A Ribbon of Shining Steel Read online

  “Well me neither!” I said. “It’s a wonder I’m not dead from amnesia, spending time with a milk sop like you.”

  “Amnesia? A lot you know, you stupid cow! Amnesia is when you lose your memory! You mean ANEMIA!”

  We carried on like that, shouting insults in the middle of the Wagon Road, until Anne started to cry and I lost patience. Then it got worse. I called her a crybaby and said she was no fun, not like Rachel — and she said she hoped I had fun playing by myself all summer since Rachel clearly didn’t think I was much fun, otherwise she would be here in a minute.

  On and on and on. All the grudges and hurts came out. Me being so stubborn with the jade, ignoring her birthday, writing mean things about her in my Diary —

  Then, in the middle of all this, a group of Chinese workers came down the road. “There!” Anne shouted. “Go find a Chinaman for a friend! You like them better than anyone, sticking up for them all the time. It’s unseemly! And I lied about the chicken thief — he should have been flogged and sentenced to fifty years!”

  I can’t remember what I said after that. I’m sure it was something mean.

  Now I feel sick at heart as well as in my stomach. Anne must have been harbouring those grudges for months. I thought we were friends deep down. But I guess it was only on the surface.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Tuesday, June 26

  Mrs. Fox stopped by this morning and asked if I would mind her little ones from time to time, since Mr. Fox is away for the summer and she sometimes needs to come into town for groceries. I told her I’d be pleased as punch. I would be anyway, but especially now since I have no friends.

  July 1883

  Sunday, July 1

  Today is Dominion Day. Canada is 16 years old, the same age as Andrew. We had a picnic at Emory Creek but nothing else happened. It was the same last year, except last year Papa had to work.

  Wednesday, July 4

  Went to Emory Creek for another picnic, this time for America’s birthday, the Fourth of July. I do not know the exact age of America, only that she is older than Canada and even older than Queen Victoria.

  Yale looked festive with flags flying everywhere — the Stars and Stripes, the Union Jack and our own Dominion Colours. There was a gun salute at sunrise, like on the 24th of May, and lots of races, but we spent the entire day eating and splashing about at Emory Creek.

  Rusty and Clara were there, and Callie too! We were having such fun playing “Fetch” — Callie loves the water! Then Anne came along. She spoke to Rusty and Clara and made a fuss of petting Callie, but she ignored me. And I ignored her.

  Other than that I had a grand time. Of course it was nothing like the Fourth of July in 1881. That was really special. People came from everywhere, even as far away as New Westminster and Victoria, to ride on the first Excursion Train ever to run upon the Canadian Pacific Railway in British Columbia. I still remember the excitement as we climbed onto the flatcars and took our seats. They were specially built for the occasion and still smelled of new wood. The Conductor shouted “All Aboard,” the Brass Band from New Westminster struck up a tune, the whistle blew and the train set off for Emory.

  It was a thrilling ride, for the train moved faster than anyone expected, and before long we were in Emory. There was a dancing platform near the American Hotel and some people danced and others went sightseeing. We had our picnic and watched the horse racing and then got on the train to go back to Yale. And lucky us — the Conductor and Engineer had a surprise in store! They took us straight past the town and up through Tunnels 1 and 2!

  There was another train, too, and all day long the two trains carried people back and forth from Yale to Emory and from Emory to Yale. The Excursion was to raise money for the benefit of the Yale Fire Brigade, since the disastrous fire of July 1880 (the one we missed) was still fresh in everyone’s mind. It was also to celebrate the Fourth of July. So there was no end to the merry-making. Little did we know that another disastrous fire was but 6 weeks away.

  I did not have a Diary then, so I’m writing about the Excursion now before I forget everything. And now that I’m done, I am off to bed.

  Thursday, July 5

  Papa is back at work. I told him to be careful.

  Tuesday, July 10

  Bush fires burning west of town.

  Thursday, July 12

  Bush fires burning closer to town. Mama told me not to fret because the Fire Brigade has a new engine and they would soon have the fires under control.

  Fretted anyway. And not only about the fires.

  Friday the 13th

  Called on Anne but Charlotte said she was out. She wasn’t — I saw the curtain move in her bedroom window. What did I expect? It is an unlucky day.

  Saturday, July 14

  Spent the day at the Foxes’, minding Melissa and her three little brothers. The boys were as good as gold, especially the baby. Melissa and I played with her kitten, Snowball.

  The bush fires are under control. Everyone says the worst is over.

  Monday, July 16

  Felt miserable and sad the whole livelong day. Even “playing the devil” failed to cheer me up. Mr. Hagan asked why I was so glum and before I knew it, everything came pouring out — Andrew going away, Rachel staying in Victoria, my row with Anne, my not wanting to go to Angela College when I thought I had to, but desperately wanting to once I found out about Rachel, my crochet turning out as badly as my embroidery and knitting and all for the wretched Baby, the railway being almost finished in this Section and then where will we go? I told him I do not want to move again, not ever, at least not to a place where I’ll be a stranger and have to make new friends — but what is the sense of making friends anyway? They are bound to disappoint you. And there is no sense making plans because they never turn out the way you want them to and life is exceedingly unfair.

  When I finally stopped for a breath Mr. Hagan told me an ancient Chinese folktale. It goes like this:

  Once upon a time a man’s horse ran away. His friends said, “How terrible.” And the man said, “Maybe.”

  A few days later his horse returned along with a wild horse that was stronger and healthier. The man’s friends said, “How wonderful!” And the man said, “Maybe.”

  The next day the man’s son tried to ride the new horse but he fell off and broke his leg. Everyone said, “How terrible.” And the man said, “Maybe.”

  And then a week later there was a war. All the young men had to go and fight — except for the son with the broken leg. The man’s friends all said, “How wonderful! Everything has turned out for the best.”

  And the man said, “Maybe.”

  I have thought about this story a fair bit and understand its meaning — although I do not see what it has to do with me. And I do not understand how anyone could accept life’s trials as calmly as the man with the horse.

  I feel badly about some of the things I said to Mr. Hagan. Especially when I called the Baby “wretched.”

  Tuesday, July 17

  Andrew and Toby are going camping and said I can go with them. It is not for another week or so, but I’m already excited. Andrew said it would be a Final Adventure for the Knights of the Thistle, before he goes off to High School.

  A final Adventure? We never had a first Adventure.

  Thursday, July 19

  It is snowing! Not real snow, but fluffy white cottony snow from the cottonwood tree. The wind is blowing it everywhere.

  Saturday, July 21

  Papa is home. I was not listening at doors but a few moments ago, when I was walking past the parlour, I heard Mama say something about “the last chance” and “the last summer.” She sounded sad. Then Papa mentioned the Baby and he sounded so happy I could not bear to hear another word.

  Sunday, July 22

  Papa has gone off again, but before he left he made two announcements — one good, one bad (maybe).

  The good: when Andrew goes to Victoria, Toby and I can go, too!

/>   The maybe bad: when we are in Victoria, Papa is going to meet with a Mr. Dunsmuir who is planning to build a railway on Vancouver Island. The railway will run from Esquimalt to Nanaimo.

  Papa would say nothing more about the matter, so my burning questions are unanswered.

  Does this mean we will be moving to Vancouver Island? When? Where? To Esquimalt? To Nanaimo? Somewhere in between? Where exactly are those places? What are they like?

  Too much to fret about. I am off to bed.

  Monday, July 23

  A man working above Boston Bar had a narrow escape from a giant powder shot. The shot failed to go off as expected and when the man went back to look, the explosion took place. A big piece of rock struck him on the shoulder. He has a severe wound.

  I hope I can sleep tonight without nightmares. God bless Papa and keep him safe from explosions. And collapsing bridges.

  Tuesday, July 24

  I’m thinking of writing a letter to Anne, apologizing for being peevish, self-centred, big-worded and cruel. I know I have treated her badly — I’ve been reading my Diary and the proof is in the pages. I’ve treated her as badly as Rachel treated me when I first came to Yale — except that Rachel threw pine cones instead of words.

  I’ve also been thinking about the first entry I wrote in my Diary. And my LESSON LEARNED: Next time, I will be the first to jump out of the boat.

  I still feel the same way. But here is the difference — I would not let go of the rope. Rachel blamed the current. I like to think that if my friend were still in the boat, I would hold fast and pull her safely to shore.

  Could I tell Anne that in a letter?

  Wednesday, July 25

  I have not yet written to Anne. I saw her in town this morning and she deliberately looked the other way. I never dreamed she could be as stubborn as I am. But Mercy McGinnis, one of us has to make the first move.

  Thursday, July 26

  I saw Mrs. Perkins in town today and asked about Rachel. She said she was sorry Rachel had not come home for the holidays — she knew I must be disappointed — but her new friends at Angela College, two sisters, had invited her to their home at Shawnigan Lake, near Victoria.

  I told her I would be in Victoria around the 13th of August, and she said I could see Rachel at Angela College, because that is the week the girls get settled in for the new term.

  Then she told me that I was always welcome to visit Aspen Hill Farm, with or without Rachel. I could even bring my friend Anne and ride the horses.

  If only I could!

  Saturday, July 28

  Morning

  Camping! The sky is deep blue and cloudless. My knapsack is packed — except for my Diary — and I am ready to go. Sheba is coming, too.

  Evening

  We set up our camp in a clearing on the mountain and I am now sitting beside the campfire, pencil in hand and Diary on knee. Sheba is lying beside me. Toby and Andrew are washing our supper dishes in the creek — a detail worth recording — and whistling. I hear rock rabbits whistling, too.

  We had wanted to leave at the crack of dawn but by the time we had done our chores and packed everything — food, dishes, blankets and so forth — it was almost noon. Mama told us to enjoy ourselves and watch out for each other. And if we were not home for supper on Tuesday, she would send someone out looking.

  We climbed up the mountain trail through dogwood and alder and birch. Saw a fine grey wolf but it quickly disappeared before Andrew could fire. Picked lots of huckleberries and ate them on the way.

  At the spot where we cut down our Christmas tree, we stopped and ate some bread and cheese. We had planned to camp there but Andrew suggested we find a spot closer to water. So we kept on going and a short time later found a lovely clearing close to the creek. Thank goodness, as I was getting very hot and tired.

  Andrew and Toby put up their tent — I decided to sleep outside — and then we all cut balsam branches to sleep on.

  Andrew told us that sleeping on balsam keeps you from catching cold. And balsam contains a resin used in medicine. He told us the name, but I have forgotten.

  Andrew amazes me. I used to tease him for thinking he knew everything, and lo and behold, he does! I expected Toby to make some sort of cheeky remark — along the lines of Doctor Cameron — but he refrained. (Another detail worth noting.) Perhaps Toby is equally amazed at our Dark-Horse brother.

  All that aside, the balsam is very aromatic and soft to lie on. I am sure I’ll wake up feeling refreshed and healthy — unless it rains or I’m eaten alive by mosquitoes.

  After our “beds” were prepared, Toby started a fire while Andrew mixed flour and water and salt — I labelled the paper twists correctly this time — and made bannock. That was our supper, along with a heated tin of beans and some bacon cooked in the frying pan. I have never tasted anything so delicious. But I expect it was the fresh air and vigorous hike that stimulated my appetite.

  Afterwards we drank coffee. Andrew made it too strong but I put in lots of sugar and did not grumble.

  I think I might write a story — “The Knights of the Thistle Go Camping” — and enter it in one of the Girl’s Own Paper competitions. I know they accept entries from Canada. But what if the editors said something cruel? I’ve read enough of the G.O.P. to know that they always comment on the entries, and often criticize the contributors’ handwriting or use of English. No one would know it was me (except me), but imagine reading, “Kate from Canada, your handwriting is shocking!” I would be mortified and hurt to the bone.

  Night

  The sun has dipped below the mountains.

  Andrew has doused the fire and I have thoroughly doused the ashes so we can sleep without fear of setting the woods ablaze.

  Toby has devised a light by hammering three nails into a piece of wood into the ground, and setting a candle inside. Now that I can see to write, I think I’ll write a poem.

  The mountains look ghostlike

  With the moon silvering their tops

  Not a breath of air

  Nor stirring breezes –

  Later

  Bannock and bullocks! It is hard to write a poem. I am far too weary to think or write. So I’m off to my balsam-branch bed.

  My first night sleeping under a canopy of stars! And a whole day not thinking about Anne. Until now.

  Sunday morning, July 29

  Woke to a chorus of birds after an exceedingly restless night. Snorts, hoots, sniffs, an occasional howl, the endless whine of mosquitoes — it seemed as if a whole mountain of wildlife was out and about exploring our campsite. With Sheba’s growling and barking and scratching it is a wonder I slept a wink.

  Got up, picked balsam needles out of my hair (my hair smells aromatic but a little too much like Turpentine), then splashed creek water over my face.

  I am presently sitting beside a stone-cold campfire, wondering what to do. No sign of Sheba or my brothers. I did not hear them get up and do not know where they have gone — hunting, I suppose, because they have taken their rifles. Why did they go without waking me? When will they be back?

  I could start a fire. Boil water. Cook breakfast. I should make lots of noise so the bears will keep their distance.

  I feel lonely and tired and wish I were home. The minute I get home I am going to swallow my pig-headedness, write a letter to Anne and deliver it to her in person.

  Sunday morning, a few moments later

  Went to the creek for some water and saw smoke rising above the trees. Smelled it, too. Still a good ways off but the wind is blowing in this direction and I’m frightened. Called Sheba and my brothers — no answer — must not panic.

  Sunday evening, July 29

  I’m home.

  I have a burn on my hand — my left hand, so I can still write — my knees are scraped, my arms are scratched, my hair is singed, the clothes I was wearing — shoes, stockings, pinafore — are black with soot and fairly ripped to shreds. My new straw boater with the pink ribbon is nowhere to be found. I
expect it is burnt to ashes.

  In spite of Mama’s ointments and syrups I ache all over, inside and out, from tip to toe. I am also exhausted. Too exhausted to write another word.

  Monday, July 30, 10 A.M.

  It rained overnight and the wind changed direction so the fire has been checked. There is no danger to the town, but sparks were thrown into the bush on the opposite side of the river and that caused a forest fire that is burning yet.

  Mama told me I slept for over 12 hours. I am feeling much better — except for some stiffness and a few aches and pains — so here is the rest of my account. I can’t call this part “The Knights” etc. because there was only me.

  The moment I decided to leave our camp, I put my Diary in my knapsack and started down the trail. I kept yelling for Toby and Andrew and Sheba but there was still no answer so I gave up when my voice gave out.

  By this time it seemed like the whole mountainside was on fire. Smoke, wind, flames, trees burning and crackling and falling with a crash — I followed the trail and came round a bend and horrors! — the trail was blocked by a fallen tree, branches aflame and higher than my head. A spark blew into my hair, got caught in my plait — I smelled it burning — brushed it away, burned my hand and singed my hair. I ran to the creek a little ways to the right, plunged in and soaked myself, head to toe, splashed water on my knapsack and carried on. I could scarcely breathe for fear, but knew that if I followed the creek I would get to the river and home.