The Mystery of Olsen Island

By Bert Brun

Eric Harmon is visiting his salmon fisherman Uncle
Larry and his wife, Olga, in beautiful British Columbia. He discovers a mysterious totem pole in the woods and soon teams up with a Northwest Native American girl, Jenny Whitefeather, to try to discover the pole’s story, which seems to be buried in ancient Salish Indian tribal lore. The two youngsters run afoul of two American marijuana growers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bert Brun
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465708533

Bert Brun

Retired oceanographer. Also worked as a high school teacher, rubber plantation inspector in Sumatra, and fisheries administrator in New Zealand. Bachelor and master degrees in science from New York state universities. First got the writing bug while in college and have published eight books in last 10 years plus three plays produced. Lived in eight states, most recently in Alabama, with wife Ann, four dogs and seven cats.

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The Mystery of Olsen Island

By Bert Brun

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Bert Brun

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THE MYSTERY OF OLSEN ISLAND

By Bert Brun

Chapter 1

The tiny inter-island ferry pulled away, leaving Erik and a tall gangly man on the rickety old pier. The man picked up his groceries bundle as Erik was pulling on his backpack.

The man looked down at Erik. Someone meeting you here, boy?

My uncle, Larry Holmboe.

Oh, Larry, okay. He’ll probably be along, but if not, follow the trail up the hill and you’ll find my place. You be okay?

Erik nodded, putting more into it than he really felt. He watched as the man headed up the hill and disappeared behind a bend in the tree line. He turned to face the water again, in time to see the ferry about to vanish into the gathering gloom.

The raw Canadian evening air sneaked under Erik's jacket, making him shiver. He peered through the swirls of oily mist rising lazily from the water, hoping to see someone. Nope. Nobody. Nothing. Where on earth was Uncle Larry? And why had he ever wanted to come to this dumb scary old place anyway?

Uncle Larr-ee, he yelled at the top of his lungs. That was dumb, but so was standing out there with night racing on and rain probably coming in and he couldn’t see the path up the hill to the guy’s house if he wanted to. And who and what else was out there? And so he yelled again.

Uncle Larr-ee, he shouted again, only to hear his voice waver as it fell. Please come soon, Uncle Larry, Erik prayed to himself, before it gets really dark.

Then he heard a voice from the gloom.

Hull-oooh, Erik, hull-oooh, faintly but sweetly riding down the water...

And in a moment Uncle Larry materialized, his graceful long oar strokes slicing through the calm water. In the bow of his sleek rowboat was a lantern casting a circle of rich yellow light, catching and enlarging the tiny fog droplets. Larger shimmers of water were caught, suspended in rippling repeated cascades each time the blade of an oar rose, hung, dipped.

Uncle Larry closed the gap between them swiftly. He was not a large man, but compact and solid. His face, fringed by a soft, brown beard, was capped with a crimson Cousteau watch cap, still vivid in the darkening light. Effortlessly he speared and flared with his oars to swing the rowboat around and parallel to the pier. A tiny, solid thump announced its final nudge against the wooden ladder.

Toss down your suitcase, Erik. Then climb down carefully. Might be a bit slippery from last tide.

Erik did as he was told and slowly lowered himself into the stern of the boat.

Good to see you, Erik, Larry said. Let’s scoot for home.

There was still light enough to make out rock-strewn, jagged islets as the rowboat glided and flashed porpoise-like between them.

Uncle Larry said little, concentrating on his task as captain and oarsman. The little boat seemed to leap through the now more open waters -- a needle thrust expertly through gray sea-cloth.

Hungry, Erik? asked his uncle, with a smile.

Yeah.

His uncle shipped the oars for a moment, drawing them glistening through squeaking oarlocks. He reached behind him, to produce the largest live fish Erik had ever seen. Eric’s eyes popped. He knew it was alive because the tail still wiggled as it dangled from the hand gaff in his uncle’s firm grip.

I got it trolling coming in for you. Made me late. Here's your dinner. Olga will fry it up for us. Ever tasted fresh salmon? You've got a treat coming! Better than steak. It'll melt in your mouth, so sweet and good.

The boy was hypnotized.

Here, hold it. Look at those colors.

In the lantern light the iridescence along the side of the brawny fish was breathtaking. Violets, silvers, greens, yellows, all jumbled like a splattered rainbow. It took both of Erik's arms to hold the salmon, compared to his uncle's one. He breathed the fragrance of the beautiful creature.

It's like the beach on a windy day, a special smell, but I can't remember it, like...

Iodine.

Yeah.

More where he came from, Erik. We'll get 'em.

Eric grinned. Maybe this place wasn’t going to turn out to be a drag after all.

Up ahead a light now beckoned. Dim at first, barely cutting the gathering darkness, but now fattening, inviting them to come closer. They rounded a final rock ledge and entered a tiny snug cove. The skiff glided smoothly alongside a thirty-foot floating dock sitting atop six empty oil drums.

Home sweet home, said Larry.

It was the strangest home Erik had ever seen, perched on a raft of huge lashed timbers, she sat, this little round, whatever-you-could-call-it. The sides were made of big corrugated wood shingles.

Cut those cedar shakes myself, Larry said.

Erik gaped at the float house. A sloping tin roof was its jaunty cap, from which a short perky chimney poked through. A curl of tart-smelling oak wood smoke issued from the chimney, and something else subtly mixed in the smell -- it was -- yes, fresh baking bread!

The door opened and Erik's Aunt Olga peered out, her round face stretched into a broad smile. Welcome to Olsen Island, she said. To 'Hus Holmboe,' as we like to say.

Erik climbed aboard the raft and Olga pressed the boy against her ample bosom.

Olga ushered him inside while Larry secured the rowboat, not before tossing the big salmon up to his wife. "Fry this one