The Legends of Lake on the Mountain Read Online Free Page A

distorted shape of the man who once worked for his father’s store in Kingston.
    Nearly dawn. John awakens in sweat. Light offers itself through his tiny window as he pulls the blanket over his eyes. He has to be at the mill soon to start work. He has to forget the unforgettable.
    ***
    â€œSorry, George,” said John, out of hearing range of the farmer they were helping. “I didn’t know we’d be this busy.”
    George shrugged good-naturedly as he unloaded another bushel of wheat just outside of the stone mill. A year younger than John and French speaking, George Cloutier was never mistaken for John’s brother, although they had fast become friends. John’s freeflowing, dark curls, large nose and lean, tall frame was in contrast to George’s stockier, shorter build with a thick head of straight, greased hair.
    John tried to put last night’s dream out of his mind, losing himself in the anticipation of exploring once the work was done.
    â€œThat is okay, mon ami – looks like we are almost done anyway.” He tossed the last bushel of wheat to the men in the mill and then they paused to watch. They surveyed the mill’s heavy stone, three feet wide, turn against a stationary stone with grooves cut into it from the centre to the ends. After the grain was ground, it eventually fell from the outer edges of the two stones.
    The wheel’s turns were powered from the waterfall cascading over Lake of the Mountain. Sifting the flour was done by hand above bins in the basement. Then the flour was hoisted up ladders to the second level where it was dumped on the floor to be raked back and forth until it cooled. After that, other men had to strain it by hand using a crank-powered flour sifter.
    With all the dust flying around from the mill work, George instinctively felt to make sure his hair was intact. As usual, it was combed straight back and held in place with grease from his mother’s cooking lard.
    â€œI cannot believe you have to go back to Kingston soon,” said George. “Soon I will have to watch out for Owen all by myself.”
    After telling George about his encounter with Owen yesterday, John wondered if his friend was more worried about his stiff hair being messed up than he was anything else. “Owen’s an oaf,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
    John scrunched his shoulders down and hoarsely whispered, “Anyway, forget him. Maybe later we can explore...you know...where Whisky Wilson was.”
    He eyed the trees behind them and George looked up at the looming, forested mountain. “Sure – as long as we can stay away from the saw mill,” said George. He lowered his voice further. “I am not going near that place.”
    John laughed. George’s French accent always sounded more dramatic when he whispered.
    â€œCome on, George, you’ve got to learn to have more fun. What could Mr. Pitman do, really?”
    â€œHe works with saw blades, John – do you not have an imagination?”
    John kept working as he grinned. “I can’t promise anything my friend. Sometimes it’s fun to sneak a peek at Mr. Pitman – have you seen how much wood he can lift with his bare hands?”
    Nathaniel Pitman, the saw mill owner, was a towering man and one of the most feared men in the village. He rarely had a word to say and seemed to have no friends in Stone Mills. On the other hand, he ran the only saw mill in the area which made him indispensable.
    John wanted to explore Lake on the Mountain but he loved the waters of the Bay of Quinte, too, which were practically right outside their door. Long stretches of water cut Prince Edward County off from the mainland, making it feel like an island. Anyone travelling to the county for the first time was always amazed at the scenery. Quiet bays, rocky bluffs, finely-sketched shores and reaches of long, watery fingers for miles.
    John saw