Mosquitoes of Summer
Read Mosquitoes of Summer Online
Authors: Julianna Kozma
MOSQUITOES
of
SUMMER
JULIANNA KOZMA
McArthur & Company
Toronto
This edition published in Canada in 2010 by
McArthur & Company
322 King Street West, Suite 402
Toronto, Ontario
M5V 1J2
www.mcarthur-co.com
Copyright © 2010 Julianna Kozma
All rights reserved.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the
expressed written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of
the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kozma, Julianna
Mosquitoes of summer / Julianna Kozma.
ISBN 978-1-55278-863-9
I. Title.
PS8621.O979M68 2010 jC813’.6 C2010-900807-3
eISBN 978-1-77087-073-4
The publisher would like to acknowledge the financial support of
the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and
the Canada Council for our publishing activities. The publisher
further wishes to acknowledge the financial support of the Ontario
Arts Council and the OMDC for our publishing program.
Cover design and illustration by Vincent Salera
www.vincentsalera.com
Text design by Szol Design
Dedicated to my creative muses and the loves
of my life, Daniel, Kira and Emmie
CONTENTS
CHAPTER FOUR: SECRETS REVEALED
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE PLOT THICKENS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ENLIGHTENING SUPPER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MOSQUITOES OF SUMMER
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: NORTH RUSTICO
CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE INHERITANCE
The heavy rain seemed endless and unforgiving. It pocked the roughened red sand with millions of tiny holes. In rhythm with the downpour, the angry sea churned and immense waves smashed into the beach front, gouging large trenches in the sand. The booming crash of each wave was deafening, while the wind shrieked in the tortured night.
Amid the rare lulls in the storm, the distant but insistent clang of a buoy could be heard as it fought to remain standing in the ferocious sea. Tossed about like a child’s bath toy, it struggled against the pressure of the maddening tide, stubbornly refusing to give up its rightful place. It was a haunting sound.
Back on the beach, broken pieces of wooden lobster traps were washed up, along with mounds of seaweed, shattered blue mussel shells and translucent lumps of dead jelly fish. For the past few hours the Gulf of St. Lawrence was relentlessly pounded by the storm, and the strong winds and rain were not abating.
Suddenly, through the heavy ocean mist, a faint light appeared among the sand dunes. The tall grasses whipped their razor-sharp stalks in a wicked dance against the howling wind. Although the yellow beacon from a lighthouse gave off an intermittent glow, it was not the source of the light. No, this unsteady light slowly made its way down the winding path toward the sandy beach.
“Can’t see a damn thing in this rain,” a low rumbling voice muttered, seemingly weaving its way down a narrow footpath. “Should have worn a rain hat. Long underwear too, curse it!”
The shadowy intruder finally reached the path’s end and paused to catch his breath. He raised the kerosene lantern, haloing himself in its white glow. His black raincoat whipped around his knees as the rain fell in steady streams, plastering his hair against his head.
The lone figure silently surveyed the battered shoreline, squinting against the lantern’s glare. He noticed mounds of sea debris scattered in all directions. After a few minutes, he moved sluggishly off to his left on the beach, leaning forward against the strong winds.
After about two hundred yards, the man stopped. A large hulking shape blocked his way. The lantern began to shake unsteadily in his right hand as he stared ahead. He was motionless for several minutes and then, with a shudder, he raised the light and circled the mysterious object. Every now and then he bent down to examine something of interest. Suddenly, he paused.
“Hah! I knew it. After all these years it’s finally happened. It’s come in! It’s her!”
The man’s left hand reached into his slick raincoat and quickly pulled out a small shiny object. Switching the lantern to his left hand, he struggled to pry open the blade of his pocket knife.
“Success comes to those who wait, and I intend to be rewarded, at all cost.” He whispered fervent prayers as he clumsily worked his knife. Once successful, he bent down again and disappeared within the object, seemingly swallowed up whole by the darkness. It was a very small and cramped space for a man his size. Scraping noises mixed with uttered curses – then, a surprised grunt. Wood cracked like a rifle shot as it tore apart. The knife thudded into the wet sand as it fell from hands numb with cold.
“Damn this weather!” he said. “I can’t believe it’s April.”
The man groped in the sand and found the knife again. For the hundredth time he wished he had better tools. Frantically he struggled to coax whatever he was looking for out of its ancient resting place. At last, with a final heave, something snapped and plopped to the ground. The stranger fell back on his butt, squelching wet sand and slimy seaweed under his raincoat. Quickly he scurried back to where he was working, the glow of the lantern casting menacing shadows. Peering down, he uttered a yelp of pleasure, and clapped his hands together in great excitement.
“At last!” yelled the stranger. “After all these years, I’ve finally found it. Unbelievable! I never thought –” Hurriedly scrambling to his knees, he crawled back out into the night and started to dance around the large object, swinging his arms above his head and twirling like a mad dervish. A frightening midnight spectacle.
Returning to the lantern’s feeble light inside the mysterious shape, he bent and picked up a small object not much bigger than his hand. Lovingly he stroked his new-found treasure. Fumbling with his coat, he managed to fish out a plastic Sobey’s bag from his pocket. Quickly placing the object inside, he hid it within the folds of his raincoat. “Time to go,” he sang.
Picking up his lantern, he stopped and caressed the large dark shape, as if patting an old dog. Then he left, stumbling against the night. As the lantern light faded away into the dunes, the lighthouse remained vigilant; a silent and impassive observer.
Just beyond the horizon and off to the west, the heavy clouds scurried across the sky. An occasional flash of silvery light shot through the gauzy curtain of night. Then, the cold crescent moon peeked through the parting clouds. Its tentative glow held a promise that tomorrow might be a better day.
Except for the occasional scurry of exhausted crabs, the beach was finally, and utterly, deserted.
When the weather channel warned of unusually high winds and heavy rains, both tourists and locals kept to the indoors. Many prayers were uttered to long-forgotten gods, especially those that ruled over strong walls and waterproof roofs.
So it came as quite a shock when mussel fisherman Wayne Simpson happened to glance out his living room window. He was unable to sleep because of worry over his boat,
The Lost Horizon
. Simpson loved his little corner of the island. French River was the loveliest place on earth, he thought fondly. But his joy in his home depended on his livelihood, which meant the seaworthiness of his boat. In other words, it had to stay afloat... in water!
Pushing aside the white lace curtains that framed the large picture window, Simpson strained to see through the darkness of the storm. The filmy pane of glass was wet from the rain. “Phew! She’s still there,” he thought out loud. The boat was indeed secure in the relative safety of the tiny harbour.
But what’s this? Out of the corner of his eye Simpson noticed a small light bobbing in the distance off to his right. It was headed away from the harbour and towards Route 20, the main road that ran through much of the communities along the north shore of Anne’s Land.
Who was wacky enough to be out strolling in this weather? Had to be some crazy idiot tourist out for a last look at the ocean, he thought. Or maybe someone with car trouble. Or better yet, a poor soul got thrown out by the wife! Simpson turned away from the window and chuckled. “Oh well, I’ll find out all about it tomorrow.” Gossip was a major pastime on the island, a veritable hotbed of current and irrelevant news, and Simpson just loved it.
Giving in to a jaw-cracking yawn, he carefully shuffled his way along the darkened corridor to his bedroom. It was the last room at the back of the house and the farthest away from the harbour. The noise of the storm was much more subdued here. Nonetheless, occasional gusts of wind still buffeted the sides of the house, making the old walls creak and groan.
With no wife to worry about waking, he quickly jumped into his cold bed and huddled under a feathery duvet blanket, waiting to warm up. “I’ll check out the beach tomorrow and see what’s been washed up on shore,” he thought, as he drifted off to sleep. There was always something interesting to scavenge.
“Make sure to pack everything you want to bring with you to PEI,” shouted Mom to her daughters, Hannah and Emily Morgan, who were already sacked out in the car. “Check your beds for your MP3 players and DVD movies. You’ll need those for the long ride!”
“You mean the long and borrrring drive,” said 13-year-old Hannah, rolling her dark brown eyes with typical teenage angst. She was forever trying to perfect her eye rolling technique. Unfortunately, it rarely had any effect on her parents. More practice was definitely in order.
She ran back to her room for a final look and found many forgotten things in her bed – no big surprise. She knew her bed resembled more a landfill than a soft place to lie down on, but it was her sanctuary. She most certainly needed the 23 books, apples, dolls, stuffed animals, pens, papers, flashlight, radio, half-eaten granola bar … No question! Those were all essential for survival in bed. Well … except for the bugs. Those had to go … eventually.
Hannah scurried out of her room. After a year of yearning to go back, she was only days away from seeing her beloved Prince Edward Island again. She dashed down the stairs and sprinted back to the car, arms laden with last minute stuff. A few moments later, four humans, one bird and 15 Monarch caterpillars left St. Eustache, Quebec, in their overflowing Toyota Corolla and headed east towards the Maritimes. Hitched to the back of their car was their well-used tent trailer, which they planned to leave on the island. Hannah thought it a great place to store unexpected guests.
“Talk about making my life difficult,” muttered Hannah under her breath as she tried to find space in the car for her insect cage. It took her weeks to collect these caterpillars along the road of their country place in the Laurentians. She fed them milkweed leaves to keep them alive. Last week some of the fatter ones started forming their chrysalides. If all went well, Hannah expected to release the newly hatched Monarch butterflies in PEI.
“Emily, move your junk from the middle of the seat,” demanded Hannah, impatiently flicking her long brown hair out of her tanned face.
“Say please or no go,” replied her pint-sized 10-year-old sister Emily, otherwise lovingly known as Emzo the Bozo.
Jabbering non-stop, this tiny would-be gymnast of a sister was a tough little pain in the butt who had no qualms about pushing what little weight she had around. Emily barely made it into the lightweight category of 55 pounds, but this Grade 4 graduate was tougher than most of the Grade 6 bullies in her school. Hannah, however, was grossly unimpressed.
