James Bartleman's Seasons of Hope 3-Book Bundle. James Bartleman

Huxley couldn’t understand why her husband had been in such a rush to take in the Indian boy. The day of the fire, he had gone to the Indian Camp to see about the funeral arrangements for old Jacob and that tourist girl, Lily Horton, and had come home to say he had invited Jacob’s grandson to stay with them for a while, and he hoped she didn’t mind. And after she reluctantly agreed to let him stay for a few days, Lloyd had said they should let him live with them until he finished his high-school education in five years’ time. Maybe, he had added, they could adopt him, seeing as how his grandfather was dead and his mother, it seemed, didn’t want him. It would be an ideal opportunity to help someone who was in deep trouble through no fault of his own.

      Naturally enough, she had not been all that happy. Not that she had anything against Indians. After all, it would not do for a minister’s wife, especially in a small place like Port Carling, where everybody talked and where everybody knew everyone else’s business, to be prejudiced in any way, even if she believed Indians could never become fully civilized, however hard they tried, no more than tigers could change their spots. There was something wild, animal-like in their souls that set them apart from white people. You just had to look at them up close and see those black, unfathomable eyes. And Lloyd hadn’t consulted her before inviting him to spend a few days in her home, although she was the one who would have to cook his meals, change his bedding, and wash his clothes. He probably hadn’t ever seen a bathtub and wouldn’t know about the need to make one’s bed in the morning.

      This Oscar boy apparently did well in the few months he spent at the village school each year. But he never smiled or said hello when she saw him coming from the Indian Camp in the mornings, and he didn’t seem to have any friends among the other students. What did anyone know about him anyway? Maybe he was dangerous. Maybe he would steal the silver that had come to her from her grandmother who had brought it all the way from County Armagh, and run off and sell it somewhere if he took a dislike to them. She really didn’t want someone like that around on a long-term basis. But Lloyd had said that ministers and their wives were expected to show Christian charity, if only to set an example for the other people in the community. He was so set on letting the boy stay with them, and seemed so happy with the idea of it, that she had agreed to let him stay until he finished his high school. But, she told Lloyd, the boy would have to help out around the house, bringing in the wood, taking care of the furnace, cutting the grass, putting on the storm windows in the fall and taking them off in the spring, and shovelling the snow in the winter. And others in the community would have to pitch in and do their share, especially James McCrum, who made such a fuss over him right after the fire.

      And as for adopting him, she told Lloyd that she could never agree to adopt anyone that old. Maybe they could adopt an Indian baby, if he was so determined to have an Indian in the house. Baby Indians were cute and cuddly, but then all babies were cute and cuddly. And cute and cuddly Indian baby boys grew up to be great hulking, dark-skinned, black-eyed, black-haired, sullen, unpredictable teenagers, just like Oscar.

      6

      Oscar was worried when Mrs. Huxley knocked on his door and told him that Reverend Huxley and James McCrum wanted to see him in the study. They know I set the fire, he thought. Why else would they want to see me? The constable’s probably on his way to take me to jail.

      He entered the study and stood quietly by the door until Reverend Huxley saw him and pointed him to a chair. Oscar sat down, lowered his head, and stared at the floor like a guilty prisoner awaiting sentencing from a panel of hanging judges. No one spoke and he could hear the slow ticking of a grandfather clock from across the room and the buzzing of a fly, which he imagined had flown into the room by mistake and was now trying desperately to find a way out. He could hear the carefree shouts and laughter of boys playing softball in the schoolyard across the street drifting in through the open windows. It was obvious that they had not burned down the business section of the village and killed two people.

      Why didn’t they say something? He could take it! He could take the bad news!

      He could stand the tension no longer. What was happening could not be real. He gasped for air as his tongue grew thick and he found himself floating high up in the room close to the ceiling. He looked down and saw James McCrum and Reverend Huxley hunched forward in their seats, earnestly talking to someone who looked exactly like him, someone who obviously was his double. They were saying things that made no sense: “difficult time … the Lord works in mysterious ways … destiny … much good will come from this.”

      Reverend Huxley, he then saw, turned to McCrum and said, “Stop, stop, it’s too much for Oscar to absorb. Just look at his eyes. He’s totally confused.

      “Now Oscar,” he said, “we are trying to tell you that the two of us want to be your benefactors and provide for your high-school and possibly for your university education. You have suffered a great loss and have no one to take care of you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Oscar?”

      When Oscar’s double did not respond, Reverend Huxley said to McCrum, “I’m sure he understands. He is an intelligent boy, but he’s probably still in a state of shock from his grandfather’s death.

      “Now, Oscar,” he repeated, “I want you to listen carefully. Mrs. Huxley and I have agreed to let you live with us for the next five years while you attend high school here in Port Carling. You would be expected to help out around the house like any other boy your age and get a summer job to help with the expenses.”

      “That’s where I come in,” said McCrum. “You can start Dominion Day working for Clem on the Amick. If all goes well, I’ll give you a job at the general store when it’s open for business next summer. And if your marks are good enough, when the time comes, I’ll pay your tuition and living expenses at university. We should never forget,” he added, “that the Lord works in mysterious ways. He caused that fire that took the lives of your grandfather and Lily Horton and drove away your mother for a purpose. And that purpose was to deliver you into our hands so we could help you fulfill your destiny. And your destiny is to become a missionary and take the word of the Lord to the Indians up north!”

      “Do you understand what we are telling you, Oscar?” asked Reverend Huxley. “Have we made ourselves clear? Do you understand?”

      Oscar at first did not understand. No one had mentioned the constable or jail. And was he really being rewarded for destroying the business section of Port Carling and causing the deaths of Jacob and Lily? That seemed to be the case.

      “Thank you. I would like to be a missionary. I’m ever so grateful, ever so grateful,” he heard himself saying. He then drifted down to become one with his double and to shake the hands of his benefactors who came crowding around speaking at the same time, saying “you are credit to your people … take a few days off before starting work … tired, you look tired … go upstairs and get some rest … yes, go upstairs and get some rest.”

      “Thank you, I would like very much to be a missionary … it’s always been my secret dream … I’m ever so glad … I’m ever so grateful … ever so grateful,” he said, before excusing himself and going to his room.

      7

      That night, Oscar lay awake in an unfamiliar bed, in a strange bedroom just down the corridor from people he scarcely knew. Although relieved he had escaped the constable, flashbacks of the fire tormented him when he drifted off to sleep and he woke up sobbing. Desperate to ease his conscience and bring his suffering to an end, he decided to go back to the shack and seek the forgiveness of his grandfather’s shadow. Although afraid of what he might encounter, he slipped out of bed and hiked over the ridge to the Indian Camp, taking up a position in the dark under the cover of the white pines a hundred yards from the shore. From where he stood, he could see the moonlight shimmering on the water, and on the other side of the bay the outline of the Amick, moored as before to the government wharf. Other than the gleam of coals from a campfire left to burn itself out on the shore by a family that had gathered around it the previous evening to cook fried pickerel and bannock for their dinner, there was no sign of life in the sleeping community.

      A dog barked, and someone yelled “Be Quiet,” and the dog whimpered and was silent. For a moment Oscar