At Yellow Lake

by Jane Mcloughlin

  But Etta wasn’t smiling. She was stone-faced, wearing a still, mask-like expression, her eyes wide. She was staring beyond the beach, looking into the woods and undergrowth on the other side, where something was crunching and shuffling, getting louder as it got closer to them.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Kyle,’ Etta whispered.

  Peter shook his head. No, it didn’t sound human – a deer, maybe. He’d seen them here before, taking a drink from the lake. Or it could be a bear. There were bears around. He’d never actually seen one, but they were plentiful now, according to his uncle, and harmless, he thought, unless they were disturbed or needed to protect their young.

  He moved closer to Etta and they stepped backwards slowly, not daring to take their eyes off the fringe of the forest.

  Wolves, Peter thought. A wolf would be scary.

  Etta grabbed his arm, squeezed it.

  The creature that came through the woods, kicking away at the underbrush, wasn’t a wolf. It was standing upright, but it wasn’t one of the men. It was brown-skinned, nearly naked, with long, dark, matted hair. It wore a makeshift rucksack full of twigs and pebbles, and carried a carved, leather-tailed club decorated with feathers and noisy, clicking shells.

  It was a boy, no older than Peter and Etta – the strangest-looking kid Peter had ever seen.

  Chapter Nine

  ETTA

  It was quiet, except for the lapping waves and the sway of the trees. There we stood – all three of us – stunned and confused, like two castaways in front of a terrified native.

  Obviously, the dark haired-kid was nothing to do with Kyle. To begin with, he wasn’t wearing any clothes, except some kind of sling across his hips and wet underpants that you could see right through. He might as well have been naked – it was hard not to look.

  He was smiling, too, holding his arm out stiffly, like he wanted to shake hands, but in some old-fashioned way.

  We didn’t shake back, though. We didn’t talk. The boy let his hand drop, embarrassed, and pulled the sling lower down across his thighs to cover himself up. Somebody had to break the silence, but all I could think of to say was something lame like, ‘We come in peace,’ and that didn’t seem right. He wasn’t an alien, after all, although he looked pretty weird.

  Peter let his arm drop from around my shoulder, and picked up his duffle bag.

  ‘That’s my cabin,’ he said.

  The dark boy didn’t answer. His face looked blank – maybe he was an alien.

  ‘Up on the hill.’ Peter pointed to the cabin. He talked really slowly, in case the boy didn’t understand. ‘The house. It belongs to my family.’

  The dark boy thought for a moment, his brows pulled together. He looked up. Nodded. Shrugged. ‘That’s cool,’ he said. ‘I’m living in the woods.’

  And that was that.

  It should have been a bigger moment, like in the movies when people from different cultures meet. There should have been music – trumpets and big drums – blaring from speakers hidden in the woods. Instead, there was another sound – a droning, buzzing noise from across the lake. It was a motorboat, a tiny, far-away speck on the water that was getting bigger, louder, closer.

  ‘Shit,’ Peter said. ‘They’ll see us.’

  The dark boy looked out on the water. Then he turned back to Peter, his eyes wide, and Peter looked at me. It felt like lightning had struck. Suddenly, we all realised the same thing – we all knew – none of us wanted anybody else to know we were here.

  The dark boy twitched his head, motioned towards the woods. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘This way.’

  He slipped back through the line of trees. Silently, like little kids, Peter and I followed him. Now there were three of us, I thought – Hansel, Gretel and our trusty guide.

  PETER

  There was only one way to look at it. The Red Indian boy, or whatever he was, was trespassing, plain and simple, squatting on his mother’s land, acting as if it belonged to him, not to Peter. And yet, here was Peter, following the stranger onto his own property, like a pathetic sheep. How English. How very English.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the top of the hill. Thanks to the path the boy had trodden, it was easy going, much easier than the tangled miles he had led Etta through last night. He resented the new boy’s agility and ease, the way he climbed in long-legged bounds, like a leaping deer, while Peter had to force himself to keep moving. The path cut away from the cabin, towards the deeper part of the forest, still part of Peter’s land, but virtually ignored by his family and untouched for years. Then they saw it, surrounded by tall trees, shrouded by saplings and ferns and brushy shrubs – a small, domed shelter made of sticks and bark.

  ‘It’s a tepee!’ Etta squealed.

  ‘No,’ the boy said, taking her hand, pulling her towards the clearing, towards the shelter’s opening. ‘It’s a wigwam. A traditional Ojibwe dwelling.’ There was pride in his voice as he said it. As well there should be, thought Peter bitterly. The wigwam was neatly made, perfectly shaped, beautiful.

  ‘Look, Peter, a wigwam.’

  ‘Yes. I heard.’ Peter’s throat was dry; his words came out like pointed jabs. And why did everything he said sound so poncey here, so out of place? They were on his family’s property, on the land his great-grandfather bought years ago with the last of his meagre savings and yet he felt like he was the one who didn’t belong.

  ‘Boozhoo,’ the boy said. He held out his hand. Peter had no choice but to take it. ‘That’s Ojibwe for “welcome”.’

  ‘Boozhoo,’ Etta mimicked, smiling at the boy.

  ‘My name’s Jonah. I’ve been living here a while. I don’t have anything to offer you. Like, I don’t have much food, but I’m planning to set out some traps today and—’

  ‘Traps,’ Etta sighed. ‘That’s so cool.’

  Traps, Peter thought. Cool? What was she talking about? Some poor fox or rabbit or rat or whatever got impaled on a makeshift torture device and that was cool?

  ‘Trapping is barbaric.’ Peter couldn’t help himself. He just had to say it. Etta’s face fell – good. The Indian boy looked at him, flicking a thick lock of dark hair out of his eyes.

  How dare he? thought Peter. How dare he invite them to stay?

  ‘Sorry,’ he went on, ‘but I just think it’s horribly cruel. Hunting, too.’ Why was he saying this? He had no feelings about hunting one way or the other. ‘Any blood sports. Even fishing.’

  The boy, Jonah, smiled. ‘You won’t be eating much, then. You could try finding some blackberries in the woods, but the bears usually get those first.’

  Peter’s ears burned and he felt his face getting red – now the boy was taking the piss out of him. ‘That’s fine,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light, trying not to let the resentment creep into his words. ‘My uncle’s left an entire fridge full of food.’

  Suddenly, the need for food and sleep overwhelmed him. So did the desire to be alone. He wanted nothing more than to go into the cabin and to forget about this ridiculous boy in grey Y-fronts and this stupid girl who he’d thought was amazing, but who turned out to be just another stupid . . . stupid. . .

  Peter tried out all the nasty words he could use to describe Etta, but none of them fit. None of them were deserved. What had she done wrong? Nothing, except try to be friendly to this new boy, try to show a bit of kindness. And for that he was mentally slagging her off?

  ‘It’s been a long night,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’ Beside him, Etta swayed slightly, as if she were about to collapse. ‘There are beds in the cabin.’

  She nodded vacantly.

  ‘There’s water, too. A shower. And toilet.’ He was stating simple facts, uttering simple, truthful words, but it felt as though he were trying to sell her something, as if he were trying to lure her away from the new boy, Jonah, and the amazing things he could do.

  ‘That sounds good.’ Etta turned to Jonah, and yawned. ‘I’m Etta, by the way, and he’s Peter. We’re kinda on th
e run. Guess you must be, too. Maybe we’ll see you later.’

  That was it. Etta said goodbye and walked with Peter toward the cabin. There was no tussle for her loyalty, no power struggle. When Peter offered her his hand, she took it, as she had in the woods, and let him lead her, once again, to safety.

  JONAH

  Jonah went back to his chores. What else could he do?

  He spent the morning deep in the woods, as far away from the cabin as he could get, gathering twigs and branches, picking berries, rooting out more plants that he could use as medicinal herbs. Then he wandered back down to the water’s edge. He looked up and down the shoreline, across to the gentle hummock of forest on the opposite shore. The boat was gone. Good. The lake was empty, clear, calm. He found a spot on the sand that was sheltered by reeds and tall grasses, and sat cross-legged, trying to clear his mind by listening to the sounds around him, the chatter of the squirrels and the airy flaps of swooping birds. He closed his eyes and tried to re-imagine the world, as if he could restore the peace in his heart that had been shattered by the new arrivals.

  It was no use. There could be no peace – not now.

  He trudged back up to the wigwam, scrunched up some blankets to sit on. He picked up his knife, looked into his sling, took out the new arrowhead. It looked less jewel-like now that it was out of the water. It looked smaller, blunter. Maybe he could sharpen it, shape it into something useful. He held it carelessly in his hand, making random nicks with the knife.

  He had to think. He’d been discovered. He’d known it was bound to happen one day, but the suddenness of it was like a blow to his stomach. OK, so it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been the sheriff or some rednecks. And the kids seemed nice enough. They were like him – on the run, the girl said. They didn’t want anyone to find them either. But that wasn’t the point. The point was they’d found him. They’d invaded his privacy, his home, his land. And they weren’t like him. They were white. They were the cancer cells. That was the main thing – they’d only bring trouble.

  The knife slipped, slicing through a thin layer of skin on his thumb. The translucent flap hung like the cut bark of a twig, but bleeding and stinging. He put it up to his mouth, sucked as much of the blood out as he could stand, then reached for something to staunch the bleeding, something clean. There was nothing. All his clothes were covered in dirt or sweaty grime and were strewn across the floor of the wigwam where woven mats or skins should have been.

  He wrapped his bleeding thumb in a crusty dish-towel he’d taken from the cabin after he’d used it to mop up the white boys’ beer. He squeezed it tightly, hoping it would dull the throbbing pain. He wanted to cry, like a big baby. This had all been a stupid mistake. He was a dumb-ass white kid, no different from the others. Maybe it was time to pack up and go back to Minneapolis where he belonged.

  He stood up and rummaged through the shirts that lined the floor. A red one, plain, no logo, not too smelly – that would be OK. He picked up his denim shorts, pulled them over his damp underpants. They nearly fell off, resting low on his hipbone. How could he have lost so much weight in just over a week? Maybe going home would be good. There’d be food, anyway.

  Still, the unfairness of the discovery made his eyes well up with tears – the sheer bad luck of two kids landing on the beach just as he was coming out of the water. It was too much to bear. If they’d come five minutes earlier he would have seen them before they saw him. If they’d come five minutes later, he would’ve been back in the wigwam, safe, out of sight. They would have gone into their cabin and fallen asleep. He could have kept out of their way, and nobody would have known any different.

  He imagined them now, sleeping peacefully inside, huddled up, safe and secure within their solidly-built walls. They looked sweet, the way he pictured them, covered in warm blankets, as harmless as hibernating bear cubs. If only they were. If only he could trust them.

  If, if, if – there were too many ifs. He saw how twitchy the boy looked, how resentful, how likely to pick up the phone, make an anonymous tip-off to the sheriff that somebody was trespassing on ‘his’ land. He knew what those English were like. Mrs O’Connor had taught him all about them in ninth grade history. They were land-grabbing imperialists, ready to enslave the whole world at the drop of the hat. And anything bad that white Americans did, well, who had they learned it from? Their English ancestors.

  The girl had said they were on the run. When he saw them on the beach – dirty, their bare skin scratched and bleeding – they had certainly looked as though they were being hunted by something. But around here, what could that be? Welmer didn’t look like the type of town that was in the hands of rival gangs or mafia types. And if they were running away from the police, what could they possibly have done? Not paid for their hamburgers at the local drive in? Stolen candy from the Kwik Trip? They didn’t look capable of anything more criminal than overfilling their sodas at Subway.

  Subway. Hamburgers. Candy. Inside the cabin was a fridge full of food. That’s what the English boy had said.

  Once again, Jonah’s thoughts led him back to food and his own gnawing hunger. For the first time since he’d fixed the broken door and locked it up, the cabin beckoned to him. It wasn’t the security, or the comfort, it was all that food. He remembered the white refrigerator. What treasures would be inside it? Eggs? Bacon? Cheese? His mind wandered further into the kitchen. He opened the fridge door, and took out two eggs. Then he rooted around in the pine cupboards, opened drawers until he’d found a frying pan, some cooking oil, matches to light the stove. He smelled the tang of the oil – no, wait, he’d added some butter – heating. Then he heard the crack of the eggshells, the sharp sizzle as the eggs. . .

  ‘Hey.’

  A soft voice jerked him away from his imagined feast. The girl, Etta, was crouching in the doorway.

  ‘I brought you something.’

  The mid-morning sun was behind her, lighting up her hair, making it shine like a halo. Jonah knew that it was just the intense brightness that cast her shadow and highlighted the outlines of her body, but Etta looked like an angel – glowing, shimmering.

  ‘Some food. Are you hungry?’

  She crawled into the wigwam on her knees, holding out a plate laden with buttered slices of bread and thick hunks of orange cheese. Maybe she was an angel, after all. Maybe he’d died or something, drowned in the lake, got beaten to death by those white boys. Maybe the glowing light and the angelic face meant that he was in heaven.

  That was what it felt like. That was the only way he could describe it.

  Chapter Ten

  ETTA

  OK, so I thought he was cute.

  After we’d gone into the cabin, I couldn’t sleep. It was weird being so tired but not being able to close my eyes. They hurt when I did, so it was better to keep them open.

  It might have been the light coming through the big window. Closing the thin cotton curtains hadn’t made it much darker, but Peter said this room was better because it had its own bathroom, like a hotel room. I tried pulling the blanket over my head – that just made the whole world pink, not dark.

  In this pink world, there was a tiny toy train, like one I’d seen in a toy store once, going around a little track way up on the ceiling, only this train was all my thinking about what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  Mom.

  I thought I knew her, at least enough to know that there was a limit to what she would and wouldn’t do. I mean, she might try to fiddle things, like stuff tips down her bra so she wouldn’t have to claim them for income tax, but she’d never actually steal. Or she might threaten to leave. Back when my brothers were in high school she’d do that about every month or so, with me crying in the corner and Cole looking ashamed for something he’d done and Jesse just pissed off because he’d heard it all so many times before. But she’d never actually take off. And we knew she never would. We knew she’d stomp out, close the door, wait for about five minutes, long enough to have a
quick smoke, then come back in with a funny story about how the lady next door was using a vacuum cleaner to get leaves off her sidewalk.

  So what the hell had happened now, with Kyle? Had she finally cracked? She couldn’t have known what he was going to do, could she? All that stuff he’d said about it being her idea, that ‘teaching you a lesson’ crap – he had to be lying.

  Still, if she was dumb enough to go out with Kyle in the first place, to let him into our house, into her bedroom, she could have been dumb enough to—

  No. No.

  Then why couldn’t I stop imagining Mom and Kyle having a party, celebrating that I was gone? There’d be a store-bought cake, specially decorated for the occasion. Charlie and that weasel kid from the car would be there, chugalugging cans of beer, spraying the inside of the trailer with foam or bubbles from cheap sparkling wine. Mom would be on the counter, dancing in denim cut-offs and a halter top and leopard skin sandals – the belle of the ball, the queen of all she surveyed.

  No. That wouldn’t happen. Don’t think that.

  Well, she must have known about that stuff in the kitchen at least – the powder, the money.

  No. Don’t be stupid. She couldn’t have known about any of this.

  Peter had said there was a phone in the cabin. There was no way I was going to call her, not now. I didn’t dare, not with the way things were. What if I found the worst?

  As for Jesse and Cole – I didn’t have their phone numbers, and they were too clueless to go online. My own brothers, and I didn’t even know what states they were living in. Some family we were.

  Of course there was Grandpa. If I called Grandpa, I knew what he’d do – get in his car straight away. As soon as he got the call he’d be gone, and nothing would stop him from coming to get me – nothing or nobody, not even Grandma.

  I imagined the Duchess waiting in the doorway after Grandpa picked me up. Her face would be fixed into a smile, like she’d painted it on with lipstick to hide the real expression underneath. She’d be wiping her bony hands on a dish-towel, so I’d know how much hassle I was causing.