Yet he knew there was something he had to do. He remembered that he was on his way to do… something. What? There was a thought, a purpose that scampered around in his mind like a squirrel in a tree, always just a little bit out of sight.
He felt funny not being able to remember, but it didn’t frighten him. It was a little like smoking pot and starting to say something, then getting distracted and forgetting what he was talking about. Or maybe it was like trying to remember a dream when he was almost awake, but lying relaxed and comfortable in his bed, too warm and content to get up and start the day.
What was I just saying? Cappy thought. Mom. I was saying, Mom. That’s it, I have to get home. Mom and Dad’re probably waiting for me so they can leave. I’m probably late. Probably going to catch holy hell.
With his new purpose firmly fixed in his mind, Cappy walked out of Childe’s Bog as if he knew it as well as he knew his own backyard. Automatically, as if from memory, he stepped sure-footedly over logs and stones without even seeing them.
Then he began running again, not wanting to keep his parents waiting. Finding himself on Midway Road now, he knew it was just a short walk to his home.
2
Professor Hathaway served tea from a fine silver tea set. He was a charming host, hospitable and enthusiastic. He warmed the room with his comfortable smiles and animated gestures. Harrison could see the old man was delighted to be entertaining guests.
The professor wore a rumpled Harris tweed jacket of indeterminate age, a wrinkled red flannel shirt, and a thin black necktie, loosely knotted. He gave the impression that this was his normal mode of attire, whether he was with company or passing long days alone.
Though quietly amused by the professor’s fastidious informality, Harrison fell quickly under his charismatic spell.
The professor’s house cast a spell of its own. It was as if their host had set up housekeeping in a library. Every room was lined with shelves crammed full of books in horizontal and vertical formation. The floor, the tables, even the chairs had collected the overflow from the shelves. The professor had had to clear a place for his guests to sit, and another for the tea tray.
The large oak desk by the eastern window was curiously uncluttered, Harrison noted. It had nothing on it but a pad of yellow lined paper and a pewter mug full of pens and pencils.
“So you like our little island, do you, Mr. Allen?”
“Very much, yes. And please, call me Harry.”
“Well, I’m not surprised that you should,” said Professor Hathaway, settling into a thickly padded chair that seemed almost to swallow him. “Friar’s Island has a unique history, or rather, histories, as I’d prefer to say. Our island, like any town, I suppose, actually has many histories: each resident’s, each building’s, each outcropping of stone’s. Tomorrow I am pleased to go to Miss Wells’ school to talk about the history of its Indians. I’m afraid, however, that the children will be disappointed to learn that there is very little evidence of any permanent Indian settlements on Friar’s Island. Probably they just visited here on explorations of one sort or another —hunting, fishing, that sort of thing. And then only in the summertime. Bones and other artifacts have been found that seem to have belonged to a glacial culture dating back to, maybe, 1000 BC. There were beads and pottery, and an adze or two from more recent peoples. And, I mustn’t let you forget, a fascinating fragment of a clay sculpture that some folks speculate was a model of our infamous Lake Champlain Monster.”
“That’s great!” said Harrison. “I think you’re anticipating my next question.”
The professor raised his eyebrows. “You’re interested in the monster, are you?”
“I’ll bet the kids would love to hear about that, too,” said Nancy, smiling first at the professor, then at Harrison. “They’re very interested in that sort of thing.”
“Of course they are, and they should be,” continued Professor Hathaway, “because it’s a most thought-provoking subject. The very notion that receding glaciers carved out lakes and deposited sea creatures, abandoning them to adapt to fresh water, truly titillates the imagination. It happened to landlocked salmon, so why not to something bigger but possibly less prolific, like some variety of prehistoric whale? The fact is there were whales around here some twelve thousand or so years ago, you know. The skeleton of one was found in a gravel pit in Charlotte not so very long ago. Its remains are now in the geology museum at the University of Vermont in Burlington.
“Another possible victim of landlocking could have been the long-lost cousin of the most famous of all elusive water beasts, the Loch Ness Monster.”
“Why not?” agreed Harrison. “From what I’ve read, all the alleged eyewitnesses describe the Loch Ness Monster and the Champlain Monster in pretty much the same way.”
“Indeed.” Professor Hathaway nodded. “There could be a family resemblance.”
“Have you ever seen it, Professor?” asked Nancy.
“I? Heavens, no. I’ve never been fortunate enough. But it has often been sighted up here in the islands, or so I understand.”
“Do you know of anyone who’s seen it?” asked Harrison.
“My experience with the local folks is that they’d rather not discuss it… or much of anything else. You can’t get them to say yes or no. But in a four-hundred-ninety-square-mile body of water, it’s kind of difficult to prove that it isn’t out there.”
“I’d sure like to prove that it is.”
“Well, you’re in an ideal spot to try.” The professor smiled at the couple. “As a matter of fact, the state of Vermont is full of interesting lore and legends. Have you ever heard of Chester’s Jekyll and Hyde burglar? Or the elves of Montpelier? Or perhaps that strange ‘Devil’s Triangle’ at Glastenbury Mountain near Bennington where people have been known to vanish without a trace?”
Harrison and Nancy traded glances.
“Oh, and don’t forget, there was a vampire in Woodstock. And of course, the famous freezing of old people to keep them over the winter, then thawing them out in the spring. That mysterious practice occurred in central Vermont and was actually covered in several newspapers, including the Boston Globe and even Yankee magazine. As you’ve no doubt guessed, the story was later proven to be apocryphal. But what about the hundreds of other ghosts, and treasures, and bugaboos of one kind or another? The state’s full of that kind of thing, Harrison. But those tales are all written up here and there. The stories that interest me the most are the ones that probably have never been recorded. Would you like some more tea?”
“Come on, Professor, you’re not going to leave us hanging there, are you?” said Nancy, smiling the eager, inquisitive smile of a schoolgirl.
“What’s that, dear? The unrecorded ones?” His face wrinkled into a cherubic smile as he peered at her over the top of his glasses. “A local example might suffice. The name ‘Friar’s Island’ probably comes from the shape of the island itself, which is said to resemble the head of a hooded monk — a friar — with rather a prominent jaw. But there’s a far more interesting explanation: it could also have been named for what seems an excessive amount of religious activity that has always taken place here. You might be interested to know that until nearly the end of the eighteenth century that old monastery near the northern point of the island was still in use. There was a group of French Canadian monks — friars — in residence there. Certain evidence indicates that they were worshipping, shall we say, a ‘lesser’ deity. They abandoned the place — I’m really not sure when or just exactly why — and it stood deserted, just as it is now, until right around the turn of this century. It was then occupied by a commune of spiritualists throughout the heyday of the American spiritualist movement, up until around the time of the First World War. These spiritualists lived there until, I imagine, local pressure inspired them to move on. By the way, there was another active spiritualist community down in Burlington, in the area now known as Queen City Park, right near the lake.
“Spiritualis
m was a common enough religious affiliation in those days, but the group here was apparently a good deal more secretive than many. Apparently they believed that this island, and the northern part of it specifically, was a good vantage point from which to communicate with the other world, or whatever it was that they wanted to communicate with. Perhaps they actually made contact — who knows? Anyway, to this day the old monastery has the reputation of being haunted. And, at the risk of sounding like a stereotypical character in a gothic novel, the old place is shunned by the locals. I don’t find that my neighbors are too eager to talk about the monastery, or the groups that used to live there.”
“What do you know about these groups, Professor?” Harrison asked, thinking he should be taking notes.
The professor’s eyes flashed, then dropped to his teacup. “Not much of anything at all, I’m afraid. From the bits and pieces that I’ve picked up over the years in my studies, it is the land itself that has been of interest to the various groups. It attracts some, repels others. This island has always held a kind of occult fascination for those schooled in the arcane sciences, Native Americans and Europeans alike. So you can see that the tradition predates the spiritualist group I just mentioned. The Indians that I’m going to talk to your class about buried their dead here. But the land, though fertile and rich with game, was avoided by the living.
“Some of the earliest French settlers referred to the land on the northern part of the island as la mauvaise terre, literally, ‘the bad land,’ but it meant more than ‘bad’ to them; it meant the evil, or the wicked, land. They, too, stayed clear of it. It was the groups with an active interest in otherworldliness that sought the place out. Why did those renegade French-Canadian monks come all the way down here to build their monastery? Why were the turn-of-the-century spiritualists so desirous of that specific property? Why is that area of the island still totally unsettled, even today?”
“Do you have a theory, Professor?” Nancy asked.
“I think the Indians left their dead here because they believed it was somehow closer to the spirit world, that leaving their bodies here would somehow give their spirits a head start on their journey from this world to the next. Likewise — and this is just conjecture — I believe the monks, and later the spiritualists, believed that there are, in this world, certain gateways to the next. There are actual geographic locations where the fabric of the first, second, and third dimensions — what we think of as ‘reality’ — is very thin. With the proper combination of words and rituals, some believe that border or gateway can be crossed. I believe Friar’s Island is considered such a place. Especially the northern end.”
“Wow!” said Harrison. “So the Indian burial ground you spoke of is, or was, on the north end?”
“Of course.”
“And the monks who built the monastery,” asked Nancy, “What do you know about them?”
“As usual, nowhere near enough. The original monks who built the place back in the late sixteen or seventeen hundreds, were French. It was presumed, of course, that they were Roman Catholics, and perhaps their roots actually were in the Catholic Church. But apparently it wasn’t a Christian God that they worshipped. There was evidence found in the monastery of the black mass, devil worship, or something of the kind. Although the evidence was attributed to the later colony of spiritualists, I am convinced that the relics predate them by quite a bit.
“It is said that the mainstream Catholic Church forced them away from the island and into hiding during the eighteenth century. All the relics and writings that they left behind were confiscated, either by the Church or the townspeople. Some items, however, fell into the hands of the spiritualists and have since been lost. What those writings and relics might have included, we can only guess. I’d love to know…
“Anyway, slightly more is known about the next occupants, the spiritualist colony. The group continued into this century and therefore is a bit easier to research. It is that group that interests me the most.
“You see, some of their papers were kept by the island community. Now they’re the property of the island’s historical society. They’re on file at the town library. I have read what there is of them, and it is clear to me that they are incomplete. Where the rest have vanished is another of the island’s mysteries. They may have been destroyed or removed. They may have been hidden. Or maybe they are packed away and forgotten in somebody’s attic someplace here on the island.”
“Is anyone on the island old enough to remember those days?” Harrison asked.
“I think so, yes, like old Mrs. Snowdon, for one. But I understand she won’t talk to anyone about much of anything.”
Nancy looked puzzled. “I don’t think I know her.”
“No?” The professor looked at her with mock surprise. “She’s probably Harrison’s nearest neighbor. She lives in a cabin just this side of the marsh. There’s only a path leading to her place — no road. I’ll bet you’ve seen her in town once in a while. Dresses strangely, like a European peasant woman. And that’s her son you see in the village now and then. An unkempt, uncoordinated lad who looks about thirty or thirty-five years old. Lots of folks think of him as the village idiot. Always has a faraway look in his eyes, and he mumbles as he walks. The townspeople seem fond of the Snowdons, however. They cut wood for them and bring them clothes and food. I’ve seen her in the store, and never saw Abner charge her for a thing.
“I think the Snowdons are—”
The professor stopped abruptly. A look of distress shaded his face, then quickly vanished. “I have been going on, haven’t I? Sometimes I forget my manners; it’s so rare I have company. I guess being with a couple of young people like you made me think that I was back in the classroom.” He chuckled self-consciously. “But there’ll be time enough for that when I come to visit the wee ones at school. I hope they’ll be as tolerant of my ramblings as you two have been.”
“It has been fascinating,” said Harrison, realizing that the evening was coming to an end. He glanced discreetly at Nancy’s watch; it was ten o’clock.
Nancy, too, picked up on the hint. “It’s getting late for this working girl.”
She stood up. Harrison and the professor followed her lead.
“I want to thank you both for sharing your evening with me. Harrison, it was good to meet you. Tell me, I wonder if you’ve heard the story about the treasure that’s supposed to be hidden in your house?”
“Is that right? Really?” Harrison felt as eager as a boy. “Well, if I can prevail upon you to join me another evening, I’d gladly tell you everything I know about it. And perhaps we can discuss that elusive Chaousarou that seems to interest you so much.”
“The what?”
“Chaousarou. That’s what the Indians called the Lake Champlain Monster.”
“It would be a pleasure, sir.”
“And Miss Wells, I’ll very much look forward to seeing you tomorrow in school.”
3
Gaston and Michelle Pelletier, Brigitte’s parents, were angry. Neither was speaking.
Michelle made frequent trips to the window to watch for Brigitte, but the only thing she saw was the soft afternoon light turning much too rapidly into evening. The girl was very late. She knew well enough that they had planned to leave the island a long time ago.
All the packing was done, the windows were sealed, and the water and electricity were turned off. Their camp was closed up tight for the winter.
As soon as Brigitte returned, they would spank her for the inconvenience she had caused. If she would act like a child, they would treat her like a child. Perhaps the indignity of a spanking after so many years would remind her of her obligation to her parents.
The girl had been making them angry more and more lately. Especially since she had teamed up with that Capra boy. Right now the two of them were off somewhere together, mindless of the delay and the worry they were causing.
Gaston didn’t like to drive after dark. The way it looked now, the f
amily wouldn’t get back to Montreal until very late. And tomorrow there would be work for Gaston, and school for the girl.
“Shall I light the kerosene lamp, my dear? That would be pleasant,” said Michelle.
“You might as well put the fuses back in,” said Gaston, not picking up on what had been intended as a peace offering.
Michelle sighed. She lighted the lamp with her Bic lighter. “I should go and call Mother from the pay phone at the general store. She’ll worry if she calls the house and we aren’t there.”
She crossed the room and sat on the arm of her husband’s chair. Michelle was an attractive woman in her late forties. Her firm plumpness recalled what had once been a fine, full figure; her graying auburn hair remembered an exciting fiery red. As her hand found the back of Gaston’s neck, she began to massage the tense muscles there. His irritation passed, as it always did.
“Let me get you a drink,” she whispered. “I know just where I packed the scotch.”
“That would be good.”
She unpacked the bottle and a glass, all the time worrying about Brigitte. She was getting to be a problem lately. They both knew it, but neither liked to talk about it. They only discussed it when they were angry, vowing that they would start doing something about it. But their anger would pass, and with it their resolve. They’d do nothing.
Neither wanted to admit that Brigitte was a flaw in their otherwise perfect marriage. For ten years they had been blessed with a rare happiness, a perfect togetherness, needing nothing, wanting nothing — or so they assured each other. Each, for the sake of the other, had tried to minimize the disappointment at not being able to have a child. Each lied to the other, saying a child was not necessary to fulfill their perfect union.
And then, as if in answer to their silent prayers, Brigitte came. And things were complete.
But the years passed. School, television, friends, and, a thousand other temptations had beckoned their daughter away from the protection of the family.
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