Richard pulled into the parking lot, shut off the ignition, and blinked in surprise as a deer stuck its head in through the Ford’s open window.
“Meet the famous Upper Hot Springs tourist-friendly deer,” said Laura as she climbed out of the car. “Every day, as soon as the pool opens, they gather in the parking lot to mooch food from the tourists. People aren’t supposed to feed them, but of course they do.”
The deer stood stock still as she petted it. Its coat was surprisingly coarse and bristly and felt something like a doormat. Seeing that no food was forthcoming, the deer nudged the rolled-up bathing suit Laura was carrying under her arm, then wandered off in search of easier pickings.
“It’s much colder here.” Richard tugged at the zipper of his jacket.
“It’s because we’re a lot higher up.”
As they drew near the bathhouse the smell of sulphur permeated the air, leading Richard to mutter that he now understood how Sulphur Mountain got its name. A blackboard outside the entrance to the bathhouse informed them that today’s water temperature was 41° C or 106° F. After changing into their bathing suits, a short flight of steps protected by a glass wall led them from the changing rooms down to the pool.
Standing up to his neck in the water, his head enveloped in sulphurous steam, Richard felt the moisture on his hair begin to freeze. It crackled when he touched it, and he grinned and shook his head. “I’ve got to admit it’s different. Bathing outdoors while the hair on your head freezes!”
Laura smiled. “It’s even more wonderful during a snowstorm. I used to come up here a lot at night. You can look right down the valley and see the lights of Banff. It’s magical.”
There were other bathers in the pool, but the swirling clouds of steam made them virtually invisible. Now and then a breeze would gently blow the steam curtain aside and they could catch a glimpse of their fellow bathers, mostly members of a Japanese tour group, their faces wreathed in blissful smiles. They stayed in the hot pool for the recommended maximum of twenty minutes then climbed back up the stairs to the changing rooms. Laura told Richard she used the same time limit for the whirlpool at the Banff Centre.
“We definitely must do that again!” declared Richard as they drove back down Sulphur Mountain to Banff. They stopped for lunch and then Laura wanted to visit the bookstore on Banff Avenue. There was a book — a tome, really — on Matisse that she particularly wanted. It wasn’t in the Centre’s library, although in her opinion it should have been. She had a copy back in Denver, but it wasn’t one of the books she had brought with her. Now she needed it. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the paintings themselves but the written descriptions of the artist’s approach to painting that never failed to inspire her. And inspiration was what she needed now.
Although famous for its selection of art books, The Banff Book & Art Den did not have the volume she wanted. However, to Richard’s immense pleasure, it did have paperback copies of his two most recent thrillers in stock, as Laura already knew. Laura introduced the store manager to Richard. The visit of the well-known author caused a ripple of excitement. A clerk was dispatched up the circular staircase to fetch another clerk who was an ardent fan of Richard’s books. A customer bought a copy of The Blue Agenda and asked Richard to autograph it for him. Several others, seeing that Richard was happy to oblige, followed suit. Before they left, he had signed all the remaining copies of his books and shaken hands with every member of the staff. The manager promised to move the autographed books to a prominent position just inside the entrance and invited him to drop in whenever he felt like it.
“You handled that beautifully,” smiled Laura as they regained the street.
“I enjoy it. It doesn’t happen often enough to become a nuisance and I like talking about my books. I can see how movie stars get to hate it, though. But book people are considerate; they don’t try to tear the clothes off your back the way some movie fans do.”
As he talked, Richard glanced down at the sidewalk. The breeze was sending a tiny glittery object scuttling along just in front of them. By some fluke of the wind, its pace was the same as theirs.
“It’s a feather,” Laura told him. “It looks like the breast feather of pigeon.”
“It’s almost as if we were taking our pet insect out for a walk,” murmured Richard.
“What a wonderful image! And I love the idea of locomotives being turned loose on the countryside. You should put more little touches like that in your books.”
They smiled at each other as a sudden gust of wind picked up the feather and sent it twirling above their heads.
“Are you prepared for the great debate?” she asked, wondering if she was doing the right thing by reminding him of it. Maybe that was why he had taken the day off — he could be too nervous and keyed-up to concentrate on writing.
But the TV show was obviously not preying on his mind, because he looked at her blankly for a moment before his expression cleared and he said, “Debate? Is that what they’re calling it? They may be right at that. I expect old Henry will do his best to put me down. But I’m going to try and keep it on a higher plane. Take the high road as the politicians like to say—although they never do.”
“When do you leave for Edmonton?”
“We’ll drive down to Calgary first thing in the morning and catch a shuttle flight. We’ll have to stay overnight in Edmonton as the program doesn’t start until 10 p.m. and they’re doing it live.”
Although she was still upset by the flounder incident, Erika forced herself to go back to the studio right after lunch. As she walked along the path, she was so absorbed in thinking about her book that she didn’t see the elk until she was almost upon it. Elk roamed freely in the colony woods, as they did throughout the Banff townsite: browsing on trees, helping themselves to whatever flowers and vegetables took their fancy, stopping traffic as they jaywalked across the downtown streets, and lazing about on front yards like giant lawn ornaments. Although their size was intimidating, Erika had accepted them as part of colony life. But now as a full-grown elk stepped out of the trees and advanced on her, tales of elk attacks came flooding back. After years of relatively peaceful cohabitation with their human neighbours, the elk had suddenly and inexplicably become aggressive. Some blamed it on the floods that had inundated their traditional calving grounds, others blamed it on the golf course that was constructed across their migration route, and still others thought it was the ever-increasing number of tourists that put pressure on the animals. Laura, who seemed to know about these things, said it was because of the fences that Parks Canada had built to keep them off the highway. According to her, the fences had the effect of funnelling the elk right into the Banff town site. Whatever the cause, the fact was that the number of attacks by elk was steadily mounting. The Crag & Canyon, Banff’s local newspaper, carried stories of people having their noses broken and their legs slashed by the once peaceful animals. Since the colonists had to run the gauntlet of elk in order to get to their studios, these accounts were the subject of much mealtime conversation. On occasion, security personnel were called upon to escort the more timorous artists to and from their studios.
Now it very much looked as if Erika was about to become a statistic — the first elk victim in the colony. The cow elk — she assumed it was a cow because it had no antlers — was pawing the ground and pumping its head up and down in a way that said it meant business. Erika took a step back and looked over her shoulder, wondering if the elk would chase her if she ran back up the path. To her horror she saw that the rest of the herd had silently filed across the path behind her, completely blocking it. They stood there motionless, chocolate brown heads all pointing in her direction. Erika retreated a few more steps but the cow elk kept coming on. If only Geoff were here! With his understanding of animals he would know what to do. The elk made a curious whistling sound and lowered its head as if to charge. Petrified, Erika got ready to jump to one side.
And then suddenly, with a wild yell, John Smith was at her side. He was wearing his admiral’s costume and he waved his three-cornered hat at the elk as he fearlessly walked toward