Lure (6 page)

This was all a bit too much for me. I don’t think I’d ever heard such a far-fetched theory in my life. “You actually think ghosts have regrets?”

“Yeah, I definitely do.”

I was about to reply when suddenly Caroline stopped walking and pointed to the left. “Okay, so we’re here. Want to go in for a little bit?”

I hadn’t been watching where we were going since we’d left the library. So I was shocked to find myself standing at the entrance to a graveyard. A bronze sign facing the road read:
Thornhill Cemetery
. Without waiting for my reply, Caroline walked straight in through the black iron gates, like there was nothing unusual about the place at all. When she realized that I wasn’t keeping up, she stopped and spun around to face me.

“Hey, aren’t you coming?” she asked, waving me over.

I was still standing back by the entrance. “Um … are you sure we’re allowed to be in there?”

“Of course, we’re allowed; it’s public property. Cemeteries are actually nice places to visit — I come whenever I can. And I thought you might want to see where so many of the original inhabitants of Thornhill were buried.”

“Um … okay,” I said. But my feet refused to move. This didn’t feel right to me at all. Cemeteries weren’t places you could just wander into for a stroll, were they? This would only be the second time in my life I’d ever been to a cemetery. The first time, of course, was at Papa’s funeral last year. I shuffled my feet on the pavement, trying to decide what to do.

Caroline’s lips twisted with amusement while she waited for me to start moving. “Wow, you’re not afraid of this place, are you? Don’t worry … I’ll protect you.”

That did it! “No! Of course I’m not afraid!” I barked, forcing my feet toward the collection of gravestones. Keeping slightly ahead, Caroline led the way through the cemetery while I followed behind. We were the only people there, as it was still very early on a Wednesday morning. It was quiet and surprisingly peaceful. There were trees all around, their swaying branches filled with chirping birds. The path was paved with a mosaic of flickering sunlight that shone down through the sparse leaves still remaining overhead. Every now and then, a little black squirrel would leap out from behind a gravestone and scurry across the path, as if playing a game of hide-and-seek. It was so calm and quiet that after a while I was almost able to forget that we were walking over a field of dead bodies.

Almost, but not quite. Because each stone called out its owner’s name as we passed by.

Arnold, Bowes, Ramsden, Ness, Chapman
— men, women, and children whose lives were cut off a long time ago, but whose names lived on in this quiet corner of town. Believe it or not, it was a strangely comforting place to be. Like a small corner of the world where immortality existed.

It took us about fifteen minutes to walk down the length of the path and back again. When we found ourselves back at the iron gateway, Caroline shook her head and sighed.

“I should probably get to work now. Nana will be wondering where I am.”

I didn’t want her to go. But I couldn’t think of anything I could say to stop her. So I just nodded.

“Okay … I’ll walk you back.”

Just then, a sudden breeze blew through the graveyard, pulling leaves from the trees and scattering them through the air like confetti. A fiery orange one landed near the top of Caroline’s head, sticking at a funny angle out of her hair. I don’t know what kind of tree it was from, but it was shaped like a large, round teardrop. I had a sudden urge to reach out and pluck it from her hair, but I held back. I knew if I did that, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wanting to smooth her hair down. And then I would want to touch her skin … and lean close to smell her. And then, of course, I’d want to kiss her lips, her neck, the hollow of her throat … and somehow I had a feeling
that
wouldn’t go over so well.

Get a freaking hold of yourself, Max!
I clenched my hands into fists, letting my fingernails dig into the skin of my palms while I tried to pull back my runaway thoughts. Was I some kind of twisted sicko for wanting to kiss a girl so badly in the middle of a cemetery?

So instead, I just pretended that the leaf wasn’t there at all as I walked her back to 10 Colborne Street. Trust me, it was just easier that way.

11 - John

It was the summer of 1888 and Thornhill was growing at a fast clip. The first telephone in the village was installed that year over at the Lindsay-Francis Store on Yonge Street. For a small sum of money, a person could conduct a long-distance telephone conversation with another person as far south as the city of York. It was a miraculous invention. I must admit, I was secretly envious for I’d always wanted to invent a machine just as miraculous in my lifetime. Something like a flying ship. Or a train that could travel underwater. But the long days in the forge didn’t allow much time for inventions. Of course, for my father, the arrival of the telephone was just another fine excuse to grumble about machines and the disastrous advances of science. That man could find the smallest spot in even the rosiest of apples.

That summer, I was fourteen and William was sixteen — both of us growing bigger by the hour. Certainly, we weren’t children anymore, but we weren’t quite adults, either. The purgatory of adolescence was upon us. And yet, because we were still so young and naive, neither of us had any idea that we were both careening toward the edge of a precipice. If only we’d been able to see it coming, things might have worked out differently. But of course, most mortals just aren’t equipped with that kind of extraordinary foresight.

I find it quite ironic that I only came to possess that gift in the spirit realm, where it can’t do me any good.

And so naturally, I had no way of knowing what kind of transformation had taken over my cousin during the winter months. When William arrived off the train that humid afternoon in early July, it was clear that everything about him had changed. I remember cringing at the sight of him. William had grown half a foot over the year since his last visit and must have stood close to six feet tall by my cursory estimation. He was a veritable giant! To make matters worse, I could see the outline of his newly broadened shoulders poking through his clothes and the dark stain of a full beard pushing through his once-smooth face. My cousin had transformed into a man over the course of the year. Just looking at him made my heart feel like it was sinking into my guts.

I knew that, like me, Father noticed the difference in William immediately, because his face broke into a wide grin at the sight of him. A strange sense of foreboding gripped me as I watched William search the sea of faces. A sudden impulse seized me — more than anything, I wanted to rush forward, push my cousin back onto the train, and send him straight home to Kingston. But it was too late to act on the impulse, for a second later he spotted us and was striding in our direction, his trademark smirk glued to his lips, his cap pulled rakishly down over his brow, and his bag slung across his shoulder like a hunting prize. Father leapt forward, grabbed William’s hand and pumped it up and down vigorously, in exactly the same fashion that he might greet a fellow tradesman.

“It’s good to have you back with us again, son,” he boomed. I winced again. I couldn’t ever remember a time when Father had addressed me as his son in the same prideful manner. The two of them strode off together while I trailed behind. I followed them across the road to the stagecoach with my head hanging low. In every possible way, it was clear to me that William was growing up while I remained just a child. Not knowing what I wanted in life or how to get it.

I’d never felt so miserable.

But that changed somewhat during the long ride back to 10 Colborne Street when William caught my eye and shot me a devilish wink the first moment Father’s head was turned. Believe it or not, I felt instantly better knowing that there was a part of him still childish enough to want to terrorize me. I started imagining what mishaps the coming months would have in store for me. You would think with all the trouble William caused for me each summer, I’d tell my mother to stop inviting him to stay with us. Although she felt a strong duty to her nephew, she would put a halt to the visits without hesitation if I asked. But the truth is — I was lonely. And when William was there, I wasn’t. One plus one equals two. It was as simple as that.

Before you get the wrong idea, I must confess that our relationship wasn’t all cunning and plotting. Certainly, we had some good times together, too. There was the forge, of course. Having another person there to break up the long awkward silences between me and Father was a blessing. And on days when we weren’t working, William and I sometimes played cards or took the horses for a run up Yonge Street. But by far, our favourite pastime was fishing in the Don River and the various mill ponds along its banks. Sometimes on a hot, windless day we’d sit on the shore and dangle our feet in the dark green water. Or, if no other person was near, we’d tear off our shirts, dip our hair in the pond and then straighten up and let the cool water drip down over our sweaty bodies. As tempted as William and I were to jump in when the weather turned hot, neither of us could swim worth a lick. So we did our best to stay cool along the shoreline.

The afternoon that William first hooked Sir John A. was one of those hot, windless days. Let me be clear from the start that I am referring to a fish, not our country’s honourable first prime minister.

It was a Sunday. After church that morning, we returned home to change our clothes and fetch our fishing poles. Then we headed off to the Don. As usual, we cut through several neighbouring fields to get to the river that afternoon. Along the way we stopped to dig up some juicy worms and after we’d each collected a handful, we stuck them into our pockets so they couldn’t escape. Along the way, we talked about trying our luck in one of the mill ponds, where we’d seen some bigger fish jumping the previous week. I recalled that it was the pond with the big willow tree at the south end, bent over like an old grandfather with the tips of its branches just grazing the ground.

Once William and I located the pond, we threaded the wriggling worms onto our hooks and then, as we often did when we went fishing, we separated from one another in order to keep our lines from crossing and getting tangled in the water.

“You take the north side, I’ll take the south,” William directed, turning and disappearing through the forest of tall reeds. I waited for a moment, listening to the crunch of his footsteps growing fainter with every step until finally they were too far away to hear. Then, dutifully, I headed off to my end of the pond. My hopes were to catch a big carp that day and present it to my parents for their dinner. But in the back of my head, I knew that William was probably hatching a similar plot. Fishing with my cousin was always a competition. Who would bring home the bigger catch and earn my father’s praise? In previous years, my cousin was always the one to catch the biggest fish. But, to everyone’s surprise, I’d been holding my own with William this summer.

And there are no words to describe to you how I relished the notion of the considerable irritation that brought to his life.

I cast my line out into the dark water and watched the worm sink slowly down until it was out of my sight. Then, taking a seat on a nearby rock, I pulled back and forth on the line to keep the worm from settling on the muddy bottom of the pond. A big, blue dragonfly flitted across the rippling water, its wings shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. The pointed tips of the surrounding reeds swayed and sighed in the soft breeze.

“Come on, fish,” I sang out. “Come get your lunch.” I held my breath and waited, but the croaking of a nearby frog was the only reply. Either the fish on my end of the pond weren’t hungry or my singing scared them off, for I didn’t even get one nibble that afternoon. Lady Luck, however, had chosen to smile upon my cousin. About twenty minutes after we’d first separated, I heard him bellowing from the other side of the pond.

“John! I’ve got one!”

Now normally that kind of announcement wouldn’t be any reason for concern. But there was an uncharacteristic urgency in William’s voice that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. In a trice, I dropped my own pole and dashed off toward the south end of the pond.

“John, come quick!” William’s voice surged across the water again. “And get the net!”

“I’m coming!”

I pushed through the overgrowth of reeds, trying to run as fast as I could without slipping on the green, spongy ground. When I finally reached William, however, I found that there was no need for the net. The battle was clearly over. He was collapsed on the bank, pole at his side, and streams of sweat running down his face. He was scowling ferociously in the direction of the water, his broad chest heaving with exertion. I stared at him in shock. My big strong cousin had lost to a
fish
?

“What happened?” I called out, rushing to his side. It was a strange feeling to see William looking so vulnerable.

“I had him on the line, but he was too powerful,” he explained, his words emerging slowly between each panting breath. “I thought he’d drag me into the pond with him, he was that big. I held on to him for a minute and managed to pull him toward me when he got away. He even broke my pole.”

And here he held up the remains of his fishing pole, snapped off in the middle by the treacherous fish. Suddenly, I felt like laughing. In an effort to conceal my smirk, I looked out onto the water, searching for signs of the struggle. The pond was smooth as glass, save for the lonely head of a small painted turtle peeking through the surface for a breath of air.

“What kind of fish was he?” I asked, desperate to imagine the scaly beast that had conquered William. Could he hear the smile hiding behind my words?

“I don’t know … maybe a carp, possibly a northern pike. But it was certainly the biggest fish I have ever hooked. He must have weighed close to twenty pounds. He was enormous!”

It was difficult to imagine the mill pond sustaining a fish of that size, but I held my tongue. Tossing his broken pole to the side, William rose to his feet.

“Yes, Sir John A. was certainly the biggest fish I have ever hooked,” he repeated, slapping the mud from his hands with a series of loud claps.

Sir John A.?
That just wouldn’t do!

“Pardon me, William … but don’t you think it’s blasphemous to name a fish after our prime minister?”

He frowned and let out a crude, swine-like snort. “Blasphemous? Don’t be stupid, little cousin.”

“But he’s been granted a knighthood,” I argued, ignoring his coarseness. “Under the order of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, no less. To give a fish the same name …”

“… is a show of respect,” he cut in. “Why shouldn’t every great leader have a great name? And after all, Sir John A. is the biggest, most powerful fish in the pond.”

I stopped talking, for how could I argue with that reasoning? I watched in silence as William picked up the remains of his broken pole and flung them into the water. After that, he didn’t want to fish anymore.

“I need a new pole and Sir John A. needs a break to gather his strength back,” he said. “It just wouldn’t be fair to go after him again so soon.”

I imagined perhaps it was really William who needed the strength-gathering break, but I kept that thought to myself.

“Fine, we’ll come back next week after church,” I replied. “We can try to get him then.”

The sun was just beginning to make its way down from the height of the sky. William and I leaned lazily back among the tall reeds and stared up into the cloudless ceiling above us. A family of mallard ducks napped under the shade of the willow tree, their bills nestled under their wings like little children tucked snugly into their beds.

A cicada buzzed loudly somewhere nearby.

“Do you know that there’s a girl back in Kingston with eyes that exact colour of blue?” William whispered, pointing upwards. I turned to look at him in shock. Why did his voice suddenly sound so hoarse? It was as if there was something caught in his throat.

“Her name is Martha Henry and she’s got the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen,” he continued, slowly lowering his hand. “Bluer than that sky. And hair brighter than sunlight on the water.”

My brow pleated with concentration as I tried so hard to imagine eyes like he described. A second later, I heard the dried reeds rustle under William’s head as he turned toward me.

“Martha’s family lives in the house next door to mine. Perhaps you remember meeting her that summer you visited Kingston?”

My thoughts flew back to that summer. I could vaguely recall the memory of a golden-haired girl who had found me crouched behind a raspberry thicket during a neighbourhood game of hide-and-seek. She’d looked to be a few years older than me and had a face so lovely and sweet that I remember thinking it belonged on a church stained-glass window. Could that have been Martha Henry?

“Can you keep a secret, John?” William continued.

A secret?
I nodded dumbly and waited to hear what he had to say. It was the first and only time my cousin had ever confided in me.

“I kissed Martha last winter. I kissed her twice, actually. She was incredibly … soft.”

Soft?
An odd feeling started to grow in the pit of my stomach. It was like a small flame that was growing, expanding like a wildfire until I felt my whole face and neck begin to burn with the heat. My imagination stretched across the space between us to catch up to his thoughts.

“Which part of her was so soft?”

He smiled a secretive, smug smile. And then his deep voice lowered to a light murmur, as if he was confessing to a priest. “She was soft all over. Her hair, her lips, her skin, her …” His voice trailed off into deafening silence. My mind spun.