‘Hazelton. Did he say how long he’d be at the Takla?’
‘Well, he wants his mail sent over. That takes two days. Has to go to Takla Landing, see.’
‘Where is Takla Landing?’ Lazenby asked.
Walters was worrying his small moustache. ‘About fifty miles,’ he said. ‘Maybe sixty.’
‘Seventy more like,’ the old man said. He was looking at Lazenby. ‘You English, mister?’
‘Yes,’ Lazenby said.
‘Thought that. Glad to know you.’ He was extending a hand and Lazenby shook it, observing for the first time that the man was an Indian. The big-boned face had quite a merry look, merrier than the recalled sombreness of Porter’s. He suddenly realised he remembered Porter’s face quite well. ‘It’s a shame you come special,’ the old Indian said. ‘Still, if you’re only over at Hazelton … Maybe I can call him for you, leave a message? Since I forgot it before.’
‘No, don’t worry about it,’ Walters told him. ‘He’s staying at Takla Landing, is he?’
‘No, he ain’t staying there. The mail goes there. Then by floatplane over to Bear. That’s where he is. Least, he said to readdress everything to Noreen’s.’
‘What’s Noreen’s?’
‘North end of Bear. That’s Brown Bear — the lake. Floatplane is the only way in. It ain’t no trouble for me to call there. Only government money,’ the old man said merrily.
‘Is it a logging camp?’ Walters asked, puzzled.
‘No, Noreen’s ain’t a camp,’ the Indian said, amused. ‘She has that lodge down by the lake. Puts up a beer, chow, a few bunks — it’s like for guys come up fishing. It wouldn’t be no trouble at all,’ he told Lazenby, ‘for me to call and say you looked in. Mister what was it?’
‘This is Mr Brown,’ Walters said, ‘and it isn’t even worth mentioning. He wanted a look at Kispiox anyway.’
‘Nothing to look at, all this rain. Been raining for days,’ the Indian said. ‘It ain’t raining at Bear. Johnny found that out. Think he’s doing a bit of hunting, fishing there. Anything else I can do for you, then?’
‘Sure, I’ll take that note you wrote — could mix you up.’ Walters said.
The Indian found the note, behind the till, and they went back out in the rain, to the Takla.
The Takla was a chain of connected lakes and rivers stretching for 150 miles, and the Landing was somewhere over halfway up it. They left the pilot to wait with the jet there, and hired a floatplane.
Bear Lake was another half hour.
It was still not two o’clock when they touched down on it, the water very sombre. On all sides the trees stood like a wall around the lake. They taxied up an inlet to the jetty, and when the engine stopped the silence was massive. It was very grey and still here but, as the old Indian had said, not raining.
‘When you want picked up?’ the pilot asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Walters said. He mused. ‘You busy this time of year?’
‘Well, fish are rising. Char and Dolly Varden, big ones, all the way up. People are coming in. I could wait a while for you if you want, see if Noreen can take you. That smoke stack is hers, through the trees. But there’s other places.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll leave the bags,’ Walters said, and helped Lazenby out.
The air was very heavy as they tramped through the trees, and there were swarms of midges about. But they did not have to tramp far. Noreen’s was a rambling wooden structure with a broad porch and mosquito frames over the doors and windows. The hall inside was dark and empty, and Walters rang the bell on the desk.
Noreen came rubbing her hair with a towel, a round comfortable figure in dungarees, and she said she could take them, ‘long as you boys don’t mind bunking up together’.
Walters went out for the luggage while Lazenby, with some misgiving, was led to the room he was to bunk up in. He saw with relief that the bunks were at least on opposite sides of the room, which was spacious and cedar-clad. ‘Plenty of cupboards,’ Noreen said. ‘This one here is for tackle, but no smelly stuff. That goes in the fish room. You over from England, then?’
Lazenby said he was and asked if a Dr Porter was staying there.
‘Johnny Porter?’ Noreen said. She looked at him curiously. ‘No, he doesn’t stay here. You looking for him?’
With a sinking feeling Lazenby realised that Porter didn’t seem to stay anywhere. The elusive shadow was always somewhere else. He felt exhaustion sweeping over him again. Already today he had taken off and landed three times, and plenty of afternoon still remained to pursue the phantom elsewhere about the lake. Except that, as a roar outside announced, the plane had just taken off.
He was explaining the matter of the mail when Walters returned with the luggage, and Noreen’s face had cleared.
‘Well, if he arranged that,’ she said, ‘I guess he’ll be in. He does that — has mail sent on here. I don’t mind. He’s okay, Johnny. When you know him. You know him well, Mr —’
‘Lazenby,’ Lazenby said firmly. ‘Professor Lazenby.’ He had seen Walters’s mouth open, and had not come to terms with Mr Brown.
‘Nice to have you with us,’ Noreen said. But her eyes were on the luggage. ‘You boys not planning on any fishing, this trip?’
‘Not this one,’ Walters said. ‘The professor here just wants to see Johnny — college business.’
‘Well, he won’t be in till dark, if it’s just for mail. And not till tomorrow, any case. Don’t come till then. Can I fix you boys something to eat?’
They had a moody lunch, and after it Lazenby took a nap; and woke up rather more cheerful. Noreen had indicated that if he was a fishing man he could take a rod and a boat tomorrow. This seemed such a reasonable way of filling in the time until Porter showed up that he took himself briskly off to inspect the lake.
A few boats were coming in before dark, and he was encouraged still further by the splendid specimens they brought with them. Enormous great things; species of trout; presumably the char and Dolly Varden. And rainbows, glorious jobs, he’d never seen such a size. No salmon of course in this landlocked water, but things were definitely looking up.
And looking up to such an extent that as he sat with a sherry in a nook off the bar — Walters having discreetly taken himself off to play pool — he saw that the remarkable locality did indeed have salmon. Strange salmon, kokanee, lake-dwellers. A type of sockeye, no doubt. Yes, so they were: sockeye. His eyes fairly goggled through the fishing magazines. Rainbows over ten pounds. Char to thirty. God alone knew what the kokanee went to. Spin, troll or fly … The flies also of great interest. Variations of patterns he had used himself to good effect on the Spey. But also others that might get an even bigger effect. He mused over Mickey Finn, and the Goofus Bug — ‘good floater, deadly on fast water’. The Spey was the fastest water. He took note of the supplier of Goofus and was screwing up his eyes over the illustration when a voice spoke in his ear.
‘You were asking for me?’
He spilt his sherry.
A face like one of those on the totem poles was staring into his.
The cheekbones were high and flat, the eyes unsmiling. The long figure was bent over him, a pair of hunting boots on one end and drawn-back glossy hair on the other. The large face had a moustache on it now.
‘Raven?’ Lazenby said faintly.
‘Hi, Goldilocks,’ Raven said, answering another old question.
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