THE TIME STAR (8 page)

"I want to base the museum on the
village as it was when it started. A man from the States donated some personal
items that concern the village just a few days ago, in fact. I want to get those
things sorted and the museum up and running before the summer. The reeve says
if I can do that, the village will cover the building’s rent and upkeep."

"What kind of memorabilia?"
Waneeta asked politely, not really feeling up to digging through dusty boxes,
but for a night's lodging, she'd do it.

"Old letters and pictures. I hope
to catalogue it all."

The work sounded boring, but she needed
to keep busy. "What would you like me to do?"

"Mostly to clean."

"Can I could borrow a change of
clothes, then? Just something to clean in?"

"Oh, yes. You'll need something
warm. It's freezing in that building, but I don’t want to waste the hydro in
case the reeve rescinds his offer."

An hour later, after a cup of tea and
some muffins to restore them, she and Doris walked down to the river's edge.
Waneeta stumbled to a stop halfway down the steep driveway behind the general
store.

Beside the river stood an exact replica
of Thomas' cabin!

"Amazing, isn’t it? It was the
first building in the village," Doris informed her as she strode past. "In
1897, the lumberjacks built it to serve as schoolhouse for the local children.
It's similar to a camboose shanty."

Doris busied herself unlocking the door.
A draught of cold, stale air rolled out to greet them.

Not ready yet to see inside, Waneeta spun
away from the threshold. In the nearby river stood the skeletal remains of the
village's original bridge. The early spring melt had begun, with rushing waters
spewing past it.

The noise was suddenly deafening,
forcing Waneeta to turn and plow inside. Compared to the bright sunshine, the
cabin was dark and chilly.

"Sorry for the cold," Doris quipped.
"Like I said, I don’t want to waste the hydro."

The room was so different from Thomas’
cabin. There were boxes everywhere, some delivered up from the States, judging
from the labels, some obviously been there for some time, and several old desks
had been stacked against the far wall.

Under Doris’ supervision, and accepting
the offer of a dust mask and latex gloves, Waneeta was soon pushing heavy boxes
back against the fireplace. Soon her own body heat generated enough warmth for
her, and before long, decades of dirt were cleaned away and a basic inventory
was completed.

Doris commented on her diligence.

"I guess I have a lot of nervous
energy to burn off," Waneeta answered. "And there couldn't have been
better therapy than this."

By four o'clock, the whole cabin was
spotless. They'd swept, scrubbed, and polished their way through decades of
grime and countless generations of rodent droppings, with Doris constantly
reminding her they’d scrub themselves clean later. "Anything to come back
with us?" Waneeta asked when they were done.

"Only this box. I picked out a few
of the more interesting items for it." Doris pointed to the one closest to
the door. "We can root through it over supper."

"You don't have to feed me, too,
Doris, I’ll just go down to the diner-"

"Nonsense! I'd love the company.
And you can try calling home again to tell them you're safe."

After supper, the two of them delved
into the box from the museum. They pulled various items out and laid them on
the dining room table.

"These are wonderful!" Doris
exclaimed. "Look, we have some letters, a school register, and here's a
ledger book. Oh, Waneeta, look! There's an old school photo!" She turned
it over. "Eighteen ninety-eight. We've hit the jackpot here! That man in
the States was very generous." Doris rummaged through the box for more,
dropping the new found treasures in front of Waneeta.

She picked up the photograph.

Oh no. The room began to spin. Her eyes
dilated, making it hard to focus. Or was the photo just blurry? The man standing
to one side of the children stared out at her across more than a century. He
was so familiar, even with his sober, old-fashioned expression. Waneeta gripped
the edge of the table to stop the world around her. She needed everything to
stop. Needed everything to give her a chance to breathe again.

It was Thomas in that photograph
.

Oblivious to her lightheadedness, Doris
chatted on excitedly, "With all these items we'll have a right nice little
museum."

She smiled at Waneeta, and leaned close
in confidence. "I think Thomas Stafford would be proud of us."

Chapter 9

Waneeta echoed, "Thomas Stafford?"

"Yes, dear, he's the man who
founded our village. What’s wrong? You're as pale as a ghost! Are you all
right?"

"No, I'm not." The more she
looked down at the picture, the more an icy hand clutched her heart. The wave
of queasiness was slowly easing away. What was happening? What
had
happened? The photo, curled at its edges, shook in her hand. But still, Thomas'
face leapt out at her. Waneeta could almost see the blue of his eyes piercing
the sepia.

Tears swelled in her eyes. She sniffled.
Thinking quickly, she added, "It's the mold on this old stuff, I guess. I
must be allergic to it."

Doris hurried over to the side board and
poured some tea. Waneeta gratefully accepted the cup, turning the photograph
over as she did. She couldn't get her mind to concentrate. She couldn't get her
hands to stop shaking.

This made no sense. There must be a
logical explanation. Out there somewhere in the woods there was a cabin, in it
Thomas Stafford, a living, vibrant male, maybe the man Doris had mentioned, the
relative who’d wanted to clear out his parents' attic? A man who'd come up here
and decided to spend a few days before returning to his home in the US.

Thomas had helped her when she was hurt,
and had even proposed to her. Ghosts don't help you right your snowmobile. Ghosts
don't ask you to marry them.

But they do disappear as Thomas had
done.

"Excuse me for a minute. I need to
use your washroom."

The flowery and feminine washroom
smelled of roses and vanilla. With her back now pressed against the locked
door, Waneeta steadied her nerves, and then pulled up on her shirt.

Thomas was no ghost, no figment of her
imagination. The dark iodine that he'd offered for her scrape still stained her
skin.

Her shaking hand released her shirt and
it swept over the purplish spot.

This was just a coincidence. The
grandson had the same name.

After splashing cold water on her face, Waneeta
found Doris in the living room. She sat down on the sofa beside the woman and
immediately took a harsh gulp of the scalding tea, forcing it to pain her back
to reality. "Doris, where did this Thomas guy live? In that school house?"

"Oh, no, dear, he lived in a cabin
up the mountain. If you come back this summer, we could take a walk up there.
It's a bit of a hike, but quite pretty. Wait, I think my brother mentioned that
you'd come that way. You didn't see the cabin?"

"No," she lied. "Is it
still used?"

Doris laughed and shook her head. "Not
for years. I've been here all my life and have never known it to be. Thomas'
grandson wrote and told me he used to spend his summers here, in the thirties. I
suppose it’s probably all broken down by now. It was ramshackle when I was a
little girl."

Waneeta couldn’t offer up a comment. Thomas'
grandson would be too old to be her Thomas. Yes, she would come back on the
long weekend to find Thomas and demand the truth from him.

Sitting on the sofa beside her, Doris
had opened the ledger book she’d found earlier. "Look, Waneeta. This isn't
a ledger, at all. It's a journal!"

A journal? Thomas' journal? The one he'd
mentioned. Waneeta's breath stalled within her.

Was she in it?

No! That would be insane. How could she
be? Thomas was alive, out there in the woods, still writing in his own journal.
She should race out of here right now and find him, beg him to tell her
everything was all right, that the forest had only played tricks on her. That
he was only some distant relative of this one in the photograph.

He'd tell that this was all some crazy
coincidence.

Waneeta fought the urge to grab the journal
from her hostess, but waited anxiously for Doris to idly set it down.

The tea cup shook in her hands, forcing
Waneeta to set it down. Immediately, she reached for the journal. The moldy
cover resisted opening. Waneeta stared at the first page for one long minute.
Then she gingerly pressed the cover back further to read the opening line.

March 15, 1896

The only thing of interest that I did
today was start this new journal.

Tears sprang into her eyes. Over a
hundred and fifteen years ago.

Yet, only a few days ago.

Yesterday? Or was it? No, it couldn't
be! Could it?

Did she ask that out loud?  A furtive
glance told her no. "Doris," she finally squeaked out. "May I
borrow this tonight? I'd love to read it."

Doris looked up with sympathy. "I
imagine you're tired. I like to read in bed myself. Take it. Tell me in the
morning if there's anything interesting in there. Ooh, wait until the
Historical Society hears about all of this. We even have a slate and an old ink
well!"

Waneeta rose. "It's all wonderful,
but you're right, I am tired. It's all that work today. I should have your
stamina."

Beaming at the compliment, Doris asked, "Would
you like a cup of tea to take up with you?"

"No thanks. I'll hop into bed. We've
already showered, so I'm ready for it. I hope I can stay awake long enough to
read this."

Upstairs, Waneeta hurried through her
preparations, ignoring the guilt at lying to Doris. But she’d been so anxious
to read Thomas' journal that it seemed the only polite way out.

She sank into bed, and reopened the stiff
book.

March 15 1896

The only thing of interest that I did
today, was start a new journal. And, like most times with a fresh piece of paper,
I feel excited, like something extraordinary will happen. Indeed, the feeling
is so strong as I begin this new book, the words are flowing from the nib of my
pen, because of it.

How eloquent he sounded, Waneeta
thought. Quivering with anticipation, she read on.

The least interesting thing I did was
wash the floor.

She smiled. Thomas was being facetious.
But it was so good to see his handwriting, as if seeing the long script gave a
sense of warmth, of connection.

Good grief, did she really think that
this was her Thomas writing this journal? That would be impossible.

Still entranced, she returned to her
reading.

March 18 1896,

The day started cloudy and cool. Despite
the anticipation I continue to feel, I must say the weather does not appear
conducive to any expectation. To ease my tension, I baked bread and split wood.
If a stranger were to happen by, they'd think I was expecting company.

The pages blurred and shook before her,
forcing Waneeta to set down the book and breathe deeply. She hastily wiped her
eyes before picking up the book again.

I must finish what happened to me today,
although several days have passed since I opened this journal. But how do I
start? I've had such an extraordinary adventure that I find it hard to put on
paper, except to start at the beginning of this odd tale. I did indeed have a
visitor today. Just as I was preparing for bed, I heard a noise outside. I thought
it was the wind, but when I heard a thud against my cabin, I went out to
investigate.

I found a most peculiar woman slumped
against the logs. When I brought her inside, she was unconscious and injured. I
removed the most exceptional garment that I've ever seen from her body, to find
she wore only a pair of leggings and a thin shirt of cotton.

The woman was beautiful. I had a hard
time tearing my eyes from her. When she awoke, I treated her as best that I
could without appearing to be enamored with her. She didn't appear to be
bothered by her attire, although I must say I was.

The woman was an odd sort, but her
loveliness quelled any suspicion I may have had. I didn't think at first, I was
so entranced by her. She wasn't like any other women I've known before. And,
although she claims to have lived in Pembroke all her life, she has not seen a
camboose shanty before!

Her story was unusual as I was soon to
discover. When I asked her what she was doing out here late at night, she told
me her cousin had taken her out for a walk! All the way out here, or so I had
assumed. Then she claimed to have seen a meteorite. In fact, her outfit was
covered in tiny spark holes that seemed to corroborate her story. Regardless, I
must admit to being skeptical, because everything about her was so unusual, but
I found myself believing her. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Juanita
Meadows, spelled phonetically, she claimed. Which would make it Waneeta, I
suppose.