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Out
of view of the road, the afternoon sun bounced off the lake ice like a
bullet, sending shafts of frigid light deep into the woods and, along its
trajectory, illuminating the bronze statue of an Indian woman just above the
shoreline. Set on a marble base, she stood erect in fringed deerskin and
boots, with arms stretched out over the lake towards the west. The plaque at
the base was inscribed with: Muskataqua b. (?) - d. 1887 The last of her kind.
There were sizable footprints emerging from the woods to and around the
statue, then back through the trees. The snow had been brushed from Muskataqua’s upturned face and the icicles that
had hung from her arms like stalactites had been knocked away.
Oblivious to her surroundings, Madeline finally arrived at her destination,
paid the driver from her coin purse, and closed her navy leather pocketbook
with a decisive snap. She walked briskly up the path to the green house and
knocked three times with the brass doorknocker monogrammed with an ‘E.’ She waited
briefly, then continued to knock steadily until the
door was opened.
“My goodness, Georgie, what took you so long? I could
freeze to death waiting on the doorstep!”
Georgie
Skates looked at a loss for words, his eyes downcast in a face whose features
resembled those of the bronze statue. His shoulders hunched, he mutely
stepped aside. * * *
It was slightly later that same afternoon that David McKay drove his blue
It was early spring in the year 1932, five months after he first arrived in
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