Wilderness Double Edition 28

by David Robbins

  “Close enough.” Shakespeare squatted, set down his Hawken, gripped the net in both hands, and tugged. “This is strong enough to hold a buffalo. What is it made of?”

  “Plant,” Waku said. “Not know white name.”

  “That’s all right.” Chuckling, Shakespeare said, “Ask and you shall receive.”

  “Pardon?” Waku had learned that was the word to use when he was puzzled, and around McNair he was puzzled a lot.

  “I have come to ask a favor.” Shakespeare glanced at the net. “Actually, two favors.”

  “What I can do, I will,” Waku said.

  “Maybe you should hear me out,” Shakespeare suggested. “It could be you don’t want to.”

  Waku put his hand on McNair’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “You and Nate King save us. You much kind. Give us new home. Give me hope.” He struggled to find the right words. “I always your friend. Arty help I can be, I do for you.”

  “I thank you,” Shakespeare said. “I take it you have heard about my Holy Grail?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Perseus had the Gorgon. Theseus fought the Minotaur. St. George went up against a dragon. And now I am about to pit myself against the demon of the depths.”

  “Pardon?” Waku said again. He had been confused before but never this confused.

  “Ah. Then you haven’t heard. No matter.” Shakespeare indicated the net. “I wonder if I might borrow that. It appears to be more than big enough for my purpose.”

  “Yes. Take. All I have be yours,” Waku said. “You want catch fish?”

  “I don’t know what it is I want to catch, but I know I want to catch it, and once I catch it I will know what it is.”

  “Ah.” Waku said, but he had no idea what the white-haired white was going on about.

  “I would also like to borrow that” Shakespeare said, and pointed.

  “Our canoe?”

  “Yes.” Shakespeare led the way over to the side of the Great Lodge, where the canoe sat ready to be carried to the water. Unlike the mountain tribes, who fashioned their canoes from hides or bark molded over wooden frames, the Nansusequa made their canoes using a single large log. They chipped out the center and sanded and smoothed the entire craft. The resultant dugout, while heavy and ponderous, was next to unsinkable.

  “Take it,” Waku said.

  “I don’t need the canoe right this minute,” Shakespeare explained. “It might be tomorrow, it might be next week, but sooner or later I will, and I wanted to get your permission in advance.”

  “Take any time.”

  Shakespeare took Waku’s hand in his. “I thank you, Wakumassee. ’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature to be so generous.” He bent and lowered his voice. “One thing more, and it is important. Our arrangement is to be our little secret.”

  “Secret?” Waku repeated, trying to remember what the word meant.

  “Yes. You are not to tell a soul.”

  “Not tell Nate?”

  “No. He has a leaky mouth and is bound to mention it to his wife, who will run to mine to inform on me.”

  “You not want your wife find out?”

  “Her most of all,” Shakespeare said. “The Gorgon and the Minotaur were as kittens compared to her, and as for the dragon, it would call her sister.”

  “I not understand. But I do as you want.”

  Shakespeare gazed at the lake. “O monstrous beast,” he quoted, “I am ready for you. Pit your wits against mine, and may the loser lead apes in Hell!”

  Watching and Jousting

  For another week Shakespeare and Nate kept diligent watch—and saw nothing, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. It got so Shakespeare took to pacing back and forth and muttering under his breath.

  “You are letting it get to you,” Nate commented late one afternoon, as he raked the lake with the spyglass. “I have not seen you this wrought up in a coon’s age.”

  Shakespeare shook a fist in the general direction of the creature’s watery realm. “I thought for sure we would have seen it a few times by now and have some idea of its habits. At the very least we should have found out whether it is a fish or something else.”

  “We need more time,” Nate said. “More patience.”

  “Maybe you can afford to wait, but I can’t,” Shakespeare said. “As everyone keeps reminding me, I am getting on in years. I would like to find out what this thing is before I am looking up at the world through freshly dug dirt.”

  “You have twenty good years left in you.”

  “My creaking joints say different,” Shakespeare said, and to get back to the issue very much on his mind, he pointed at the lake. “The thing has to have a pattern. Once we have that, we have him, her, or it, as the case may be.”

  “You’re guessing,” Nate said.

  Shakespeare plopped down on the bench and shook his head. “No, I am not. Everything has its habits. Deer, bear, buffalo, birds, bugs, you name it. They do certain things in certain ways. They graze at the same time each day, or at the same place, or they wait for prey at the same spot, or visit the same patch of wildflowers.”

  “That is true to a point. But we are dealing with a fish.”

  “Are we?” Shakespeare rejoined. “We don’t know what it is. But let’s say you are right. Let’s assume it is a fish of some kind. What do fish do? What pattern do they stick to?” He answered his own questions. “Fish swim and eat. That is pretty much it. Some, like catfish, stay down low. Bass like to stay near the shore and hide in weeds. Trout like fast-flowing streams and rivers.”

  “How does any of that help us with it?” Nate nodded at the lake.

  “What do we know about it so far?” Shakespeare asked, and again answered before his friend could. “We know it is alive and big. To get that big, it had to eat a lot of whatever it eats. To stay alive, it has to go on eating. Follow me so far?”

  “That is logical, yes.”

  “But what does it eat? Plants? I don’t think so. Few fish do. Worms and bugs? Not enough of either to be had. Which tells us that the thing must eat other fish.”

  “Possible,” Nate said.

  “Probable,” Shakespeare amended. “But what kind of fish? Fish near the surface or fish down deep?”

  “Mostly down deep,” Nate reasoned, “or we would see it near the surface more than we do.”

  “Good point, Horatio. So if it spends most of its time down in the depths, how are we to lure it up?”

  Nate shrugged. “I am open to ideas.”

  “I wish I had one.”

  “All this talk is getting us nowhere,” Nate said. He stood, gave the spyglass to Shakespeare, and moved toward the stairs. “I’d better get home. Winona will have supper on soon and she does not like it when I am late.”

  “Off you go, then,” Shakespeare said. “Be careful not to trip over the ball and chain on your way down.” He raised the spyglass to his right eye and the water came into sharp focus. Sweeping it from one end of the lake to the other, he said to himself, “Where are you, beastie? We will make you some sport if only you will show yourself.”

  But all Shakespeare saw was water and more water, and ducks and geese and sundry waterfowl swimming or floating or taking wing or landing. In his disgust at this state of affairs, he watched several mallards. The spyglass made it seem as if he could reach out and touch them. A male caught his interest. It was quacking up a storm. Why, he could not imagine, since the lake was as tranquil as nature allowed.

  The mallard’s yellow beak, the brilliant green plumage on the head, the deep chestnut brown of the front of the body, all were brought out in vivid relief by the bright rays of the setting sun.

  Then suddenly the mallard was gone.

  Shakespeare blinked, not sure what he had seen. One instant it had been there, quacking like crazy, the next it had disappeared under the surface. It did not dive. It did not sink. It shot straight down as if wrenched from below. He kept the telescope trained on the spot, thinking the mallar
d would reappear. It did not.

  “‘There are more things in heaven and earth’ ...” Shakespeare began, but he did not finish the quote. He was studying the other mallards. Most had taken wing. One female was paddling around and around near where the male had vanished. The male’s mate, Shakespeare reckoned, and was touched by her devotion. Evidently ducks were not strangers to the noblest of all emotions.

  Presently, the female took flight as well. But Shakespeare flattered himself that he detected a certain reluctance in her movements.

  By then the sun had set, and gray twilight was spreading like a fog across the water.

  Shakespeare lowered the spyglass and scratched his snowy beard. “I wonder,” he said.

  The next morning, the sun had not yet risen when Shakespeare climbed to the steeple. He was bundled in a heavy buffalo robe against the chill. At that altitude, even in summer, the nights could be downright cold. He had left Blue Water Woman asleep in bed. Waking her would only result in more criticism of his quest, and Shakespeare could do without that. Besides, she would be up in half an hour.

  The lake lay quiet under the last of the starlight. As with most living things at that hour, the geese and ducks were silent. It was so still that a splash somewhere well out on the lake lent Shakespeare hope that at least one creature was abroad.

  “Show yourself today, consarn you,” Shakespeare said to the empty air. “I defy you to prove yourself in the great heap of my knowledge.”

  A pink blush soon tinged the eastern horizon. On land the songbirds roused in avian chorus. Out on the water the ducks and geese stirred, their cries adding to the racket.

  As soon as it was light enough, Shakespeare surveyed the lake from east to west and north to south. He saw no sign of the creature.

  Indulging a hunch, he concentrated on the water birds. The variety would excite a naturalist. Of ducks alone, in addition to the mallards there were buffleheads, mergansers, and goldeneyes. There were teals and grebes and coots. A few storks had shown up. Swans were conspicuous by their grace and beauty. A flock of Canadian geese were sticking close together. A killdeer had waded a short way out from shore and was giving itself a bath.

  Shakespeare smiled. God, how he loved the wilderness. He could never live anywhere else, not once he had supped at the feast of nature’s table and tasted of nature’s many delights.

  So many feathered fowl were cavorting about that Shakespeare could not make up his mind which to watch. The mallards were closer to shore than they had been the night before, and he suspected that if the thing in lake came out of the deep to partake of its breakfast, it would do so farther out.

  A group of green-winged teal, with their cinnamon-red heads and rainbow-hued plumage, seemed as likely as any others, and were near the area where the male mallard had disappeared the night before. Shakespeare counted twelve, six males and six females, floating serenely.

  The rising sun lent a golden glow to the lake. The light became so bright that Shakespeare had to squint against the glare. He saw the teal bob up and down on the waves, then realized, with a start of surprise, that there was no wind to speak of and the lake was virtually undisturbed. There should not be any waves.

  That was when he saw it.

  Something – it could well have been a giant mouth – came up out of the water and in the blink of an eye closed on one of the male teal. Before the bird could so much as lift a wing, it was swallowed whole. The rest of the teal took immediate panicked wing.

  His body taut, Shakespeare raked the spot for further sign, but the thing did not reappear. After a while he stopped and leaned back with a smile. “So. Our water devil likes water fowl. Interesting.”

  At last Shakespeare had a tidbit of information he could use. The question was, how to use it best? He had an idea, but to put it into effect he would need Waku’s canoe.

  He watched the lake for another half an hour, then went down the stairs and around the cabin to the front door. The aromas that greeted him as he opened the door caused his belly to growl. “Good morning, one I love,” he said cheerfully as he entered.

  Blue Water Woman was fixing eggs with strips of fried venison and toast. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “What is so good about it?”

  Shakespeare sank into his chair and stretched his legs. “Can’t a man say good morning to the other half of his heart without her being suspicious?”

  “I know that tone and that look.” Blue Water Woman said. “You are up to something.”

  “Perish forbid,” Shakespeare said. “I live but to please you and wait on your every whim.”

  “What is the white expression?” Blue Water Woman pretended to try and remember. Suddenly she rounded on him, shaking a large wooden spoon. “You are full of it.”

  “Such language, madam,” Shakespeare declared. “I am shocked.”

  “What new silliness have you cooked up?”

  Shakespeare sniffed and quoted, “Were I like thee, I would throw myself away.”

  “Were I like you, I would need a keeper,” Blue Water Woman held her own.

  “Say what you will. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.”

  “So you are up to something,” Blue Water Woman said. “And I think I know what it is.”

  “I say thee, ha,” Shakespeare said smugly.

  “I was talking to Tihikanima yesterday. She says you paid her husband a visit.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Strange that you never mentioned it to me. I asked her what you and Waku talked about and she said that Waku would not tell her.”

  “Good for him!” Shakespeare declared. “A man with backbone is worth his weight in wildcats.”

  “Waku also said that none of them were to use their canoe unless they checked with him first, since you might have need of it on short notice.”

  “Dang him. If he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse.”

  “Now, now. Not everyone can be as sneaky as you.”

  “Speaking of horses, I would my horse had the speed of your tongue.”

  Blue Water Woman made circles in the air with the wooden spoon. “Now, what would you want with a canoe? It is too big for you to play with in the wash tub when you take your yearly bath.”

  “Go to, woman. Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth, from whence you have them.”

  “Funny that you should mention a devil,” Blue Water Woman jousted. “And the answer is no.”

  “I did not realize I had asked a question,” Shakespeare said, worried now.

  “You intend to go out on the lake after the water devil, and I will not have it. If you will not act your age, at least respect my feelings.”

  “When have I ever not?” Shakespeare rallied. “And I can’t catch something that lives in water if I stay on land.”

  “Why catch it at all?” Blue Water Woman wanted to know. “Why not let it be?”

  “I would hate for a perfectly good steeple to have gone to waste.”

  “I am serious.”

  “As am I.” Shakespeare thrust out his jaw in defiance. “We cannot go on living here without knowing what it is.”

  “Who says? We have lived here this long without knowing. You know that my people believe water devils are bad medicine. Why show them, and me, such disrespect?”

  “Honest to goodness,” Shakespeare said in exasperation. “Leave it to a woman to twist a man’s considerate nature into an attack on her.”

  “Where is the consideration in you refusing to listen to me?” Blue Water Woman demanded.

  “‘Most excellent accomplished lady, ‘” Shakespeare quoted. “‘The heavens rain odors on you. When did you become a tyrant?’“

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I am old but I am not puny. I am a man, I have a will, and I will by God breathe as men breathe. If you wanted to marry a milksop you should have found a man who lets you tell him what clothes to wear.”

>   “You are changing the subject again.”

  “No, I am not. The point, dearest tickle-brain, is that were a bear to come nosing around our cabin, you would have me deal with the bear. Were a fox or a coyote to become interested in our chicken coop, you would have me deal with the fox or the coyote. But let something in the lake pose a possible danger, and suddenly I am too old or too feeble or I do not respect your feelings.” Shakespeare came out of his chair. “Look me in the eyes and say that again. Look into the eyes of the man who has given all that he is to make you happy and tell me I am worthless.”

  Blue Water Woman swallowed and averted her face. “I cannot.”

  “Then there will be no more talk of betrayal,” Shakespeare said. “I have to do it and that is that.”

  “Damn you,” Blue Water Woman said, but she said it softly.

  “I love you, too, apple of my eye. Now how about breakfast? I cannot fight dragons on an empty stomach.”

  First Clash

  “What do you think of our craft, Horatio?”

  On his knees in the stern, Nate King smoothly stroked his paddle. He had used canoes before, in particular a Shoshone canoe that belonged to Touch the Clouds, his wife’s cousin. The difference between the Shoshone canoe and the Nansusequa canoe was as night and day. The former was small and light and fast and responded superbly to every dip of the paddle; the latter was big and heavy and cumbersome, all of which combined to give it the speed and response of a brick. And because it was so heavy, the gunwales rode low to the water, barely a foot above the surface. A high wave might easily swamp them.

  “I didn’t hear you ...” Shakespeare McNair prompted.

  “It will do,” was the best Nate could come up with.

  “I think of everything, if I do say so myself,” Shakespeare crowed. He indicated the net piled between them. “We should practice, so when the moment of truth comes we will be ready.”

  “You really expect to catch the thing with that?”

  “Why else are we doing this if not to catch it and kill it?” Shakespeare responded.