Hannah after a slight pause, glancing at Emily’s ‘map.’ She could recognize the road, and the fishing shanty, but that stick figure was a bit troubling. It looked like it was fishing. Scratching her head, Hannah wondered what exactly Emily was looking at?

  “Well, he looked like he had dark hair, but that was hard to tell since he was soaked. Had no umbrella you see. Anyways, he had this long raincoat, some dark brown or green in colour. It was them fancy kinds that you would wear to church. He was carrying a lantern. Not a flashlight. He was tall. And he moved kinda fast, not like a real old-timer. Wasn’t fat either.”

  Pencil poised in the air, Emily asked if the mysterious stranger was carrying anything.

  “Nothing that I could make out other than that lantern,” said Simpson, shaking his head. “However, now that I think about it, I must say that his other hand was hugged to his chest, real tight like, as if he had something under his coat that he didn’t want to fall out.”

  The girls quickly looked at each other, clearly excited by this little tidbit of information. Treasure! Always thinking ahead, Lucy said, “Maybe he found one of the stray kittens that Mrs. Wilson takes care of.” She hoped it was enough to draw Simpson’s attention away from her juicy idea.

  “Perhaps,” nodded Simpson. “Them darn cats are everywhere. Agatha needs to stop feeding those beasts. They’re overrunning French River. Nasty creatures.”

  Emily shot Simpson a dirty look. In return, Hannah’s foot shot out and booted her sister in the butt, silencing her from any further comment.

  Oblivious to this episode of sisterly love, Simpson picked up his net and went back to work, tying the loose and frayed ends. It was obvious he had no more to say on the matter. The girls thanked him for his time, and made their way back up the road.

  Emily’s map was interesting. Birds flew in the sky, trees grew in the water, and boats floated on land. “File it away for future reference when they decide to take a trip to Wacky Ville,” sighed Hannah.

  “Obviously someone was at the beach. And they were desperate enough to go out in that kind of weather. They must have seen the wreck first, knew what they were looking for, and found it. We need to find out what that was,” said Lucy.

  “Why?” asked Emily.

  “Because whatever it was, they took it without permission,” Lucy patiently lectured. “Archaeologists and scientists like to study these things. If it was an important ‘relic’ it needs to be in a museum. That way everyone can see it. Pirates steal. I think he’s a modern day pirate, plundering treasure from shipwrecks.”

  Tucking away their detective kits in pockets and purses, the girls headed back to the Buzzel House, eager to start on the next part of their adventure.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ARROW HEAD

  Tales of shipwrecks and hidden treasure have fascinated both young and old since time immemorial. Stories of boats lost at sea and mysterious disappearances of crew or cargo have been a vital part of the island’s storytelling repertoire. And much to the delight of the girls, many of the rotting remains of ships of all shapes and sizes, sunken skeletons of wood and metal, lay scattered deep within the clear waters of PEI.

  “Scarier yet are the whispers from the ghosts of lost souls who roam aimlessly along the coast’s beaches and burial grounds,” intoned Lucy, trying to set the mood. The girls eagerly made their way down the winding path that led to Arrowhead beach, with their parents trailing not far behind. “There it is, off to the left. Last one there is a square!”

  Although not one of the more popular areas for sunken ships, French River had unusual currents that swept in and out of the small bay located off to the right of Arrowhead Beach. These same currents that tragically drowned unsuspecting swimmers often also deposited an abundance of artifacts for those knowing where to look.

  Lucy’s
family had been coming down for years now, wading through the shallow shore during low tide, searching for artifacts from these ancient shipwrecks. Shards of pottery, broken old medicine bottles, rusted square-peg nails and small pieces of Blue Willow china filled their buckets whenever they combed the beach. Never in their wildest dreams though did the girls expect something bigger than those trinkets to wash in.

  Just past the grassy dunes, all three girls came to a sudden stop.

  “Wow,” they said in unison and with varying degrees of emotion:

  Reverential: “It’s beautiful,” gasped Hannah.

  Relieved: “It’s still here,” said Lucy.

  Disappointed: “It’s dirty,” stated Emily.

  Indeed, the old wreck was still in the same position since its unexpected landing that stormy April night. Staff from the PEI Museum & Heritage Foundation had secured it with giant pegs nailed down into the sand, hoping to prevent it from being washed back out by rogue waves. So far, so good.

  The museum claimed that the 700-kilogram treasure from the past looked to be old timbers fashioned with hand tools and put together with wooden pegs. These were sure signs that the wreck was not of modern origin, thought Hannah.

  Gazing down at the 10 meter-long wooden structure, the three girls let their imaginations run wild. Emily first thought of ghosts. Then she imagined a clawed hand poking out from underneath the bottom edge of the plank nearest her foot. Jumping clear across the sand and Hannah’s feet, she splashed into a pool of water and face planted. Safe, at least! Imagination had to have its limits, she thought.

  “This might be the remains of a pirate ship,” cried Hannah. “I just love pirate stories. I have so many books at home. Did you know that according to some legends there was even a woman pirate? Her name was Arabella Drummond and the ship was called the Bold Adventure. And there were rumours that she sailed near the coast of Newfoundland. Maybe she came here too. You never know!”

  “Hannah, you’re babbling,” cautioned Lucy, the calm and analytical one of the bunch, as their parents caught up with them. “Get a hold of yourself. This isn’t a pirate ship. But maybe it’s one of those tall ships that came looking for the New World.”

  “Actually, Mr. Rousseau from the museum told us that he suspects this piece may have broken loose following erosion near a breakwater in Cavendish,” explained Roger. Lucy’s dad was like a walking encyclopedia, but with a great sense of humour. “The violence of the April storm was the last straw and the wreck was finally pulled off its resting place. Then it got caught up in the immense currents of the sea.

  “Storms are a part of life here on the island, and there is a good chance we might see more artifacts like this coming ashore,” he continued. “This piece probably came from a ship that was lost at sea during the Yankee Gale. A hundred years ago there was no regulated PEI fishing industry like today. Back then anyone could come from anywhere and fish here, and then take away whatever they hauled in. A fleet of American boats was fishing off the waters of the island when the storm came in, crushing them.”

  Hannah remembered reading somewhere that one of the most tragic of all marine disasters in PEI was the Yankee Gale of 1881. On the afternoon of Friday, October 3rd, the weather was ideal. The cold had not yet set in and the sea was calm. As the day came to an end however, local islanders began to worry. Skies to the north and north-west began to darken ominously and a violent gale arose.

  Much to the horror of everyone, this wind stuck around for two days. By the time it abated, over 100 boats from the New England fishing fleet were destroyed or damaged, and hundreds of people were reported dead or missing. Many of the area’s graveyards became the final resting place for the dead sailors.

  The August Gale was another fierce storm that swept the area on August 24, 1873. Within a few hours the evening temperature dropped from a comfortable 21 degrees Celsius to a chilly 8 degrees. Along with the cold came violent winds and heavy rains. The sea was a mess, and once again many boats and lives were lost.

  It was hard for the girls to imagine that the sea in which they swam could be so dangerous. The horrors of death were so remote to them. Shipwrecks happened to someone else, long ago, and were exciting. Still, Hannah was troubled as she gazed down at the scarred hull of the boat. Living people actually fished on this boat, just like she did when she went deep-sea fishing with her dad. Hannah struggled to understand her sudden sadness, but it seemed so complicated.

  As the grownups continued talking about the past, Lucy told her friends to follow her. Once out of earshot, she whispered, “We need to make a closer examination of this wreck. See that opening to your left? That’s where I crawled in. Go in and take a look once the parents leave.”

  Hannah nodded, took off her backpack, snapped open its top and rooted around inside. A few seconds later her hand came out holding a small flashlight that she could wrap around her forehead. This would leave her hands free to explore without the struggle of a flashlight. They waited … and waited … and waited some more …. Grownups sure could talk a lot.

  Ages later, Meg ran off after a seagull, and the adults followed the wayward dog. With not a minute to lose, the girls bounded back to the boat and Hannah crawled inside. The sand underneath her hands was still damp, and pieces of seaweed got caught in her fingers. Shaking them off, she continued to make her way forward. Coming to the end of the road, she turned on her headlight.

  “Ouch!”

  “Are you OK, Hannah?” asked a nervous Emily. She always worried when Hannah got hurt. Her parents thought that was a good sign that she was actually capable of a bit of compassion!

  After the murky darkness, the bright light from the headlight almost blinded her. “I’m OK,” she called out, and then went back to exploring. “I found the spot with the scratches.”

  The scratches were etched into the wood, perhaps 8 centimeters long and not very deep. Right beside the scratches however, was a deep gouge where chunks of wood had been chipped away. It had a square outline. She looked closer at the scene of the crime and noticed a streak of dark reddish brown on the wood, just below the square. It definitely looked like blood. Glancing down she saw the splintered pieces that lay half-buried in the sand around her knees. She missed kneeling on them by inches. Phew!

  Picking up one of the pieces, Hannah used it to idly scrape the sand around her. Nothing. Frustrated, she drove the tip of the splinter deep into the ground between her knees. Thump! She hit something! Digging faster with her hands, Hannah groped in the sand until her hand closed around something. Bringing it closer to her headlight, she brushed off the red sand and beheld a pocketknife.

  The blade was still opened but was broken off close to the base of the knife. There was more of what looked like blood on the end of the broken blade. The pale wood handle felt rough under Hannah’s fingers, and faint shapes could be seen. Carvings! Maybe it’s a name, she thought. Wrapping it in a tissue, she carefully placed it in her jeans pocket. After a bit more unsuccessful digging, Hannah emerged from under the wreck, her hands full of splintered wood.

  “You’ll never believe what I found,” she cried.

  “Wood,” commented her sister.

  “That too,” she agreed. “We’ll piece it together and see what it was before it got broken. Help me open my backpack.”

  After Hannah secured her wood she pulled out the tissue and uncovered her find. In shocked silence, the three girls gaped at the knife.

  “Oh … my… gosh!” Lucy gaped at the knife. “Our pirate must have used the knife to break the wood, and then dropped it in the sand. It must have gotten buried by accident and he couldn’t find it. What a clue! And look, there’s a name carved into the handle. I think it says W. M… n... I can’t make out the rest.”

  The three heads huddled close together and with subdued excitement, they continued discussing the knife. However, they were completely unaware that someone was watching them. A stranger sat far back from the beach, partially hidden by the tall du
ne grasses. As the girls’ parents made their way back with Meg in tow, the stranger got up and headed into the woods behind the road that led into French River. Within seconds he was out of sight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PLANSAND TRAPS

  Back at the Buzzel house later that evening, Hannah carefully cleaned the knife with her archaeology brush (from a fossil kit she had bought in Ottawa’s Museum of Natural History). She then checked for fingerprints using a special black powder which she lightly sprinkled on the handle. No luck. The wooden handle looked like it was whittled by hand and was too rough to hold any prints. With a sigh, Hannah put her kit and the knife back in her bag.

  “We’ll have to ask around and see if anyone lost a knife,” said Hannah. “But we can’t make it obvious. We don’t want anyone to know that we actually found something near the wreck. We might get into trouble for snooping around under there.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be a piece of cake, Sherlock,” Emily quipped, artfully rolling her eyes. She was almost as good as Hannah but needed a bit more practice.

  “I can also look through the phone book and see if there is a listing for W. M.,” added Lucy. “If that doesn’t work, then I’ll talk to Mr. Wayne again and see if he knows anyone by those initials in French River.”

  “And I will keep Meg occupied so she doesn’t get in our way,” added Emily. Personally, she thought that was one of her more brilliant ideas. Emily and Meg had a special relationship. Emily chased Meg. Meg ran away. She simply loved Meg to bits and followed the poor dog everywhere. Hannah thought it was a wonder Emily actually stuck close to the wreck this afternoon, what with Meg practically begging to play Frisbee.