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doing anything to her. Like hitting or
punching or kicking or biting, or even just pushing. Janie’d said no
both times, and the second time — with Ernie in earshot — the one
policeman had told her that she had to complain; they could only
arrest him otherwise if he killed her and it was murder. “I don’t want
it to come to that,” said the policeman, and Janie had replied, “Then
me neither.”
    “Ernie!” She yelled so loud her voice cracked and turned to a
scream. “Ernie! It ain’t murder! It’s okay! I won’t complain!”
    There was another gust of wind then, and it nearly blew Janie
off the dock. It sent the water-drum rolling down the rock face, and
it entered the bay with a splash that sprayed ice-cold water up the
back of Janie’s dress. Janie steadied herself, and opened her mouth
for one more yell, then shut her mouth again.
    It wouldn’t do her no good. Ernie was long gone.
    The drum clanked up against the dock, and Janie kicked at it as
she passed it on the way back. The kick sent the lip of it underwater,
and that was enough. The rain-drum started to sink.
    There was a shelf in the lodge’s living room that had every one of
Mr. Swayze’s books — although not one of them had his name on the
cover. Mr. Swayze used what he called a pen name, so all the books
were “by” Eric Hookerman even though Mr. Swayze wrote them.
    There were a lot of books, and Mr. Swayze said that a lot of
people bought them in their time. Janie thought that might be true.
Sometimes, she would even see one at the drug store in Fenlan,
and they only ever got in the best books. It was no wonder that Mr.
Swayze could afford to own all that land outside Fenlan and this
island here in Georgian Bay.
    “I guess you can’t call me a starving artist anymore,” he joked
one time.
    “You’re not starving,” said Ernie. “You don’t know what starving
is, Mr. Swayze.”
    And then Mr. Swayze had laughed — a scary laugh, like those
books of his must be. “I guess not,” he said.
    Janie had never read any of Mr. Swayze’s books — she was just
getting to reading stories now; anything bigger than ten pages made
her feel sleepy, even if she picked it up in the morning. But she looked
at the pictures on the covers, and she read the titles, and she had a
pretty good idea what they were about. There was THE HAND, and
it had a picture of an old dried-up hand with long fingernails and a
drop of blood on the tip of each; THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL, with
an old-fashioned hand-pump, and a snake poking its head down out
of the spout looking all fierce and frightening; and ONE MILLION
COPIES SOLD! THE DEAD BIRD, with a cover that was all black,
but had raised parts that Janie could see as the shape of a bird with
wings spread, if she held it just so in the light. That cover took some
work to enjoy, you couldn’t just look at it and see, but it was her
favourite of them all.
    When Janie stepped into the living room, she nearly tripped on
ONE MILLION COPIES SOLD! THE DEAD BIRD. That book along
with most of the rest were spread all over the floor.
    “Oh, Ernie,” she muttered, “look at the mess you made.”
    Janie flicked the light-switch on the wall, to get a better look at
what had happened, but it stayed dark. Did the wind knock out the
generator too? If it had, it’d be up to Ernie to fix it — Janie could lift
and haul things, she’d always been a big girl that way, but machines
and such were beyond her. She flicked the switch once more, to
no avail, so bent down and in the grey light from the window she
started to gather up the books. Fine thing that’d be, thought Janie.
Mr. Swayze loans out his lodge to us, we ruin all the books he wrote.
Never invite us to dinner again.
    Sometimes, Janie wondered why Mr. Swayze bothered with Ernie
and her at all. Mr. Swayze was smart, and he must know a lot of
people, and he sure had a lot of money. Ernie and Janie didn’t have
much money — Ernie’s work with his chainsaw