Why am I dreaming these dreams? thought Carys. They’re dreams.
As a child, swimming through the ocean of her dreams, she she would see all the creatures she’d been reading about: sea turtles drifting underwater like great birds; and a moon jellyfish like a small gossamer parasol, moving in rhythmic pulses; and sea stars of orange and cream, scattered like humped and fleshy pinwheels over the sea floor. Once she’d even seen a seal, weightless as a moon, snoozing ten feet deep in sunlit waters. It revolved very slowly in the starburst green light, head tilted downward, the sun dappling its body. She’d swum so close to it in her dream that she could see the follicle pores where the stiff whiskers joined the muzzle. Its plump form was finely haired and mottled like a moth’s wing; its shadow drifted over a kelp bed like that of a dirigible over a meadow. Suddenly the seal opened both eyes. It kept watching her even as its body turned almost perpendicular, tail flippers uppermost. After a while its eyelids fluttered and it went back to snoozing — still perpendicular.
But now her dreams were as empty of life as a shed snakeskin.
She tried to put them out of her mind, plunging into the case at hand and finding out all she could about William Lamb. The morning after the museum party, she called Sergeant Norris in Newfoundland to update him.
“I have a theory about these thefts, Sergeant,” she said, “and it has to do with William Lamb.”
“Who?”
“A taxidermist and adventurer who once lived around here. I know this is going to sound a bit farfetched, but the story is that he got a hold of a map that showed the location of pirate treasure buried somewhere in this area. Apparently he told a friend of his that the map was hidden in a safe place, and that he would pursue the treasure at the right time — I guess his old shipmates were hounding him about it, and he didn’t want to cut them in on the money. But he died suddenly in 1874, and the map was lost.”
“Go on. I think I’ve seen this movie before, but I’m intrigued.”
“Is it possible that he hid the map in a taxidermy specimen he was working on? Maybe a stuffed bird — they’re just old newspapers inside, aren’t they? Or maybe he sewed it into the underlining of a pelt.”
Artist: Robin Clugston
“Right, so the thief is stealing anything Lamb made. But did Lamb make this fancy hat?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like it, that’s the problem. The owner of ‘What the Tide Brought in’ is fairly sure the hat has no connection with William Lamb. And there was also a feather duster stolen from Kenny Swale’s museum here. It’s been around for ages — Kenny says it basically came with the museum — but he doesn’t think it has a connection with Lamb either.”
“No connection that he ”
“Yes, and that’s why I need to dig deeper. I’m talking to one of William Lamb’s descendants tomorrow evening — Clint Clinton.”
“Oh, I know that guy. A real crusader. He spent years out west doing his conservation thing, but I guess the sea drew him back.”
Hanging up, Carys looked out the window of the RCMP office. Yes, that crazy hat — and Kenny’s feather duster. How did fit in? Brushing open her phone, she found the photo of the hat that Sergeant Norris had sent her. The brim held artificial flowers and fabric angels and…. something else. She zoomed in. What was that among the angels?
*****
Clint Clinton matched Carys’s image of the Wichita Lineman in the old Glen Campbell song—windscathed face, big-sky gaze, large rawboned hands for sorting through the clutter of wire and tools in his pick-up. He was seventy-three years old but still swam two kilometres every morning. His home was an old farmhouse with rain barrels under the corner eaves and solar panels on the roof. He warmly invited Carys in the next evening and, while he made coffee, she looked around the living room with interest. Vast shelves of books, several paintings of the Bay, and a motionless bird sitting on a bit of driftwood — a bird like a sandpiper, only plumper. She got up and went over to it. Stuffed… Like so many other things in this case.
And that reminded her of her discovery of the day before: among the fabric angels on the brim of the stolen hat, she’d found… feathers. She’d contacted the owner of the antique store in Witless Bay, who told her they were duck feathers — flight and contour feathers of black and white. But what kind of duck? The owner hadn’t known.
Artist: Robin Clugston
“So you want to know about my ancestor,” said Clint, as he handed her a steaming mug of coffee.
Carys told him about the break-ins and then asked about the story of the treasure map.
“Yes, that story has been around for more than a century,” he said. “But who knows if it’s true?”
Smiling, he glanced away from her; the idea seemed to amuse him.
“Well,” said Carys, “ I’m wondering if there are any other stuffed specimens by Lamb that you know of. We should warn the owners that their possessions may be targeted.”
“His specimens are all over the place. I have one right here.” He nodded to the stuffed bird. “That’s an eskimo curlew, now presumed extinct. But I don’t think anything could be hidden in there, Carys. It’s pretty small.”
“Right,” said Carys, “but just out of curiosity — do you have a burglar alarm?”
He laughed. “Nope. I used to have a dog, but he died.” He took a sip of coffee and eyed her over the rim of the cup. “You seem to be taking these thefts very seriously.”
“I think there’s more going on here than meets the eye. And also…”
“Yes?”
Carys had got to the point where she had to tell her dreams to . This tough old man with a prairie-dweller’s face and ocean lover’s heart seemed as good a choice as any.
“Lately I’ve been dreaming these strange dreams, about swimming underwater in the sea,” she said. “And… I see no life at all, nothing. The sea is empty. It’s weird… and sad.”
Clint put down his coffee mug. He was studying her closely. “Echo augury,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The phrase comes from the eighteenth-century writer, Thomas de Quincey.” He nodded to one of his bookshelves. “I use it to mean a dream that…well, really wakes us up.” He smiled. “I used to have such dreams myself.”
“You did?” said Carys.
“They made me sad, too… and angry. Then I discovered a remedy.”
Artist: Robin Clugston
Just then Carys’s cell phone buzzed. She brushed it open to see a text from her detachment: “Nocturnal activity reported at the old Lamb house, 1220 Shore Road. Please investigate.”
She stood up at once. The old Lamb house. Sheshe should have visited it two days ago; instead, she had spent the time talking to Ysabeau.
“I have to go, Mr. Clinton,” she said, “but I’d really like to continue this conversation later. By the way, I don’t suppose your ancestor William Lamb ever branched out into hat-making? Or feather dusters?”
“Hats! Feather dusters!” Clint grinned. “That doesn’t sound like old Billy Lamb. Why do you ask?”
Artist: Robin Clugston
“Oh, just a line of enquiry. Thank you Mr. Clinton.”
On the drive to the Lamb house, she pondered Clint’s words. Echo augury. What on earth did he mean? And he’d had similar dreams, he’d said. But he’d discovered a remedy…
Reaching Shore Road, she drove along the gravel surface until she could see the sagging silhouette of the Lamb Place.
She decided to park a good distance away and approach on foot, quietly. As she got close, she could see a light flickering in a lower window.
To be continued…
What does the ocean do for us? It provides food, stores carbon (16 times as much as land) , produces oxygen, powers sustainable tourism, provides medicines, inspires awe… Find out how you can help protect the ocean by becoming a Nature Canada Ocean Defender!
Special thanks to Ottawa artist Robin Clugston for illustrating this original Nature Canada eco-mystery.
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