Tom Thomson's Last Paddle. Larry McCloskey

Caitlin said with obvious disappointment.

      “Been fishin’ round here a long, long time.” The stranger’s eyes moved slightly in both directions as if to survey the lake. “Used to camp at this… at your campsite pretty often. Was my favourite.”

      “But you don’t camp here anymore? Is there something wrong with this campsite, mister? Do you know of a better one?” Caitlin asked as she might question the librarian about the latest exciting kid’s novel.

      “This here campsite’s the best,” the stranger said, motioning with his pipe in his mouth. “Don’t camp anymore. Can’t. Just travel in this old canoe.”

      “You mean all day, everyday, you just paddle, fish, and smoke your pipe?”

      The stranger nodded. “And all night.” Then, with a slight, ironic smile curled on his lips, he added, “Even during the Hour of the Dead.”

      Caitlin shivered and shuddered. “But for heaven’s sake, why?”

      During this exchange, and no doubt partly because of the soggy conditions, Dani fidgeted, fussed, and fumed. Now she asserted herself with big words and big splashes as she clambered up the clammy shore. “I’m sorry, mister, but the thing, is we’re terribly busy at our campsite, since we’re part of an outdoor-education program and we’re improving our self-improvement—”

      “We are?” Caitlin’s question was greeted by an exasperated look from her friend. “Dani, are you okay? ’Cause you kinda sound like your dad.”

      Dani enunciated her words in her best elder-sister, know-it-all voice. “Yes, we are Caitlin.” And then she said to the stranger, “We’re involved in an outdoor-education program with our school, and we expect our teachers, all twenty of them, here any minute, ’cause they’re going to evaluate our camping performance. So maybe you better just keep on fishing.”

      Caitlin’s feigned whisper echoed across the lake. “Wow, Dani, you sound just like our older, bossy sisters, but you’re talking like this stranger, with your teeth kind of clenched.”

      Dani opened her mouth to speak, but dramatically folded her arms instead when Caitlin continued with another quick question to the stranger.

      “Say, mister, what was the reason you said for canoeing, fishing, and smoking your whole life?” Caitlin cocked her head to one side with real beaglelike puzzlement.

      The stranger surveyed the girls, the campsite, and the emerging glimmer of light for several moments in silence. The pipe slowly worked its way along his white teeth once again before being removed with great care. His expressive eyes belied his placid expression as he searched for words. “Never did say what the reason was. Hardly know how to start. Best to come to the point.” And then he curled his lip slightly and revealed a hint of a smile. “Never been good at painting pictures with words.”

      “Huh?” both girls said.

      The crease of a smile disappeared, and the stranger drew a deep breath from the vaporous mist. “My name is Tom Thomson. I have canoed, fished, and smoked my pipe on this lake since I was murdered on July 8, 1917. And if you help me prove my murder to the world once and for all, I’ll make you a warm fire and cook breakfast with these fine fellows.”

      The stranger, or Tom Thomson, held up a chain with two big fish hanging from it. With their dead eyes and large mouths grotesquely open, the fish resembled, only a little, the girls who stood agape and wide-eyed in front of them.

       6 Breakfast of champions

      A warm, inviting fire crackled as brilliant early sunlight burned mist from the still lake. The girls, dressed in dry clothes, ate fresh lake trout with voracious appetites. The stranger—or Tom Thomson, which was even stranger—watched the girls devour the fish he had caught and cooked, his pipe playing along his teeth and a warm smile dancing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Even though the circumstances of their togetherness felt odd, a comfortable mood had settled among the threesome as they nestled beside the fire in full view of the lake and the splendour of the awakening day.

      As she finished smacking an enormous mouthful of fish, Dani noted that the expression on the stranger’s face had changed from solemn to smiling. She thought the situation was perhaps too calm for comfort. “Mister, that was the best fish I ever ate!”

      Caitlin smiled with satisfaction and smacked her own lips. The stranger made a slight courteous bow.

      Tom’s old grey hat sat at the back of his head, hardly noticed since he had pinned on one of his homemade fishing lures more than eighty years ago. Tom’s decrepit pants were the colour of charred wood, far removed from their original beige. His elbow showed through his flannel shirt, a dulled plaid of washed-out red and indistinguishable white.

      They look like they’re a hundred years old, Caitlin thought, which was pretty close to the truth.

      Hope I can make my overalls last that long, Dani mused hopefully.

      With her plate now clean, Dani was ready to become serious again. She grabbed the straps of her clean, dry overalls to show earnest intent and to wipe her sticky fingers. Her chest heaved as she formulated the question for her interrogation but, caught between comfort and confusion, she hesitated. Finally she simply asked, “What the heck are you smiling at, mister?”