Lure (9 page)

16 - Max

Bureaucracy is a bitch.

I’d heard my dad say those words a million times when he was going through the frustrating process of looking for a new job last year … the job that eventually ended up uprooting our lives and bringing us here to Thornhill. But as many times as I heard him say it, I never understood what he was talking about.

Until now, that is.

It felt like it was taking forever to get permission to dig in the garden. Two weeks had already gone by since I’d first asked Nana and still nothing. Caroline claimed she was trying her best to hurry her grandmother along, but as far as I knew, the paperwork hadn’t even been filled out yet. By now, I could tell that Nana was getting tired of me asking about it, because she snapped at me whenever I tried to bring up the question.

I decided to try and take my mind off it by doing some research on fishing lures. I was no history expert, but I still was having a hard time believing that they would have been invented back in the olden days. When I Googled “old lures” I got lots of hits, but most of the websites looked a bit sketchy. So just to be sure, I decided to check out some books on the subject. Problem was, I didn’t want to do the research in the library on Colborne Street where John might see me. Or Caroline, for that matter. It had been hard, but I’d kept my promise to the ghost and not said anything about the wet messages that had appeared in the book.

After school one day, I walked up to the community centre branch of the library to look for information about fishing lures. That library was way bigger than the one on Colborne Street. I walked around confused for a few minutes, not quite sure where to begin. Finally, I decided to ask for some help.

“Do you have any books on old-fashioned fishing lures?” I asked the mousy-looking lady behind the information desk. “I’m trying to find out when they were invented.”

I waited while she checked her computer. It felt weird talking to a librarian who wasn’t Caroline or her grandmother … like I was cheating on them by being in another branch.

“Yes, we have a few books that can help you with that,” she said, scribbling some numbers down on a yellow Post-it Note. Then, pulling herself to her feet with a barely audible grunt, she led me over in the direction of a long wall of bookshelves. Once I had the right books, it didn’t take me long to locate the information I was looking for. Sure enough, like those website had said, fishing lures
did
exist back in the olden days. They were patented around 1890 and before then, they were usually handmade by craftsmen.

Also in the books, I found more pictures of old-fashioned-looking fishing poles and lures. I wondered if any of them looked like the one John wanted me to dig up from the garden. I just wish I knew a bit more about this ghost and why he wanted this lure back so badly. I mean, what did he think he was going to do with it, anyway? Caroline said that ghosts can have a physical presence … but dead guys can’t go fishing, can they?

I went back to the librarian for more books — this time I wanted to find out about ghosts. From the tall stack she collected, I went straight for the one with the creepiest cover. It was called
Paranormal
. After flipping around for a few minutes, I found this inside:

Some spirits are able to gather enough energy to communicate with people and interact with our world. Knocking on walls or windows; opening or slamming doors; moving, throwing, lifting objects; causing things to disappear, even appearing in human form. Cases of spirits having physical contact with people have been reported time and time again throughout history.

I closed the book with a slap as a chill rippled over my skin. Human form? Holy crap! Maybe this dead dude really
was
planning on going fishing! Either way, this definitely explained how he was able to write those wet letters in my textbook. He said his name was John … but Caroline said there were lots of Johns who’d lived in the house. Which one was the ghost? If only I knew his last name, then maybe I could figure out when he’d been alive. And what had happened to him. And how he had died.

Then I had another idea. Putting the ghost book away, I went back to the information desk for the third time.

“I’m trying to find out if there were any old newspapers printed in this area back in the 1800s. Can you help me with that?”

The mousy-looking lady frowned. “Well, there were quite a few newspapers coming out of Toronto at the time. But the only local paper would have been
The Richmond Hill Liberal
. That began printing back in … let me see … 1878.”

“You wouldn’t have any old copies that I can have a look at, would you?”

She let out a high-pitched squeak of a laugh. “Well, no, we don’t have the originals, if that’s what you’re asking. But we do have all of the early newspapers on microfilm. Will that do?”

“Sure … okay, thanks.” That was pretty old-school, but I’d take what I could get.

A few minutes later, I was sitting in front of a microfilm reader with the first edition of the
Richmond Hill Liberal
from 1878 on the screen in front of me. I started reading. The newspapers weren’t very long back then — only about a page or two. But since I had no idea what I was looking for, I forced myself to go over every article. It didn’t take long to figure out that Caroline had been right about one thing — there were a
lot
of guys named John back then. It was like every article mentioned one John or another.

John Lane, John Cook, John Grice, John Martin, John Wright …

After about an hour, my eyes were going buggy.

What the hell am I doing? This is like searching for a needle in a haystack! I don’t even know who I‘m looking for!

I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was 4:39. I decided to give it until 5:00 before quitting. With a tired sigh, I turned back to the microfilm reader. About a minute later, a short article caught my eye. It was from an edition of the newspaper dated September 21, 1889. The headline pulled my heart up into my throat.

Local Boy Still Missing

My pulse hammered in my ears as my eyes took in the rest of the article.

Residents of the village of Thornhill are still searching for fifteen-year-old John McCallum of 10 Colborne Street, who recently went missing from the area. McCallum was last seen by his cousin, William Bowes in the early morning of August 31st, whilst the pair were fishing in a millpond by the Don River. Accidental drowning is suspected, although both the river and adjacent pond have been searched and no body recovered. Any persons with information as to the boy’s whereabouts are strongly encouraged to contact Robert and Elizabeth McCallum.

By the time I got to the end of the article, all the little hairs on the back of my neck were standing up again. There was not a shred of doubt in my mind that this was it.
I’d found the right John!
The report even mentioned the house on Colborne Street. It
had
to be the same John whose ghost contacted me in the book. The article was accompanied by a small, dark photo. Although it was black and white and pretty grainy … I could sort of make out John’s short, neatly combed hair. When I squinted my eyes, I could kind of see some light reflecting off of his hair, so it might have been blond. But the picture was so smudgy it was hard to tell for sure. The kid seemed to be standing in front of a brick wall. Was this his school photo? He looked young, although the article said that he was fifteen when he disappeared. Just one year younger than me.

I looked at the face of this long-ago boy and suddenly felt a wave of pity push through my insides. The ghost wasn’t a woman or a man … he was a kid like me. If all he wanted was his lure back, that wasn’t asking so much, was it?

I sat back in the chair, staring at the grainy photograph on the screen in front of me. Getting official permission was taking way too long. It was the end of October … the ground would start to freeze in another month. I didn’t want to wait until next spring to help this poor kid get his lure back.

Yeah, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.

17 - John

Like an angry bull, I charged through the thick mud and seized William’s fishing pole.

“You thief!” My voice was so laden with fury that I scared myself with the sound. “Give me back my lure!”

For a brief second, William’s brown eyes widened in shock. Clearly, he hadn’t expected a fight from me. But an instant later, they narrowed back into dark slits. A smirk played upon his lips. “Calm yourself, Cousin,” he replied, pulling the pole away from my grabbing hands. “All I want is one more chance to catch Sir John A. before I leave for Kingston. Then I’ll return your precious lure.”

But I refused to release the pole. It was as if it had been bonded to my fingers. “Give it to me,” I growled. “It’s my lure! I won’t let you use it!”

The smirk disappeared from William’s countenance, leaving a dark scowl in its place. “Stubborn fool!” he taunted. Then, hurling his palm against my chest, he shoved me roughly to the ground. I lay frozen there for a moment, catching the breath that had been knocked from my lungs and silently gathering my strength. There, on the muddy bank of the pond, I thought about all the years of mischief and misery I’d had to endure at my cousin’s hands. In a few hours, he would be leaving to embark upon the next phase of his life. The realization poured over me like a bucket of cold water: this was to be our final confrontation.

And I would
not
lose to him again.

The sound of William’s snickering pulled me back to the moment. “Now run along home to Mama, little boy,” I heard him chortle as he turned back in the direction of the pond.

A moment later, the tip of William’s fishing pole bent down in a quick, jerking motion. “I’ve got something!” he cried out, forgetting all about me as he began to reel in his line. And in the next instant, something happened that had never happened before. Suddenly, I felt an enormous, irrepressible, all-consuming feeling of anger boil up inside my chest. The anger was red, hot, and urgent. It spread up and down my limbs like a disease until every muscle was seized with rage. It felt as if a demon had taken over my body. My hands curled into fists and my teeth clenched against each other like a grinding mill. With a savage cry, I leapt up from the ground, grabbed William by the shirt, and pulled him backwards. He fell upon his backside with a loud thud. The force of the fall must have surprised him, for the fishing pole flew back from his hands onto the muddy bank behind us. There it lay, free for the taking. But I was so consumed with anger that I didn’t even think to retrieve it. Looking back on that day, as I have so many times over the past century, I can honestly report that in the heat of my anger, I had completely forgotten about the lure. At that point, all I wanted was to hurt William. To beat him down, even the score, and force him to surrender by any means possible.

This was my state of mind when I jumped to my feet and pulled my leg back to deliver a vicious kick to my rival’s ribcage. But William was faster than I had anticipated. Roaring with fury, he caught my foot in mid-air and pulled me back down into the mud. My shoulder took the brunt of my weight as I fell to the ground. I heard something snap but, so consumed as I was with the fight, I paid little heed to what it might be.

Hurt … maim … hit … kick … destroy.

These were the thoughts that were beating through my brain.

A blow fell upon my face. And then another. My nose swelled with a wet heat that I knew must have been my own blood. But I was entirely too numb with rage to feel the pain. William was certainly heavier and stronger, but I was angrier, which evened our battle somewhat. “Give up, you puny runt!” he growled, landing another blow across my face. Instead of replying, I threw my head mightily forward against William’s. The sound of our skulls connecting was a sickening crack, like a dried stick being snapped in two. Now it was William’s blood that was flowing, which gave me more satisfaction than I can properly describe.

Had there been anybody passing by the pond at that early hour, they might have surmised that a fight was taking place between two large, feral animals. By that point, William and I were entirely covered in mud and filth and blood and snarling at one another like a couple of wild boars. The fishing pole lay on the ground behind us, forgotten while we scuffled on the bank of the pond.

Suddenly, I heard William call out.

“Stop! It’s still on the line!”

I turned my bloody head in the direction of his gaze to see William’s fishing pole flying across the bank, as if being dragged by an invisible hand. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought it was being transported by a ghost.

“It’s Sir John A.!” hollered William, trying to wrest himself free from my grip. Surprised by the moving pole, I released my hold on him. Whether it was Sir John A. or some other fish, I never was able to discern. But it was clear from the speed the pole was travelling through the mud that whatever was caught on the other end of the line must have been a creature quite big and strong.

“Come back!” William howled. The pole was just moments away from falling into the pond. We dove in unison to catch it. Mud splattered like an outbreak of measles across my face and I squeezed my lids shut to keep my eyes safe from the filth. Groping blindly for the runaway pole, I felt a great flash of triumph when my fingers found it and locked themselves around the narrow length of wood in a death grip. But William’s hands were fast, too. An instant later, my triumph faded away as I felt him seize the pole with all his strength and pull hard. I held fast and pulled back as the ire in my belly flared up again. The battle between cousins continued, both of us doggedly determined to cheat the other one out of this final victory.

“Let go!” William barked in my face. His nostrils were flaring furiously.

“No, you let go!” I grunted back. Together, we staggered back and forth on the shoreline like a pair of demented dancers, each of us refusing to give up the lead. Beside us, a startled flock of geese took flight over the water, honking loudly in outrage as they soared over our heads. Envy pricked at my heart as I watched their graceful escape. My energy was flagging. More than anything, I wanted to drop the fishing pole and fly away with those geese. The cloud of numbness was beginning to rise off me like the mist from the water. And that’s when the hurt began to set in. Suddenly, I could feel the intense pain of my broken nose, the ache of my sore limbs, the throbbing of my fractured shoulder. That’s when I knew I’d had enough. Gathering every bit of strength from my exhausted muscles, I yanked on the fishing pole for the final time. It flew from William’s grasp.

I’ve won.

This was my only thought as I stumbled backward from the force of my exertion. My shoes slipped on the muddy bank and in one fluid motion, with the fishing pole still clenched in my hands, I fell right over the edge of the precipice.

Into the pond I landed with a sinister splash.

The mill pond was surprisingly cold that late August morning … as if the warmth of the summer had been sucked from its depths overnight. Although shocked by the chilly water, fear didn’t claim my mood immediately, for I stupidly thought it would be a simple task to pull myself back up onto the bank. Before I could catch my balance, however, I felt my body being swallowed up as the bottom of the pond sunk beneath my feet like quicksand. Terror quickly set in as the mud devoured my feet, my shins, my knees. I tried to raise myself out before the rest of my body was overcome by the pond, but my feet were stuck fast.

“Help!” I managed to cry before my face was dragged down beneath the waterline. William scrambled to the edge of the bank and stretched his hand out to pull me back. “Clumsy fool,” he chided, although the expression on his countenance was tight with worry. His fingers hovered over the water, a few inches out of my grasp. “Come closer and I’ll pull you out. Then I can finish you off properly.”

Although I desperately wanted to be reassured by William’s seeming lack of concern for me, his act was not convincing in the slightest. As good a liar as my cousin had proven himself to be over the years, he simply wasn’t able to hide the dark streak of terror flashing across his features. And his voice shook with the imminent peril of my situation.

“Reach, John …” he begged, stretching his long body out onto the bank to support my weight “Just a bit closer and I’ll have you.”

I leaned my waterlogged body toward William’s outstretched hand.

“Almost there … just a bit farther,” he urged.

A moment later, the tips of my fingers brushed William’s, filling my heart with a slight gasp of hope. Just another inch or two and my hand would be in his. In my panic to reach him, I pulled on my stuck feet with all my strength, aware that my life depended on taking one more step. But as only one foot came loose from the mud, I lost my balance and fell sideways down into the pond. I was in the midst of screaming when my head went under the surface. My mouth, my ears, my nose were suddenly filled with brown water as my head plunged into the pond. And as much as I tried to cough the murky liquid out, more kept spilling in. I felt something long and sharp snaking its way around my ankles, binding them tightly, cutting into my skin. I tried to kick my legs free, but that just made it worse. My head spun with panic as I lost all sense of direction. Which way was up? Could William still see me even though I couldn’t see him? I opened my eyes, but the pond was so cloudy from my flailing that I couldn’t see anything. I tried waving my hands to signal my location, but my exhausted muscles and fractured shoulder prevented me from breaking the surface. Of course, it didn’t help that my ankles were still mysteriously bound, anchoring me to the bottom of the pond.

It was oddly silent down there. Under the weight of the water, I could only move at a snail’s pace. Every time I attempted to scream, another mouthful of water poured into me and burned a path down my throat. It only took a few seconds for the fire in my throat to spread to my chest. My lungs felt like they were burning for air and the fire only intensified with every missed breath. Panic seized my pounding heart as I realized the inescapable truth of the situation.

I was drowning.

Once I gave up the struggle, the end of my life was surprisingly peaceful. Quite the opposite of how you might imagine a death scene. There were no screams, no sobs, no desperate last-moment supplications to the Lord above … just the sound of water swishing over my ears and the beat of my racing heart banging against my ribs. When I saw the last bubble of air escape my lungs and rise up in front of my face, I knew it was over. At that moment, I gave up fighting and allowed my arms to hang limply in the water. A beautiful sensation of floating took over as I let the cold water wrap around my body like an icy blanket.

A gentle, fluid embrace.

The softest one I was to ever know.

And then, in the last moment of my life, I looked toward the heavens. Some distance above me, I thought I could see the blurred silhouette of William’s head against the grey morning sky. He was bent over the water, searching the muddy depths for my face.

And then I was gone.