Danger at the Landings for pdf.indd Read online

  Danger at

  The Landings

  Sequel to Ellie’s New Home & The Freezing Moon

  BECKY CITRA

  an

  orca

  young reader

  GRADES 2 - 5

  AGES 7 - 10

  an

  orca

  young

  reader

  Max longs for adventure, but is expected to

  be an obedient son and a helpful younger

  brother. When his pig, Hambone, is slaugh-

  tered, Max resolves to run away. Instead, he

  is bundled off to stay with his stern and de-

  manding uncle, the miller at The Landings.

  There, adventure finally comes to Max when

  he least expects it.

  Becky Citra is a primary school teacher and writer who

  lives on a ranch in Bridge Lake, BC, where horses,

  bears and coyotes abound, and where many of the

  chores have not changed much since Max’s day.

  $6.95 CAN

  $4.99 USA

  cover art by Don Kilby

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  an

  orca

  young

  reader

  Danger at

  The Landings

  Becky Citra

  $6.95 CAN

  $4.99 USA

  Orca Book Publishers

  Copyright © 2002 Becky Citra

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any

  information storage and retrieval system now known or to be

  invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Citra, Becky

  Danger at the Landings

  “An Orca young reader”

  ISBN 1-55143-232-3

  1. Frontier and pioneer life--Canada--Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

  PS8555.I87D36 2002 jC813’.54 C2002-910841-1

  PZ7.C499Da 2002

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2002109532

  Summary: When Max is bundled off to stay with his uncle, the miller, in an Upper Canada village, the adventure he longs for comes when he least expects it.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support of

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Department of Canadian Heritage, the Canada Council

  for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Design by Christine Toller

  Cover illustration by Don Kilby

  Interior illustrations by Cindy Ghent

  Printed and bound in Canada

  IN CANADA

  IN THE UNITED STATES

  Orca Book Publishers

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B

  PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada

  Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4

  98240-0468

  04 03 02 • 5 4 3 2 1

  To my nephew Mark Kearns,

  a great reader and writer,

  for all his help on this book.

  Chapter One

  “Somebody’s coming!” I cried.

  A birchbark canoe skimmed over the

  gray lake. A man in the stern paddled

  hard. He headed straight toward Ham-

  bone and me.

  Sometimes canoes from the Indian

  camp came to our farm. Our friends Sarah

  and Peter brought us fresh salmon and

  berries. They visited with Papa and went

  home with small bags of flour and sugar

  and tea.

  But this was not an Indian canoe. I

  crouched beside Hambone and put my hand

  on his bristly back.

  Hambone was my pig. I took him eve-

  rywhere. He was fat and pinky gray with

  1

  small black freckles. That morning I had

  brought him to the lake to wash his back.

  Afterward I scratched his belly with a stick,

  which was his very favorite thing.

  The canoe flew toward our farm. I could

  see the man clearly now. He had a black

  beard and he wore a bright red cap. My

  heart thumped. A lumberman from the

  logging camp!

  I jumped up. I’d seen the lumbermen go

  past our farm lots of times, guiding their

  huge log rafts with their canoes. They had

  a camp in the forest at the end of the lake.

  I wanted desperately to visit them, but

  Papa said a lumbercamp was no place for

  a young boy. Sometimes Papa forgot that

  I was almost nine years old. He treated me

  like such a baby!

  Kate, who lived at the farm next to ours,

  told Papa, “Lumbermen are wild and they

  drink something awful!” I kicked her leg to

  make her stop, but it made no difference.

  Papa wouldn’t budge.

  Sometimes, when the lumbermen poled

  2

  by on their rafts, they were so close I could

  see their blanket coats and colorful belts. I

  could hear their voices shouting out words

  in a strange language that Papa said was

  French. I always waved. They waved back,

  but they never stopped.

  Today a lumberman was coming to our

  farm!

  I shifted from foot to foot while the

  man slid the canoe expertly onto the grassy

  shore.

  “I’m Max! The boy who waves to you!”

  The man leaped out of the canoe. He

  thrust out his hand. “I am Pierre.” His

  voice sounded funny, like a song.

  I tried to look serious when I shook

  Pierre’s hand. I added gravely, “And this

  is Hambone.”

  “Ah,” said Pierre. He inspected Hambone

  carefully. “Un bon couchon.”

  I frowned, and Pierre said in his funny

  voice, “A good pig.”

  “Yes, he is,” I said. “Very good.” We

  both looked at Hambone. He looked back

  3

  at us with his small black eyes.

  A needle of worry poked at me. “He is

  my pig, but Papa named him,” I said. “He

  named him Hambone so I won’t forget.

  Papa says Hambone is not a pet like our

  dog, Star, or our cat, Pirate. Papa says we’re

  raising Hambone so we’ll have a nice fat

  pig to butcher.”

  I lowered my voice. “Papa wants to eat

  Hambone!”

  Suddenly my face felt hot. Pierre would

  think I was a baby too! But Pierre looked

  horrified. He rubbed behind Hambone’s

  ear and Hambone squeaked joyfully. That

  was Hambone’s second favorite thing. I

  wondered how Pierre knew.

  Then I remembered my manners. “Can

  I help you?”

  Pierre straightened. He held out a bat-

  tered tin cup. “I need some fire.”

  Fire! I must have looked surprised be-

  cause Pierre laughed. “The rain last night.”

  He made a whooshing noise. “Right on our

/>   campfire. Out!”

  4

  I laughed too. “That rain almost got

  Papa and me!” I said.

  Yesterday Papa ploughed our new field.

  All day the plough creaked behind the

  tired horses. I walked behind and picked

  rocks. Papa had just put Billy and George

  in the barn and shut the door when black

  clouds filled the sky and the rain poured

  down.

  I grinned at Pierre. “Come with me!”

  Papa and Ellie and I lived in a log

  cabin on our farm. It was a fine cabin

  with big windows, a huge stone fireplace

  and three rooms. Books filled up two

  whole shelves. Once a man walked ten

  miles through the bush just to see our

  books.

  Papa and El ie and I had sailed to Canada

  on a huge ship more than two years before.

  It had taken Papa all that time to build our

  farm in the wilderness. Now we had two

  cleared fields, a vegetable garden, a barn

  for our cow, Nettie, and the horses Billy

  and George, and lots of stumps. I never

  5

  minded the stumps, but Ellie hated them.

  Every spring she planted beans and pump-

  kins so they didn’t show as much.

  When I complained to Papa that I never

  had time for adventures, Papa laughed and

  said, “Coming to Canada was a great big

  adventure!”

  “But, Papa,” I protested. “That was so

  long ago I can hardly remember!”

  We had a fine farm, and I hoped Pierre

  thought so too as he walked beside me. He

  whistled a happy tune as we followed the

  path from the lake to our cabin.

  Star was sleeping on the porch. He stood

  up, hair bristling, and growled.

  “Pierre is a friend,” I said firmly.

  Star flopped back on his tummy

  and watched Pierre through half open

  eyes. I could hear Ellie and Kate chatter-

  ing through the open door. They fell si-

  lent when we entered. Ellie and Kate had

  been peeling and drying apples all

  morning. The cabin smelled sweet and

  delicious. Strings of pale apple rings stretched

  6

  from one end of the room to the other, drying

  in front of the big stone fireplace. Our

  cat, Pirate, crouched on the floor, his

  eyes on the apples, his tail twitching.

  “This is Pierre,” I announced proudly.

  “He needs some fire.”

  Ellie and Kate stared at us. I almost gig-

  gled because they looked like fish with their

  mouths hanging open. Then El ie smoothed

  her apron and said, “Of course.”

  Pierre ducked under the string of ap-

  ples. He picked up two chips of wood

  and carefully lifted a hot coal out of

  the fireplace. He dropped it into his tin

  cup.I wished Ellie would invite Pierre to

  stay for tea. I stared hard at her, but she

  didn’t. And, for once, the cat had Kate’s

  tongue.

  “Merci,” said Pierre. “Thank you.” He

  smiled and his white teeth flashed in his

  brown face.

  Kate gave a small squeak.

  “Merci,” I said boldly. I snatched a

  7

  handful of apple rings from the table and

  dashed after Pierre, out of the cabin and

  back to his canoe.

  Hambone was rolling in a patch of mud

  by the lake. We both laughed at him, and

  then Pierre climbed in his canoe. He set his

  tin cup with the hot coal on the bottom.

  “Good bye, Max. Good bye, Hambone.” He

  paddled away from the shore with strong

  strokes.

  El ie hol ered from the cabin door, “Max!

  Max! You come back here right now!”

  I sighed heavily. Ellie was the bossiest

  sister in Upper Canada.

  “Max! I need you!”

  She and Kate probably had a thousand

  nosy questions to ask me about Pierre.

  Or a million boring chores to make me

  do.I pretended not to hear.

  Pierre’s canoe disappeared around the

  point. I sighed enviously. No one told

  Pierre what to do. No one made him do

  boring chores. He was free to have all the

  8

  adventures he wanted.

  I decided right then that when I grew up

  I would be a lumberman like Pierre.

  Hambone pushed against my leg. I

  rubbed his ears and fed him pieces of

  apple. His tongue felt rough and warm

  on my hand.

  Pierre had said that Hambone was a

  good pig. I struggled for the French word.

  A bon something.

  “You’re a bon pig, Hambone,” I whis-

  pered with a glimmer of hope. After

  all, Papa hadn’t talked about butchering

  Hambone for a long time. A very long

  time.

  My worry melted away.

  Papa must have changed his mind.

  9

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t eat,” I said, pushing my bowl of

  porridge away.

  “Too excited,” said Papa.

  He gave Ellie a strange look. Ellie and

  Papa had been giving each other funny

  looks for a whole week. They talked in

  whispers, and changed the subject when

  I came close. What were they planning?

  It was too early to be thinking about

  Christmas; besides, they looked worried,

  not happy.

  Today, Kate’s father, Mr. McDougall,

  was going to The Landings, and he was tak-

  ing me and two sacks of wheat: one sack

  from our farm and one sack of his own.

  He was taking the wheat to the gristmill,

  where my Uncle Stuart would grind it into

  10

  flour for our bread.

  Uncle Stuart was Papa’s oldest brother.

  He came to Canada two years before us.

  Papa said he mostly wandered around for

  a while, and then he finally settled down

  and built the gristmill.

  It was a long way from our farm, past

  our lake, along a river and almost all the

  way down another lake that Papa called

  Big Lake. Before Uncle Stuart built the

  gristmill, there was nothing there but for-

  est. A year later, The Landings had sprung

  up. Ellie had been with Papa twice, but

  not me. She told me there were lots of

  cabins and a blacksmith and a sawmill.

  Best of all, there was a store with pep-

  permint candy!

  I was afraid of Uncle Stuart, who was

  gruff and not at all like Papa, but I desper-

  ately wanted to see The Landings.

  I stood glued to the window, watching

  the lake. Papa had said that the road was

  so muddy that Mr. McDougall and I would

  travel by canoe.

  11

  “He’s coming!” I shouted. Then my heart

  sank. Mr. McDougall sat in the stern, and

  in the bow perched Mrs. McDougall, her

  shawl wrapped tightly around her.

  “There won’t be room for me,” I wailed.

  “Mrs. McDougall
is helping me today,”

  said Ellie. Again she and Papa traded that

  secret look. Then she added brightly, “And

  look Max, here come Jeremy and Kate run-

  ning down the trail!”

  Had the whole McDougall family come

  just to see me off ? I felt very important as

  Papa settled me in the canoe between the

  sacks of grain.

  “You are in charge of the wheat, Max,”

  said Papa in his serious voice. “Our winter’s

  bread is in these sacks.”

  “Yes, Papa,” I answered.

  “Right, then,” said Mr. McDougall. He

  was a big, broad-shouldered man with a

  black beard. “We’ll be back by night if the

  weather holds.”

  Papa and Mr. McDougal studied the sky.

  It was a clear blue November sky with a few

  12

  drifting white clouds. A fresh cool breeze

  ruffled the water. Papa winked at me. Mr.

  McDougall was always gloomy about the

  weather, but today looked perfect.

  Mr. McDougall paddled away from the

  shore with long hard strokes. The water

  streamed from the bow of the canoe in

  silver lines. Star ran up and down the grassy

  bank, barking and scaring up a flock of

  black ducks that paddled noisily across

  the water.

  Papa and El ie and the McDougal s stood

  on the shore and waved. I waved back un-

  til they were tiny dots. From the lake, our

  cabin and barn looked so small.

  For a long time I watched the bags of

  wheat careful y, as if they might leap out of

  the canoe. I trailed my fingers in the water,

  making myself count to twenty before I

  yanked them out, frozen.

  I tried not to squirm, but my foot had

  fallen asleep where it was scrunched un-

  der me. I wiggled into a new position and

  studied the shoreline. We were the first

  13

  family to build a farm on the lake, but

  now I counted three more farms, brown

  quilt patches cut out of the dark green

  forest. My stomach rumbled with hunger.

  I thought longingly of the boiled potato

  and salt pork that Ellie had wrapped care-

  fully and tucked in my lap before we left.

  Was it too early to eat?

  “Listen Max. You can hear the river

  now,” said Mr. McDougall. “We’ll have

  lunch after the portage.”

  The portage! Papa had told me about

  that. The river between our lake and Big

  Lake was too narrow and fast for the ca-

  noe. Everything had to be carried along an

  old Indian trail. A sick feeling grew in my

  stomach. Mr. McDougall was used to big

  strong boys. His son Jeremy was almost