Chapter 2

Rumors don't substantially change, I thought. Take, for instance, stories people tell of old Lake on the Mountain in these parts: the underground reservoir replete with ghostly lights, bottomless channels and of a lake not giving up its dead. It was alarming alright to sit across that expanse of water and see not a boat or hear a sound. Almost as eerie as standing here looking at Meg talk of Humboldt's forecasting eclipses back in '32. How he'd been right, dead right, each time with his divining rod.

Meg was still on the subject of Humboldt. Seems as for all his questions he had met a bitter end. To hear Meg tell it, one evening after the leaves were down--a cold evening at that--Humboldt, a recluse and bachelor recently separated from a sister with whom he had lived, was fetching wood. Being old and a careless housekeeper, the old man tripped and split his lantern. They found his charred remains near the door of the woodhouse next morning. Meg had seen the flames light the November sky. To hear her tell of it, that night had seen an uncommonly large number of cars on the back roads off the Palace. Meg was not drawing direct inferences, but I could see in the space between her eyes a sly connection.

She was silent on such things, drew the conversation back then forth to peculiarities surrounding the Ashley home. Meg was an Ashley. Since her husband's death, she had stayed in the family home not only days but those dreaded nights as well. I pressed for explanations.

"But if you wouldn't stay a night with Charlie when he was alive--the two of you--when you were married and had the companionship, why would you dare now? If you made the journey into town each night religiously for forty years only staying here during the daylight hours, how can you bring yourself to remain now?"

The question seemed logical enough, but seemed to irritate her. But was I trespassing too indelicately on the subject of the late model cars or probing into a veiled past too transparently?

"Yourn a relative of Conrad's,"--Jean's I heard her say. To my surprise, I told her my aunt had often taken me by this house on the way to Kincaid. As a child, the house in its unkempt stage had made a lasting impression on me. Brooding, enormously lonesome, the derelict house slouched against a weathered fence in a loathsome fashion. Overcast skies or darkness gave it the appearance of containing as many goblins or trolls as fancy might see fit to inhabit, I thought of a magnificent set of ruins, something Hawthorne might have used for his Seven Gables or a nigh perfect setting for a decadent family in the throes of their own poverty--some chilling Gothic charmer!

What was more, the chief inhabitant of such a home seemed straight off the grill of the gingerbread lady or the hag who forced her fattening children to hold out fingers to see if they were plump enough for the oven. Sufficiently chilling for a precocious mind--the place guaranteed sleeplessness for nights on end. Visions of the old woman, cat in hand, standing on the deck of her flag ship-like house, ghastly in its gloom, rifled through my consciousness. The abundance of animals and the witchy control she exerted over them, simply reinforced the spell over an impressionable child. Every detail was complete, right down to that proverbial one decayed tooth dangling from the centre of her facial cavity. One could only expect her to jabber in cackles instead of sentences for her memory to be entrenched deeper in every aspect.

More startled now than taken back, I summoned my organizational abilities to make sense of what she had imparted to me.

"Jean ever tell you of Direxa?"

The name jolted me. I summoned forth the pieces in a haphazard way. An old woman who traveled miles from Hay Bay into town to sell her produce sped across my mind. Consistent to the end, she sauntered through drudgery and routine until they claimed her sanity.

"Must be the climate in these parts," I found myself saying drily in the back of my throat. Meg was staring at me. I made an attempt to put my eyes off her.

I nodded my agreement indicating I had heard the name.

"Yes, Direxa. Of good Puritan stock, I added."

She spoke no agreement this time and told me to consult her if I had questions.

"Direxa, she's long dead!"

"I know, she still talks to me," Meg whispered turning to walk away.

In a typical fashion, I thought of the lore concerning the supernatural adolescent reading had brought me--the Superstition mountains of Arizona, dream time and the Darling range in Australia's north, the Snowmen, the Wendigo tales of the Coast Salish Indians. These, it seemed, were not more exotic than the home spun tales of my province's eastern townships, Lennox and Addington. Those two ghostly minutemen drilling in the marshes of the Ontario Coomb, Canada's answer to the Fens district of East Anglica. Strange, much as my presence here volunteering information to a woman who freely talked in lurid details concerning poor Humboldt's death but not of cars that visited these roads at night, clairvoyance, poltergeists or spells that bound her to a second home.

THE NIGHTLAMP

Like a wail in the back of an inflammed throat came that protracted noise once again. Interminably, the rhythmic pitch of pounding grew louder as if several loose stones had swished themselves against the larger cylinder of his room. Already, the steady rap of a hammer's edge oozed from night's blackness disparate as a voice muffled in protest against an exhausting load.

Again, the unyielding barricade of sound renewed itself much as a headlight might fall against the path of a dazed woodland animal. The same enervating crust of unreality accompanied this sound as must, he imagined, light that focused itself upon a stunned rabbit at a roadside clearing.

Steady now, it peaked again after a small hiatus interrupted only by the staccato bumping of his own heart within thin visceral walls. Catching the bed-sheets in his hand and moving to switch the nightlamp on as his feet touched floor, Durfield let his eyes grow accustomed to the bright light now filtering across the room. Same turmoil as with the ruddy animal immobilized in its tracks, he thought, excepting now the darkness coiled in wait instead of that speeding car. Same fate, he pondered, nearly aloud. No, not really, because I have a vestige of control here, he reassured himself. The lamp-switch allows me, of course, to commandeer the ignition keys to this vehicular room. I have mastery of my environment, however limited. The fawn or hare has no more free will in that regard than a stone spinning upon itself through orbital space. The animal freezing in its tracks is but a by-product of its own misshapen destiny--a projection of inward fear itself. Instinct knows only one route when threatened, he theorized. I, at least, have that avenue of self-preservation plus the dimension of reason. That and that alone separates me from the splattered remnants of a deer against the highway. Its over-specialization dooms or pre-dates its response. So very predictable, he mused fingering the face of his big, green lettered clock. I'm different, he began reassuring himself adjusting his eyes to the flooding light a little less nervously. I have the calling card of reason plus an instinctual nature. The two should compliment one another. Why, take that accursed noise. I can attempt its categorization in hope of dispelling the fear of the unknown. What's more, I can move to lessen its impact or remove it altogether. In effect, I can take the edge off its annoyance altogether and sleep peacefully for the rest of the evening. If only I could identify its source!

Still, it was so very still in the room now. It was as if the advance of light had checked the noise, whatever its origin acting as a deterrent to its raucous splendour. Yes, that's it, he thought. The light in some fashion interfered or dispels the racket that spawns the darkness. How irrational. What a repudiation of his earlier thesis that man, as a rational being, manipulated his surroundings as opposed to being the mere lackey of circumstance. Yet, there was but one way to determine the logistics of his theory, he reasoned. Apply brakes to the light and brace oneself for the possible resumption of the unearthly noise.

Did he dare? Did he, in a Profroukian sense, care to challenge the impetus of the moment--that crackle of sound made as it darned a wavy edge over the liquid crack of an audible wave? Could he presume to roll up his trouser legs, eat the allegorical peach or clutch the parchment of his being to prepare a loosing onto the gates of night? A strange synthesis for a man priding himself on logic, he muttered quickening the thought process. Carefully, he prepared himself for the venture. Barely a flick away, he imagined a surge of electricity to go rifling through the inroads of his body, illuminating in garish sequence the duality of his true nature--lucidity and ghost fear. He was ready to examine the Hegelian fusion of his private universe.

The light remained off. Unbearable became the mental jousting going forth across the diameter of his brain, that circle of intense inner reasoning. Yet nothing threatening had yet developed. No formidable barrage of sound like the last time just bare minutes before when the noise had tormented him so. No creeping need to silence the unexplained droning that parried his sanity. But where did that place his theory on darkness and a correlation with the heightened noise's proliferation? What if the noise should return when, say, he awoke tomorrow in the luxury of a room bathed in morning's warm gaze? How might he cope amid sheer inconsistencies, such contradictions like that?

Now the uninterrupted silence assumed growing dimensions. There was nothing amiss, yet nothing resolved either. The sound and fury existed in a mute silence, growing within the totality beyond categorization. After all, it was darkest before dawn. And when did a fat man look his most corpulent--next to one deprived of flesh, of course. One could not react too carefully juxtaposed against glaring opposites in a universe filled with few resolutions. No, he would not be lulled into a false confidence, into the luxury of seemingly overcoming the mystery of his baffling noise. In all sincerity, he must anticipate everything.

Perhaps the very silence harboured little noises like maggots invisible to the eye? Invisible, yet nonetheless there, brooding for an assault beneath a limpid surface? Yes, the enemy--that pestilent noise was still in its lair watching his fragile kingdom, eyeing an opening, searching out his jugular. He would blunt it, though. Under no circumstances would he crack. Not the likes of him. Must remain calm at all costs, he cautioned himself. He must remain master of the situation, not be alarmed should the phantom noise return. After all, in darkness lay his chance to test his theory of the sound's interrelation with shadow. Without darkness, there was no sure way to clear this mess up once and for all.

The doctor searched again for a pulse, then shook a wearied head. The bedclothes were damp with perspiration and the room lay ajar with evidence of disarray. Durfield's eyes stared voluminously through their sockets and seemed fixed to the furthest wall of his bedroom. At the room's opening lay an overturned table with the smashed remains of a deflected lamp with its nightshade crumpled lying by the base of the wall.

"I just got up for a drink in the minute of the night and stumbled against the door," the younger brother was explaining. "I could barely even see the door, honest. I didn't mean to wake him or anything like that. He's given me heck before."

The doctor closed the eyelids against pupils bulging in a vaccuous profusion. He said nothing, but renewed his glance at the broken glass and dark spot on the coiled rug where spilt water had made a crevice-like opening over the linoleum and upturned nightstand.

THE STRONGBOX

"He was always the one to figure things," remarked Humboldt. "Always the smart ass type, big jawed lazy bones--couldn't make a good farmer out of that sort. Didn't want to do much of anything 'cept run. All his money went on his car. Drinking in the Richelieu most every night. I suspect that's where he were coming from when it happened."

Humboldt leaned back against the store front. Twice weekly he'd take a cab into town to fetch sundry articles as he said--one day went for shopping t'other for visitin'. Retirement had given him the necessary time to concentrate almost exclusively on the latter. This was the first trip in this week and already the day was abuzz with talk of the recent mishap.

"Now let me get this straight," Russell was interjecting. "According to what Humboldt says, the car just plain left the highway and crashed through the barrier where seven meets the Bath road."

"That's what Thompson was saying and he was talking to the widder Jocelyn the very morning after. Makin' a run into Kincaid and happened to see the downed guard-rail. Accordin' to the widder, she was awakened late Saturday night by the crash. She wasn't what you call definite seening how it was in the middle of the night and all, but still claims it scared her half to death the thought of that car entering the lake."

"Serve's 'im right," Humboldt began again. "Probably smokin' drugs and boozin'. Ain't no proper place for the likes of him, anyhow. Just plain crazy. Why that Scots boy was a born no good. Heard tell he let berries fall off their stems rather than pick them, then go to town to buy a quart basket. Blamed foolishness. Why me and Jimmy Robinson remember hayin' with their old man when he'd fork a bale then sit under the tree and smoke. Gave up farmin' good land to guard at Ronald Bay. Between stints on welfare, of course. The two of them, Ester and he sitting in that kitchen--too damn lazy to rototiller that garden. Had a big bitch dog, Buzzy--tail like an ice pick that was always swishing and chased my stock afore I got Scot to tie him down."

The conversation slowly became a praise of working values with an occasional homily to flaunt the more ensconced rural virtues. Humboldt referred to the List brothers both dead lazy and drinkers, too, as the dialogue became more dogmatic.

"Seems he'd had to swear off the bottle or go blind," Humboldt continued.

"And you know what List said? Guess I've seen all that's worth seeing. He ended up in a sanitorium in Stephensville. The other stayed on allowing bush to burst up through the cement walk and a tree to come through the drive shed. Imagine that."

Humboldt and his friend were grinning the same wide smile. Apart from an occasional story of their own garrulousness or resentment against authority, their past was free of such tales and they knew it. It was enough to make a man feel proud knowing he had nothing to live down. Humboldt was cradling a watermelon to take back. His time was old and he was given to all sorts of quirks he would never have allowed himself but even five years ago--like taking a taxi, selling part of his farm or, worse yet, eating good weiners on any but festive occasions. Such things, he had once remarked, were the very stuff of foolishness.

The taxi would only take him to the end of the long lane. Punctuated by his mailbox and an old haying shed, the driveway was well over a mile from the house. The road was all that remained of an old county line that had since fallen into disuse. Provided considerable privacy, he thought, well in tune to his love of isolation. Barring, of course, those bi-weekly ventures into town. Yes, they were needed.

Pulling the latch over the door and stooping to rekindle the fire, many would have thought such an existence unbearably dull. Not so, Humboldt. Since his sister had died it was true he had sometimes felt the need for companionship but this was a world of his own making. He felt the thrill of self-accomplishment knowing it was his land. He was alone with memories. Quietly rocking by the fire, he began to doze off, little thinking materials like old magazines, old rags to start a fire lay strewn about the floor. Basic cleanliness had been an early casualty since the sister's death. Gone was the regimen of order and weekly cleans until now the house was like a dusty candle box. Still, his was an orderly world. Soft fashioned, it was free of the tatters that change brings. He thought of the years, the steady labour in the fields, the thriftiness, his distrust of banks, the big city--the new highway that had compelled the sale of the "lower 40" and all the rest of that blamed idiocy.

The fire was gentle and massaged the chill from his fingers. An old man's fingers. Honest hands not creased with pleasure but with familiar toil. He used to liken his life to that drive into town. Steady, small pastimes where every bend was anticipated before rounding it like the neat little farms all in rows. His warmth was in the security of the knowable, he thought nodding off. He was thinking little thoughts like strawberries in spring or what the icy water must have felt like closing around the throat of Scot. If he had only lived like himself, got into farming and enjoyed life instead of dashing off to lose touch with reality. Yes, old ways were best.

"Seems we've got two things to stir folks up with in this town," the officer, a new constable with the OPP in Kincaid was saying.

"It looks like a routine blaze what with all the junk laying around but we'll have to check out all possibilities seeing that Humboldt had the reputation of having lots stashed away. We all supposed the old man kept considerable money hidden in the house. Checks confirm no bank accounts so a strongbox is suspected. It may be that some of the damage here was not the work of fire alone. These are things we would like to probe, Jake, and would appreciate any help you might provide." The officer was looking straight at Jake asking his questions routinely, matter of factly.

Jake surveyed the still smouldering ruins. Only the brick chimney still stood. They had found Humboldt's body by the door. Apparently a clear case of smoke inhalation before he was burned. Yet the scene betrayed Jake's own involvement. Surveying anew the debris, Jake began to reassemble recent events and his stake in having Scot rob Humboldt. The policeman was saying nothing of any valuables found on the dead Scot. This worried him, especially those heirloom bits containing Humboldt Bennett's name. Perhaps, perhaps yes I could figure that the money spilled out of the wrecked car or a strongbox now lies at the bottom of the lake, Jake was thinking to himself. Yes, that could very well be, he thought.

Still, I wonder, yes really wonder had Scot managed to locate Humboldt's nest egg at all? And what if Scot's drowning occurred before the robbery, before he could rob Humboldt at all? If so, this would explain why no money had been found and that no one so far had the presence of mind to connect the two episodes. Or were the police withholding this information for reasons of their own? Still, how could the two incidents be woven together by the authorities when Humboldt was freely talking of the Scot disaster only yesterday. Unless, yes damn Scot, evidence was found of Scot rummaging around Humboldt's property the day Humboldt was in town! That would be just like Scot to disobey a good game plan!

He was thinking now which, of all possibilities, would implicate his name the least. Wiping his brow and trying to remain calm, he pressed the investigating officer as any concerned neighbour might. After all, he was Humboldt's closest friend.

Yet to Jake's mind another probability was presenting itself. Humboldt, on returning home from his visit to town yesterday, might have found himself robbed, his place pilfered and, in his angst, knocked over a lantern or, worse, suffered a stroke in the ensuing panic.

"Can a coroner establish if heart failure occurred prior to asphyxiation?" he found himself muttering half-absentmindedly.

Jake was hoping so. Gingerly, he fingered memories of what he would have done had Scot returned the night as intended. Still, if all held true, there was nothing to implicate him, even if Humboldt had died unexpectedly. Jake was in the process of reassuring himself. All had been taken care of. Scot dead and now the car a convenient shambles--the only possible source of clues or evidence. How tidy fate had been. Strange. If only he had managed to get the money prior to Scot inadvertently doing away with himself. He smiled, how lucky he had been. Especially now, that Humboldt, too, was dead of God knows what and he, he was no worse off for his pains. He still might locate a cache or two on the property when all this blew over.

The other side of Jake's personality was now exerting itself, the peasant cunning of folk long inured to the earth's rhythmic cycles. He knew of the officer's steady gaze and his ploy. The officer was playing it smart, letting Jake see all the possibilities when asking his opinion. First mention the near likelihood of a robbery but be vague on the question of accomplices. And, of course, the question of the necessary instigation. Jake was wondering if he were looking a little too detached from his friend's death. A little too sincere? Then there was the issue of a second coroner if the evidence seemed inconclusive. Wild fantasies swept through his now activated brain. Did he dare? Might he risk it? Would the officer be ... well receptive to a little more ... er fact finding? And the best way to approach him? Hmmm.

Jake stared at the charred hulk of a bedpost. Humboldt's? The long deceased sister probably. He couldn't rightly tell but did recall Humboldt hadn't removed the bedding at the time of her death. Either way, he mused, he would have to let events take their course or steer them back his way at once. He pressed his manured boot over a darkened brick kicking it free.

"Am I free, uh, to go?" Jake asked the constable.

"Free to go, why, why shouldn't you be Mr. Wright?"

THE SANDPIT

Bertrand had been surprised by the recoil of his father's rifle. He had not prepared for the sight of the weasel pasted against the barn door, a dozen pellets alone penetrating its upper neck and mid-thorax region. A mass of blood and fur seemed to have been twisted onto the vicinity of the latch then held in place as if from afar by many bullet-like prongs. Surely, the calibre of the shotgun was too strong for his choice of game.