Wilder's Foe

By Diane Bradley

Mysterious lights are appearing on Rainy Lake. When Henry, Dylan, Arla, and Rika hear that ghosts are visiting the lake, they laugh it off. But as they kayak back over the route where Arla’s parents disappeared ten years before, they find themselves stranded on an island, haunted by a real ghost, who doesn’t want them to leave . . . ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780878399826

Book preview

One: The Pickle

There were times I really loved my only cousin and times I really hated him. Right now, I wasn’t feeling kindly toward him. It was dark enough to barely see and cold enough to make me wish for a sweatshirt. Thinking about the warm bed I had been forced to leave I shivered and latched my hands around the prop end of Dylan’s dead motor. The old Evinrude looked abandoned on the rocky shore of Rainy Lake. Dylan checked the fuel tank as a loon’s haunting call floated across the lake. Two of the black-and-white checkered birds floated close to our dock, echoing a reply before they dove into the cold water.

Hold up, Henry, Dylan said, bending over to screw the gas cap back on.

Swiping my hands on my jeans, I stood up and watched Rainy Lake wake up. To the north, Canada was a thin, dark line. To the east, sunlit clouds in gold, red, and orange hugged the horizon, as the lake turned a rosy red. Dylan rocked the motor, crunching it against the rocks as water seeped out. He must have been dying. He loved his motor, which we all called the monster. I readjusted my grip and nodded to let him know I was ready.

On three, Henry. Up and over, Dylan said. One . . . two . . . three, he grunted as he lifted. At thirteen, Dylan was a full head taller and thirty pounds heavier, which wasn’t really fair since I was two weeks older. His motor had to be hooked onto the inside edge of an old fifty-five gallon oil drum sitting high on the shore of our family summer cabin, Wilder’s Edge. Last night, Dylan’s boat and motor had sunk into Rainy Lake. Motors don’t swim.

I lifted with my knees just like I had learned in safety summer camp last year. The motor tumbled over the barrel edge. Cold lake water sloshed out over the rim, soaking our shoes.

Dylan yelped, Don’t let it slide all the way down.

I grabbed hold of the motor and tried to lift. More water sloshed out.

Henry, you’re supposed to be helping, Dylan groaned. The water needs to stay in the barrel.

I am helping, I grunted back.

Not, Dylan sarcastically answered. I wanted to drop the motor and let it sink, but I didn’t. I tried again to lift the engine. We had to get it mounted on the edge of the barrel to get started. We were doing a pickle and not the green tasty kind.

I draped myself further over the barrel. My toes skimmed the rocky shore, kicking small chunks of granite. My heartbeat pulsated where the metal rim pressed into my gut. I struggled to tighten my grip, but the slime-coated metal slipped beneath my fingers. Water sloshed up to my arm pits as I jerked my chin up to keep it dry.

Henry, we have to get the motor hooked on the rim today, Dylan muttered.

I was new to engine-cleaning pickles. Dylan had dragged me out of bed even before our resident bald eagle had screeched. Every morning, the raptor would scan the lake for breakfast from our giant white pine just outside our cabin. Normally he was my alarm clock, but not this morning. Dylan had pulled me out by a foot and dumped me on the floor. I threw some clothes on and wobbled downstairs. My cousin pushed a bowl full of floating cereal at me. Holding the bowl of soggy nuggets, I was still trying to decide if I was even hungry. Watching Dylan slurp and inhale his cereal didn’t do much for my appetite. Dylan suddenly pushed his dark hair off his forehead.

Does this make me look like a pirate? Dylan asked. Eight stitches made a funny train track along his hairline.

I gave it some serious thought . . . for two seconds. Well, yeah, kind of. If you wore a bandana on your head with an eye patch, walked with a peg leg and had a parrot on your shoulder.

Dylan grinned and went back to shoveling cereal down as fast as he could swallow. He tossed the cereal bowl into the sink. The spoon rattled around the rim.

Funny, Henry, but hurry up. We can’t wait any longer. Dylan rushed out the screen door, letting it slam.

I took two more mouthfuls of cereal and followed him. My stomach rumbled, trying to wrap itself around the mushy cereal. Something was up. My cousin was famous for leaping before he looked. The sad thing was that I often leaped right after him.

We’re grounded, Dylan, I called after him. We had nearly lost our lives the night before, and Uncle Mike had laid down the law. That was ironic because he was the law. A six-foot-six U.S. Customs and Border Patrol officer, he had banned us from the lake for a week. Since holes in Dylan’s boat stranded us to dry land anyway, we didn’t complain much.

Pickles should be done within the first twenty-four hours of an engine getting dunked, and it was yesterday when we sank the boat. We had to do the pickle now.

Okay, Henry. Really lift now, Dylan shouted as though saying it louder would make me lift more. I put everything into it and felt the motor mount slide over the barrel edge.

All right, Dylan said with a triumphant grin. Have you ever cleaned up a motor before? He tightened the mount to the drum. I shook my head. I was a straight A student in academics, but Dylan aced all the other subjects.

Welcome to a pickle, he said and popped the toggle latches off the engine cover. Water gushed out as he pulled the top off.

Dang, it’s soaked. We’re going to have to strip it down and hope it’ll run again, he moaned.

Dylan, your motor barely ran before, I said, popping my head up. Creaking and rattling down the dirt road to the cabin, a rusted pickup slowed to a stop. Trailering behind the truck was a old, washed-out gray boat. Sid Bolen waved out the window.

Hey, Sid said as he slid out. The pickup door squealed as he slammed it shut. Sid ran Crazy Loon Air, a flying puddle-jumper business. He piloted a beat up DHC-2 Beaver plane that was older than he was.

Doing a pickle, yeh? he said, propping his butt up on the picnic table. Sid hitched his pant legs up to his knees, exposing white scrawny legs. An eager glint danced in his eyes.

Sid, you’re blinding me, Dylan teased. A plucked chicken has more of a tan than you.

Sid laughed, You didn’t even notice my new look. Razor scraped flesh gleamed white on his chin and cheeks. Sid had finally decided it was warm enough for his summer shave. The beard that had draped his chest only days before was gone. He ran a hand over smooth cheeks.

Nice, Dylan said, and then ignored him. He squinted at his motor and shoved a finger into an oily hole.

I heard you had quite the go of it last night, he stated.

I have known the old pilot forever. Sid loved to gossip. He would chat up a good story for a week or more. He often flew my family back and forth from Minneapolis, yakking the whole way.

Now where’d you hear that? Dylan asked. He examined the innards of his outboard motor and stuck his finger into a crevice. He pulled his finger out and rubbed it against his thumb. Grimacing he held up his fingers to show me the watery slime and shook his head.

First at Coffee Landing, then Ronnings, and again over at City Drug, Sid said.

That didn’t take long, I said. News spred like spilled milk in a small town. Dylan was still staring at the oil and water mix on his fingers.

Well, did ya? Sid asked, fishing for new details, nosing around. Dylan kept rubbing his fingers together with a frown on his face.

Yeah, you could say that, I said.

Dylan gave me a warning to shut up, but I had already said too much. Sid pounced.

So, Henry, where’s the gold? Sid asked. He hitched his pants up higher and gave a grin. I shut my mouth so tight, my jaw ached. I bent over to look at the dripping engine. The sparkplugs suddenly looked fascinating.

You found it! I’ll be dang, Sid shouted out. Folks have been looking for that gold since I was a kid.

What gold is that? I asked, trying to sound disinterested.

The River of Gold, he loudly announced.

Didn’t find it, Sid, Dylan calmly said. He blew into a hole and stuck a finger in. He pulled out a tube. A slow watery sludge dripped out. It didn’t look good.

It’s all over town that you found something big. Sid paused and judged us. Looking back at him square in the face, I tried to look innocent. He shook his head and grinned. If not the mother of all gold mines, was it the barge then? he asked.

Dylan and I both froze.

What barge? we both said.

Surprised at our reaction, Sid stammered, Oh, nothing.

What barge? I asked again. From the gold mines? During the gold rush in the 1890s, the mined rock was moved from the islands to Rainy Lake City by barge to be crushed and the gold collected.

Well, yeah, Sid said. Supposedly it was when they were loading or hauling the raw ore to the Rainy Lake City mill. One of those barges filled with gold ore sank. A whole season’s worth.

No one found it? I asked.

I don’t think anyone looked for it, Sid said. Probably a hundred feet down on the bottom of Rainy. She probably swallowed it up. It’d be darn near impossible to find it or bring it up.

Dylan’s fingers had stopped poking into his motor. Any idea where it might be? he asked.

Not that I know. You didn’t find it? Sid hopefully asked. I shook my head. Well, if you didn’t find anything, where did Dylan get that fancy stitching across his head?

I’m just clumsy, Dylan muttered. Sid didn’t buy it. He was ready to pull that lie apart when high in the pine tree, our resident eagle screeched and distracted Sid. Tilting his head up, Sid shaded his eyes for a look.

Over by Walleye, I quickly said.

Sid frowned, his forehead a mess of wrinkles. He knew there was no such island named Walleye. It was an old joke. When folks pestered you about where you went fishing, the standard answer would be Walleye Island. We had decided, along with our friend, Arla, not to tell anyone what we had discovered.

You say, Sid muttered and tugged on his Vikings baseball cap. He scratched his bony knees and turned his attention to the motor. I smiled. Sid had given up quizzing us.

She’ll be okay. Just needs a good scrub. Dry out the spark plugs, change the oil a couple of times, and blow out the fuel line, Sid offered. It was the same advice Uncle Mike gave us last night.

So how did you sink that boat of yours? he said, back at weaseling out information. Sid didn’t give up easily. He pulled himself off the picnic table, all bony knees and elbows, and circled Dylan’s boat lying upside down in the grass.

He leaned over the boat and ran a finger over a hole. Looks like real trouble to me.

Dylan frowned at me as though Sid quizzing us was my fault. He ignored Sid. Hand over that spark plug wrench, he said. He poured a bucket of water over the motor to get rid of the lake crud. The boat and motor had been submerged in Rainy Lake for hours before being hauled to shore.

I thought I knew what a spark plug wrench was. Spotting a wrench with a long socket, I handed it over. Dylan muttered approval. Relieved that I had guessed right, I stepped away from Dylan’s reach. He slipped the tool over the spark plug and yanked on the handle.

Nothing moved. Dylan readjusted his hands on the wrench handle and put all his weight into it. It was a lot of weight. Dylan had packed on some muscle over the winter. A squeal signaled the release of the plug. He tugged the socket wrench off and twisted the plug all the way with his fingers. Water bubbled out where the plug had sat.

Geez, Henry. We got water in the chamber. Let’s hope it didn’t bend the crankshaft or break the piston. Dylan looked distraught.

Sid shook his head and clucked. I had no idea what Dylan was talking about. I had never gone to a summer camp for motor repair. I gave a quick nod hoping that agreement was good. I heard something and poked my head up. A sharp ping of rocks bouncing around spokes announced