Chapter Thirty

On a clear, cold Saturday afternoon toward the end of February, Lewis decided that he was finally strong enough to walk down to the harbour and along the sandbar to the dunes.

“You really want to go across the ice again? You’re getting quite bold, aren’t you?” Francis teased, but he agreed readily enough to go along.

The ice was solidly frozen and the wind bit at them as they crossed the channel, making their eyes water. They followed the trail along until they reached the clearing in the woods. The stench from the root cellar had dissipated, and anything that had been left behind had frozen, the slow putrefaction halted by the cold. The wreckage of the burnt-out cabin had been scattered by the crew of men who had gathered the bones, the crude stone hearth had been thrown down, the iron pot removed.

“What are we looking for this time, Thaddeus? You do have a habit of making the most amazing discoveries. I’m never sure what I’ll see when I’m with you.”

Lewis didn’t answer, because he wasn’t sure himself why he had come, except that he felt that he owed something to the wild creature who had lived here. One of many innocents caught up by the actions of others.

Francis stood by the shore and watched as Lewis picked through the fallen hearth stones. He made no comment when his father-in-law finally selected a flat piece of limestone, but he held the rock steady while Lewis scratched the letters on it with a nail. He helped scoop out a hole in the sandy earth under the cedar trees and together the two men lowered the stone into it, shoring it up with sand and more stones. When they were done, they stood before it in silence, their heads bowed. It was a plain enough remembrance, and would probably last only a winter or two before the stone heaved and the words were lost, but at least the intent was sincere.

The inscription was short. Lewis had been able to think of nothing more fitting than to simply mark it “Boy.”