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PROLOGUE: A SUMMER NIGHT
Neutral tones dissolved white into black. Clouds of tarnished pewter hid the moon. Not even a whisper of wind feathered the lake, its glassy surface catching the reflected light. Twinklings of cottages rimmed the crater lake like stubborn fallen stars. There was a brief splash as a merganser duck led her paddling brood to shelter, the smallest perched on her wide back, struggling for purchase.
On a shelf of shimmering granite beside the water, a girl knelt, spilling the liquid crystal over her hands. Dressed in a simple white chemise, a slip perhaps, she crooned to herself, oblivious to the hum of ravenous mosquitos unfettered by the still night. Her hands crumpled the lacy needles of a tiny cedar sprouting from a rock cleft, and she brushed the rich perfume into her long hair. A dark, irregular pattern spread across the lap of her dress, or was that a trick of light?
From the house far above floated the strains of a violin concerto, Paganini, the rippling, fluid tones of Itzhak Perlman. The girl nodded her head to the music. Sudden silence, then a raucous country tune faded in and out, interrupted by static. The radio snapped off, replaced by a hurried conversation.
“I don’t know. She’s not in her room.”
“Find her. The way she has been acting . . . shouldn’t have been left alone.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, tentative at first, then heavy and deliberate across a wooden platform to the granite shelf. “Come inside. It’s late.” A hand reached out to her, and the girl swayed as she stood. At last the moon found a chink in the drifting clouds and dyed the dress burgundy with the intrusion of a single frame of technicolour.
“Oh, my God. What have you . . . ?”
She took the arm, leaning against it, and struggled to walk, blinking at the face as if emerging from a dream, or entering, confused and delighted, stunned and saved at one gesture. Her lips moved as she counted. She climbed the stairs, resting every three steps and sank to her knees at the top, where other hands reached out. The warbling sob of a loon echoed across the lake.
ONE
The Ojibwas called it Crust-on-the-Snow Moon, the full moon of the coldest month in a climate which suffered no fools. Technology had tried to even the odds, but people in Northern Ontario knew the illusory line between safety and danger. Snug behind triple-glazed windows, Belle Palmer scanned the lake to watch the bloodless sky ghost surrender to the sun. At -28° Celsius, this February morning was dead quiet. No loons ululating, no rain pelting from the eaves, no crickets chirping on the hearth or anywhere else.
The harsh growl of a snow machine near the deck caught her in a customary T-shirt, spoiled by the woodstove which warmed the house like a bakery. She yanked on sweat pants, opened the door, and was shoved aside as her German shepherd charged at a tall figure in a snowmobile suit. Then the man removed his helmet and the dog, transformed from attack to welcome mode, waggled up for a pet. “Hey, Freya, didn’t you recognize me?” he asked.
“Jim Burian, you cowboy,” said Belle. “Only the young and strong and crazy would be out in this. I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving dinner at your mom’s.”
“I guessed that you were up. The smoke looked like a fresh morning fire. Shouldn’t have gone out at this temperature, but I counted on stopping here on the way to the lodge.” He cocked a thumb at a boy throwing snowballs for Freya in the driveway. “The kid’s turning blue, too, though he won’t admit it.” He dropped his heavy boots at the door and called, “Come in here, Ted, before your nose falls off.”
“Coffee’s on. And I’ve got cocoa, too.” Though Belle disliked unannounced visitors, Jim she could talk with eight days out of seven. Ethical, hard-working, completely without pretensions, the Burians were golden currency in the region. Years ago she had discovered his family’s lodge at Mamaguchi Lake with its friendly charm. He’d been having trouble with grade ten English when they first met, so with her literature background she’d tutored him as a favour; then they had become good friends. Twenty-three now, having spent a few years as a Katimivik volunteer in the Hudson Bay area, he was a crack wilderness instructor who paddled the local canoe routes like the familiar streets of a neighbourhood. His course at Shield University was demanding most of his time, so they hadn’t talked much since the summer.
“Jeez, what a sauna! Strip tease,” he said, peeling off the suit, two sweaters and a pair of wool pants, leaving him in the same outfit as Belle, her mirror image, give or take twenty years. His face, chafed by the cold, had filled out from a gangly adolescence and recalled a young Tony Perkins. He brushed a hand through his thick, curly brown hair and got comfortable on the sofa. Just one flaw marred his even features, the traces of a harelip operation, camouflaged by sprouts of a new mustache. At age three he had been sent to Toronto for reconstructive surgery, and a more recent operation had repaired facial nerve damage. His crooked smile didn’t match his innocent presentation.
Ted, a younger version of Jim, happily retreated with Belle to her computer room, carrying a plate with toast and peanut butter, a mug of cocoa and a hint book to the game “Grim Fandango”. When she returned, Jim was sipping his coffee with obvious relief and rubbing his stockinged feet back to life. “Selling any properties lately? Or is the market quiet?” he asked.
Belle pursed her lips in mock despair. “With Madame Quebec’s constant threat to leave the marriage bed, nervous interest rates and depressed nickel prices, not much is moving.” The International Nickel Company, aka Mother Inco, had been until recently the town’s major employer.
As Jim leafed through Canadian Geographic, jade-green eyes reflecting the sun pouring in through the walls of six-foot windows, Belle engineered a giant omelet filled with chopped artichoke hearts and mozzarella. With a quiver of guilt and some minor salivation, she ripped open a package of hollandaise sauce mix. “Been saving this for someone special. You’re not a high-cholesterol time bomb yet, are you, laddie?” He shook his head. “Good, because after this concoction, your arteries will need an ice auger!”
Minutes later, they forked into the fluffy pillows of egg, oozing with mellow cheese and golden sauce, exchanging appreciative smiles instead of words. Finally, Jim slowed up enough to mention that his family had opened the lodge only a few weeks ago. “Too cold in January to bother. Seven weeks of -35° each night and -25° by day. This winter no one’s going to get his money’s worth from that megabuck snowmobile trail pass. Why don’t you come on up and see us?”
“I’d like to check out your new hunt camp, too, just value my toes and fingers too much. Where is the place?”
“About ten miles north of our lodge, Larder Lake area.” He rummaged through his suit and unfolded a topographic map. “Right here. Has a great stream, even runs all winter so I don’t have to melt the snow. I’ve been recording virgin pines in the area, hoping to get evidence to prevent that new park from being built.”
“Yes, I was sick to hear about such a stupid proposal. Tell me what you learned. Put me on the inside track.”
He gave her an unusually dark and serious look which surprised her. “It’s an ecological disaster in the making. You know that country, Belle. Those dirt roads the tourists will use cross some pretty sensitive areas. It’s on the edge of the only big tree country within fifty miles. We’re having a rally at Shield, March 15. I hope you can come.”
“I’ll spread the word to my neighbours. None of us wants any more activity on Lake Wapiti. We like living twenty miles from the nearest convenience store. It concentrates the mind.” Belle spooned up the last drop of
