to do with his time. He had lots of time.
He was far too busy for loneliness to enter his mind. It was September and he could not remember a September when he wasnât at school. He thought about Mrs. Agnew. He imagined showing her around the cabin, making her supper there.
He thought about her finding the book she had given him, in his old desk. He hoped she wouldnât think he hadnât wanted it. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
15 SWEPT AWAY
A month passed. A month and a bit. Burl measured the days in groceries. His boxes emptied slowly but steadily.
Fall set in hard. It rained in cold grey sheets, and when it wasnât raining there was invariably a cloud cover that hung like a badly strung and leaky tarp over Ghost Lake. On bad days Burl stayed in and fought his way through the Revelation.
Flickering lights didnât make it easy. There was something wrong with the generator: a dirty filter, contaminated fuel â he wasnât sure what. He wasnât sure which heâd run out of first: food or electricity.
It was hunting season. Flights in and out of the bush increased until there were planes coming Burlâs way almost daily, but none of them touched down on his lake. Each distant buzzing brought on a low-level pain in Burlâs head, like a tooth that needed attending.
He couldnât be sure the Maestro would allow him to stay. He was not a boy who had grown up with any guarantees about anything, but this â this he wanted so much. He imagined scene upon scene with Nathaniel Orlando Gow. He prepared himself for every kind of take two.
Nothing, however, quite prepared him for what was to happen.
Indian summer rolled in. And so it was on a rare sunny day that Bea returned. Burl was out on his raft fishing for pickerel in deep water off the cliff from which he had first spied Ghost Lake. Despite the sun, a metallic, wintry-tasting cold came up from the bottom of the lake. His feet were frozen up to the ankles; buoyancy was not his craftâs best quality. Then came the drone and the speck in the wide sky getting closer.
He recognized the orange floatplane with the black stripe down the side. He waved. Bea tipped her wing at him. She did not need to circle upland to make her approach, for even on a fine day now the wind blew nearly always out of the north.
He rowed hard, but with a piece of one-by-three whittled into a very rough paddle, his progress was slow. Bea reached the beach before he did. He looked to shore expectantly. She didnât seem to have a cargo or a passenger this time around. She stood on the beach kicking at the sand with her toe, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
Burl straightened up. He stopped rowing. Something about her stance made him want to just let the offshore breeze blow him away down the lake.
She gazed out at him. She still had her shades on but she held him in her vision as surely as if he were a runway on a stormy day. So he paddled again, despite the wind and despite the churning in his stomach. She was reeling him in.
Bea gave him a hand to haul his raft onto the shore. When he looked up to thank her, the words stuck in his throat. The set of her jaw was grim.
âI got some bad news,â she said.
Once upon a time, Burlâs mother told Cal to show the boy a little love. So Cal had written the letters L O V E with a ballpoint pen on the knuckles of his fist and asked Burl how much love he wanted. Nothing bad ever really came as a surprise to Burl.
âItâs your Mr. Gow,â said Bea, clearing her throat a bit. âThere isnât any easy way to say this. Heâs gone. He died.â
Burl took a couple of deep breaths, as if he was going to dive for something a long way down.
âIt was a coupla days back. I got up here as soon as I could.â
Burl held onto his breath, wouldnât let it escape.
âIt was in all the papers,â said Bea. âFront page in the Toronto Star
He was far too busy for loneliness to enter his mind. It was September and he could not remember a September when he wasnât at school. He thought about Mrs. Agnew. He imagined showing her around the cabin, making her supper there.
He thought about her finding the book she had given him, in his old desk. He hoped she wouldnât think he hadnât wanted it. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
15 SWEPT AWAY
A month passed. A month and a bit. Burl measured the days in groceries. His boxes emptied slowly but steadily.
Fall set in hard. It rained in cold grey sheets, and when it wasnât raining there was invariably a cloud cover that hung like a badly strung and leaky tarp over Ghost Lake. On bad days Burl stayed in and fought his way through the Revelation.
Flickering lights didnât make it easy. There was something wrong with the generator: a dirty filter, contaminated fuel â he wasnât sure what. He wasnât sure which heâd run out of first: food or electricity.
It was hunting season. Flights in and out of the bush increased until there were planes coming Burlâs way almost daily, but none of them touched down on his lake. Each distant buzzing brought on a low-level pain in Burlâs head, like a tooth that needed attending.
He couldnât be sure the Maestro would allow him to stay. He was not a boy who had grown up with any guarantees about anything, but this â this he wanted so much. He imagined scene upon scene with Nathaniel Orlando Gow. He prepared himself for every kind of take two.
Nothing, however, quite prepared him for what was to happen.
Indian summer rolled in. And so it was on a rare sunny day that Bea returned. Burl was out on his raft fishing for pickerel in deep water off the cliff from which he had first spied Ghost Lake. Despite the sun, a metallic, wintry-tasting cold came up from the bottom of the lake. His feet were frozen up to the ankles; buoyancy was not his craftâs best quality. Then came the drone and the speck in the wide sky getting closer.
He recognized the orange floatplane with the black stripe down the side. He waved. Bea tipped her wing at him. She did not need to circle upland to make her approach, for even on a fine day now the wind blew nearly always out of the north.
He rowed hard, but with a piece of one-by-three whittled into a very rough paddle, his progress was slow. Bea reached the beach before he did. He looked to shore expectantly. She didnât seem to have a cargo or a passenger this time around. She stood on the beach kicking at the sand with her toe, her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
Burl straightened up. He stopped rowing. Something about her stance made him want to just let the offshore breeze blow him away down the lake.
She gazed out at him. She still had her shades on but she held him in her vision as surely as if he were a runway on a stormy day. So he paddled again, despite the wind and despite the churning in his stomach. She was reeling him in.
Bea gave him a hand to haul his raft onto the shore. When he looked up to thank her, the words stuck in his throat. The set of her jaw was grim.
âI got some bad news,â she said.
Once upon a time, Burlâs mother told Cal to show the boy a little love. So Cal had written the letters L O V E with a ballpoint pen on the knuckles of his fist and asked Burl how much love he wanted. Nothing bad ever really came as a surprise to Burl.
âItâs your Mr. Gow,â said Bea, clearing her throat a bit. âThere isnât any easy way to say this. Heâs gone. He died.â
Burl took a couple of deep breaths, as if he was going to dive for something a long way down.
âIt was a coupla days back. I got up here as soon as I could.â
Burl held onto his breath, wouldnât let it escape.
âIt was in all the papers,â said Bea. âFront page in the Toronto Star
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