Rising to his feet, Adam inadvertently kicked over one of the metal flasks, which rang out melodiously as it rolled down the rock they were sitting on. Adam flinched. The light wavered, and then drew nearer, and a familiar voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’ It was not a water-borne light that they had seen, then.
‘Scrunch down. It’s a counsellor, I think.’
Adam scrunched, but it was too late. Ti-Guy Peltier, the camp canoeing instructor on patrol, in an instant was standing, in a circle of light, on the rock towering above them, eyeing the miscreants, now both wide-eyed with guilt. He seemed unsurprised to see them.
‘What are you two doing out here? Lights out was two hours ago. You boys know the rules.’
‘We wanted to spend one night in the open, Mr. Peltier. Just to say we had.’
But Ben’s glib tongue was no match for the man’s shrewdness.
‘You might have regretted that. There are bears about. You might even have been trampled by a moose. Let’s go now. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’
The camp director, Wes Oakley, was inclined to take a less lenient view of the boys’ infraction than his colleague. Ti-Guy had been a Scout leader, park guide, canoeing, skiing and snowshoeing the Ontario and Quebec wilderness for more than forty years. He thought that boys being boys explained away their nocturnal adventure. Wes, a town councillor and social worker with the Children’s Aid, reminded him of a recent scandal in a nearby private school in which an older boy had led a younger one astray; the case was still before the courts, but lawsuits and perhaps a provincial inquiry loomed large in the future. He thus interviewed each boy separately, with Peltier in attendance as witness. Benjamin Cohen’s answers, both agreed, were either evasive or convoluted; he muttered inaudibly to himself, and seemed to find it difficult to look Mr. Oakley in the eye. Some questions simply remained unanswered. The purpose of the nightly visits to the lake—both boys admitted there had been several—remained unclear. Wes called Ben’s parents. He was not prepared for the response. Two hours later, a black Cadillac swept in through the camp gates, and Benjamin was bundled out between his parents. A startled volunteer in the office overheard Mrs. Cohen tell her husband, ‘Next year, Stanley, it’s Hillel. A secular camp was your choice, remember.’ The hapless Mr. Cohen nodded sheepishly as they left.
‘Now, Adam, what is this about boatloads of foreigners arriving by night? You told me earlier that Ben expected refugees from across the lake. Were they real, do you think, or does Ben have a vivid imagination?’ Mr. Oakley ‘s eyes were kind, but they bored uncomfortably into him. A lifelong bachelor, he nevertheless knew children well.
Adam squirmed in his chair. He glanced at Mr. Peltier, who looked impassively grave, head bowed, leaning forward, hands clasped together, elbows firmly on his knees. No help there, then. Adam licked his lips nervously.
