Superior never gave
up its dead, and in school, Finn had learned about the terrible history
of shipwrecks during storms of almost supernatural ferocity there—the
wreck of the
Mataafa Storm
in 1905, the
Cyprus
in 1907, the
Inkerman
and
Cerisoles
minesweepers in 1918. Surely, Finn thought, no body of
water that carnivorous, with that much of a taste for human flesh should
rightly be called a lake.
But Bradley Lake was a lake—vast, serene, with water so deep and
cold it often looked black. Rising directly above it were a tiered grouping
of rocky outcrops of Canadian Shield granite cliffs surrounded by a rich
taiga forest of black spruce, jack pine, and Ontario balsam poplar.
Once at the lake, the path Finn took was a mile and a half around
and lined with paper birch and balsam fir. When he was younger, he’d
heard stories of coming upon bush animals in the darkness, but he’d only
ever seen one—a buck, last fall—and it had run off when Sadie started
to bark and chase it. He’d tried to restrain her but in the end he realized
that not only would she never catch the buck, she would have turned
tail immediately if it had ever stopped and turned towards her with its
antlers lowered.
Finn’s father had for a time urged him to let him train Sadie for
hunting, but Finn despised the idea of hunting, and his father, who
had learned which battles to pick with his son, decided to let it drop.
Sadie’s status as Finn’s best friend—indeed, his only friend—was thus
enshrined. This morning ritual hike, with Sadie bounding ahead of him
through the bush, was sacrosanct. It was a ritual that was only ever
interrupted if Finn was sick or injured, which he rarely was. On those
mornings, Sadie would lie beside his bed in his room and whine pitifully
until she realized he wasn’t ignoring her, but wasn’t able to take her out.
Then she would lay her head on her front paws and look up at him with
reproachful amber eyes.
Sometimes she brought the red rubber ball to him and dropped it at
the foot of the bed, as though it were the most marvellous idea ever.
Finn enjoyed the darkness and the silence of this last hour of night
best in the late autumn, when the air coming in off Superior was damp
and raw, and the yellow and red leaves on the trees lining the path
showered water down on him when he accidentally knocked them as he
passed by.
While most boys his age might have preferred to stay under the
covers for as long as possible in the morning, Finn wasn’t most twelve-year-olds. He’d never been like “most” boys his age, no matter what age.
This seemed to cause the adults around him more consternation than
it caused him. Finn may not have had friends, other than Sadie, but he
couldn’t miss something he had neither had, nor ever felt he needed.
Besides, Finn was in love. Completely, utterly, and irrevocably in
love for the first time in his life. It was a secret he worked hard to hide
from his parents, who were already worried about his inability to connect
with his peers. No point in making it worse.
He was in love with Dracula.
Specifically, he was in love with
The Tomb of Dracula,
a comic book
series, the first issue of which he’d found in early summer of that year
on the lowest rung of the spiral comic rack at Harper’s Drugs. Like all
true loves, no matter the age at which they occur, it was a blinding, all consuming passion that left little room for reason.
Finn thrilled to the cover: a luridly inked four-colour depiction of
the fanged Lord of the Undead carrying the limp body of a curvy blonde
in a green mini-dress. Dracula’s cape was edged in orange satin. Mist
swirled in the foreground. In the background loomed a castle framed by a
full moon. The banner read NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRE! With his heart in
his mouth, he’d paid his twenty cents and pedalled his five-speed Huffy
Dragster with the metallic gold banana seat as fast as he could back to his
house on
up its dead, and in school, Finn had learned about the terrible history
of shipwrecks during storms of almost supernatural ferocity there—the
wreck of the
Mataafa Storm
in 1905, the
Cyprus
in 1907, the
Inkerman
and
Cerisoles
minesweepers in 1918. Surely, Finn thought, no body of
water that carnivorous, with that much of a taste for human flesh should
rightly be called a lake.
But Bradley Lake was a lake—vast, serene, with water so deep and
cold it often looked black. Rising directly above it were a tiered grouping
of rocky outcrops of Canadian Shield granite cliffs surrounded by a rich
taiga forest of black spruce, jack pine, and Ontario balsam poplar.
Once at the lake, the path Finn took was a mile and a half around
and lined with paper birch and balsam fir. When he was younger, he’d
heard stories of coming upon bush animals in the darkness, but he’d only
ever seen one—a buck, last fall—and it had run off when Sadie started
to bark and chase it. He’d tried to restrain her but in the end he realized
that not only would she never catch the buck, she would have turned
tail immediately if it had ever stopped and turned towards her with its
antlers lowered.
Finn’s father had for a time urged him to let him train Sadie for
hunting, but Finn despised the idea of hunting, and his father, who
had learned which battles to pick with his son, decided to let it drop.
Sadie’s status as Finn’s best friend—indeed, his only friend—was thus
enshrined. This morning ritual hike, with Sadie bounding ahead of him
through the bush, was sacrosanct. It was a ritual that was only ever
interrupted if Finn was sick or injured, which he rarely was. On those
mornings, Sadie would lie beside his bed in his room and whine pitifully
until she realized he wasn’t ignoring her, but wasn’t able to take her out.
Then she would lay her head on her front paws and look up at him with
reproachful amber eyes.
Sometimes she brought the red rubber ball to him and dropped it at
the foot of the bed, as though it were the most marvellous idea ever.
Finn enjoyed the darkness and the silence of this last hour of night
best in the late autumn, when the air coming in off Superior was damp
and raw, and the yellow and red leaves on the trees lining the path
showered water down on him when he accidentally knocked them as he
passed by.
While most boys his age might have preferred to stay under the
covers for as long as possible in the morning, Finn wasn’t most twelve-year-olds. He’d never been like “most” boys his age, no matter what age.
This seemed to cause the adults around him more consternation than
it caused him. Finn may not have had friends, other than Sadie, but he
couldn’t miss something he had neither had, nor ever felt he needed.
Besides, Finn was in love. Completely, utterly, and irrevocably in
love for the first time in his life. It was a secret he worked hard to hide
from his parents, who were already worried about his inability to connect
with his peers. No point in making it worse.
He was in love with Dracula.
Specifically, he was in love with
The Tomb of Dracula,
a comic book
series, the first issue of which he’d found in early summer of that year
on the lowest rung of the spiral comic rack at Harper’s Drugs. Like all
true loves, no matter the age at which they occur, it was a blinding, all consuming passion that left little room for reason.
Finn thrilled to the cover: a luridly inked four-colour depiction of
the fanged Lord of the Undead carrying the limp body of a curvy blonde
in a green mini-dress. Dracula’s cape was edged in orange satin. Mist
swirled in the foreground. In the background loomed a castle framed by a
full moon. The banner read NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRE! With his heart in
his mouth, he’d paid his twenty cents and pedalled his five-speed Huffy
Dragster with the metallic gold banana seat as fast as he could back to his
house on
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