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Harriet set her paintbox on the washstand in the narrow room before tossing the duffle onto the skinny bed. She made a note she’d have to see if Mark Robinson knew anyone with a spare wool blanket she could buy or borrow. The Frasers were notoriously skimpy on providing home comforts for their guests. Oh, for a price they could produce just about anything, but a person had to be prepared to pay that price and be skinned alive. Something Harriet wasn’t willing to do. She gave a secret smile, there were ways and there were ways to get around the Frasers wanting to control every little thing, especially if those little things could be turned into a source of income for them.
She went to the narrow window and forced the window up an inch in its swollen frame. The sweet spring air was welcome to chase the musty scent from the room. Harriet shook her head while unpacking her few items of clothing. You would think that airing out the room was the least Annie could have done. Flicking back the threadbare quilt covering the bed, she shook the sheets and flipped the thin pillow hoping to dislodge any spiders or other insects that might have taken up residence, not to mention mice or other vermin. From past experience she knew Annie was an indifferent housekeeper at best. Satisfied that nothing was lurking, she remade the bed and shoved the duffle under the frame. Her fashionable heels clicked on the floorboards which creaked as she moved to the door and locked it. With swift movements Harriet shed the cumbersome skirts, petticoats and tight shirtwaist. Crumpling them into a ball she shoved them onto the narrow shelf running along the top of the ancient armoire. Time enough to worry about them once the end of August came around, or maybe, she considered, the end of September or October. The autumn colours of the bush must be spectacular. She clasped her hands in front of her waist for a moment, fingers itching to grasp a brush and capture the demise of the yet unfurled green spring leaves.
Laughing at her whimsy, Harriet stepped into a battered pair of trousers and pulled on a flannel shirt over a sweater. Sitting on the bed she stuck her feet into thick woolen socks and laced her comfortable boots. Making sure she’d left nothing personal lying about for Annie or Shannon’s prying eyes, she unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. It took only a moment to lock the door and scan the hallway. It didn’t look like many, if any, of the rooms were occupied yet, but it was still early in the season.
“I wonder if Tom has arrived yet,” she mused out loud while her feet carried her toward the stairs at the end of the long hall. The siren call of the bush was upon her, and Harriet was eager to answer. There was still the matter of arranging for the rental of a canoe for the season and she looked forward to a spirited bout of bargaining with Shannon. Honestly, the man would charge for the air his guests breathed if he could figure out a way to do it. Grinning, Harriet jumped over the last two steps landing lightly and heading for the door.
“Hello, Annie,” she called passing the tiny room that served as an office.
“Got everything you need?” The heavy set woman lifted her head from the papers on her desk. “For a few pennies extra I got soap and you can get more towels if you need ‘em.”
“I’m fine, Annie. But thank you.” Harriet carried on her way, eager to be out of the gloomy interior and out in the brisk air, warmed somewhat by the afternoon sunlight.
She followed the path down to the docks. The ice was still covering most of the lake, but patches of open water were showing around the edges. A light wind brought the aroma of wet earth and the cold watery scent of the thawing ice. Harriet made her way down to the water’s edge, boots sinking in the soft mud. She took a stick and poked at the thin layer of ice, fascinated as it broke apart into tiny crystal bits. The wind picked up, blowing hard enough to shift the decaying ice cover. To Harriet’s delight soft tinkling music rose from the shattering crystals. She stood entranced until the wind changed direction and the ice settled into silence once more.
“If only I could capture this in my art, somehow evoke the sound of that ice and the cleansing breath of the wind. If only...” She backed out of the mud and climbed up on the dock to gaze across the lake toward the two islands visible in the near distance. Big Wapomeo and Little Wapomeo Islands. The name came from the Ojibway term for birds of sun and laughter. Harriet had asked one of the women from the nearby native community she’d come across one day last summer while crossing from Joe Lake portage back to Canoe Lake. “Birds of sun and laughter, how beautiful and lovely. Like the loons.” She smiled. The haunting cry of the loons somehow spoke to the artist and poet in Harriet’s heart. It was a sentiment she shared with Tom Thomson, they’d had a long conversation about the loons and the other avian species that abounded in the area last summer. It was the same day she’d first me Tom while wandering about in the bush looking for inspiration. Sighing, she turned away from the lake and headed back toward Mowat Lodge. She’d ask Annie, or Shannon if she couldn’t avoid it, if either of them knew when Tom was planning to arrive. Winnie Trainor should show up soon afterward, of course.
Harriet liked the woman and they’d spent many hours tramping through the woods or sitting on the still lake in separate canoes watching the sunset paint the waters pink and salmon and saffron, fishing poles in hand and lines in the water.