Then pain racked his head, and when he gave a start, his elbow bumped wood. In the distance a gull shrieked.
Shakespeare came back to his senses. He was not floating in a cloud; he was floating in the dugout. He had not died; he had been knocked unconscious. The mist was not heavenly vapor; it was fog.
Disgusted with himself, Shakespeare sat up. He was surprised to see that the lantern had gone out. It had enough fuel to burn for hours. He glanced skyward but could not see for the fog. But judging by the raucous shrieks of the gulls and the quacks of ducks and cries of other fowl, the new day had dawned. He had been out all night.
Shakespeare went to turn and the pain grew worse. Gingerly, he touched his brow. He had a nasty gash and was caked with dried blood. “‘This is a piece of malice,’“ he quoted to the wispy tendrils.
McNair took stock. The dugout was intact and afloat, the paddles and harpoons and his rifle and parfleche were still lying on the bottom. Other than the gash, he was fine. There was no reason to head for shore.
Leaning over the side, Shakespeare dipped his hand in the water and splashed some on his face and neck. As cold as ice, it helped revitalize him. He picked up the pistol he had dropped and tucked the flintlock under his wide leather belt.
The rope lay limp next to him. Either it had snapped or the fish had come loose of the grappling iron and gone on its way.
“If I did not have bad luck, I would not have any luck at all,” Shakespeare groused. He gripped the rope to pull it up and suddenly it came alive in his hands. Instantly the canoe leaped forward, and the paddle he had tied the rope to started to rise. Lunging, he got his legs on top of it and bore down with all his weight.
The canoe moved faster.
Shakespeare bent over the side to peer into the water, but he could not see for the fog. A hiss fell on his ears.
“You blunt monster, with uncounted heads,” Shakespeare misquoted. “All the whole heap must die.”
As last night, so now: the dugout bounced violently, the bow rising and falling as if it were a flat stone skimming the surface. The fish must not be swimming in a straight line but in an undulating fashion, rising up and going down, over and over. Why it would do that was beyond him. But it vindicated his decision to use the dugout and not a bark canoe. By now, the bark craft would have been shattered to bits and pieces.
Shakespeare put his hand on the bundled net. His plan still might succeed. Tire the fish, draw it to the surface, and slay it with a harpoon, either outright, or if he could not get a good cast, then get the net over it and pull it close enough to thrust a harpoon clean through the beast. “Malignant thing!” he quoted. “By my hand, I’ll turn my mercy out of doors, and make a stock fish of thee!”
The canoe gave a wild lurch as it changed direction. Shakespeare grabbed the side. He winced as the paddle nearly came out from under him, smacking his shin hard.
Shakespeare wished he could tell where they were. They might be close to land, and a shout would bring his wife and friends to his aid. But no. He refused to call for help. He’d gotten himself into this predicament; he would prevail without imposing on them. Yes, he was being stubborn. He was succumbing to the sin of pride. But he could not help it. He was acting on his belief that it was in their best interest to dispose of the thing before it disposed of one of them.
The rope abruptly went slack and the dugout coasted to a stop. Shakespeare peered over the side again, but he might as well try to see through mud. The damnable fog foiled him. He was tempted to tug on the rope, but didn’t. It might provoke the fish into another mad run.
The minutes dragged. The fish was content to remain still. Shakespeare splashed more water on his head, which had taken to throbbing, then opened his parfleche and took out a bundle of pemmican Blue Water Woman had made. A mix of finely ground deer meat, fat, and chokecherries, it was just about his favorite food in all the world. He munched and mulled over his dilemma. Or should he say, the fish’s dilemma. He had caught it. It could not shake loose the grappling iron. Eventually it would tire and be at his mercy. All he had to do was wait.
But for all his years, Shakespeare had never been the most patient of men. He could not stand to sit still when he could be doing something. In this instance, as soon as he finished another piece of pemmican, he made sure the parfleche was snug in the stern, then wrapped his hands around the rope and pulled. He wanted to provoke it. He wanted another underwater sprint and more after that, to exhaust the fish that much sooner.
But nothing happened. The rope did not snap rigid. The dugout did not move.
Shakespeare tugged harder. His first thought was that the fish had slipped free, but no, if that were the case, the rope would be slack. The fish was still caught. It must be resting.
“I have you, but you do not know it.” Shakespeare smiled. By the end of the day he would have a surprise for his doubting Thomas of a wife and his best friend. The canoe shook, but not from the fish. The wind was stirring the lake and creating small waves.
Shakespeare had hoped the fog would soon disperse, but if anything it became thicker. What pale light there was began to fade, which told him the sun was being blotted out by clouds.
It could be that the storm he had been expecting was about to break.
The dugout had withstood battering by the beast, but battering by a tempest would be more than it could endure. It would be swamped and capsize, leaving Shakespeare at the pitiless mercy of the elements.
He had a decision to make. He could stay and continue his battle with the fish, or he could cut the rope and make for land, and safety. Craning his neck, he probed the fog above, seeking a break, looking for sign of thunderheads. But all he saw was fog.
Shakespeare shook his head. He had seen it through this far. He would stay and hope he was wrong about the storm.
A faint shout reached him. It sounded like someone calling his name. He did not answer. It was inevitable they would search for him, but he was determined to go it alone. Bad enough he had nearly cost Lou her life. He would not endanger anyone else.
The rope twitched.
Shakespeare braced himself, and it was well he did. The rope tightened and the dugout flew forward. Shakespeare hoped it was a dying spurt of energy. Sometimes, at the very last, animals marshaled their strength for a final effort. If not, if the creature’s vitality was undiminished, he was no better off than when he first hooked the thing, which did not bode well for the outcome.
He kept watch for logs, but the fog was so thick he would not see one until he smashed into it. Then something appeared ahead of them. Something low in the water. Shakespeare braced for the worst. There was a thump and a crunch and a squawk that might have come from a goose. He looked back and thought he glimpsed the stricken bird flapping about.
Another thump and another crunch, and this time Shakespeare saw a dead goose pass under the bow. The dugout was plowing through a flock. “Get out of the way!” he shouted. “Take to the air!” Another crunch and another goose flapped and thrashed.
Suddenly the craft gave one of its violent lurches and was off in a whole new direction.
Shakespeare had given up trying to figure out where on the lake he was. To try was pointless until the fog dissipated.
With surprising abruptness, the fish stopped. The dugout was brought to a halt by the rope.
Now what? Shakespeare wondered. He waited a bit, then opened the parfleche and treated himself to another piece of pemmican.
The fog was growing darker. A new gust brought the scent of water, but that could just be the scent of the lake. Wishful thinking, it turned out.
Off in the distance thunder boomed.
Shakespeare swore. A storm was bad enough; a thunderstorm was a calamity. The deluge would fill the dugout, and he had nothing to bail with other than his hands.
As if the fish had heard, or maybe it was coincidence, the rope snapped taut and the dugout burst into motion. But it did not hurtle forward. The bow dipped and the stern r
ose off the water and Shakespeare had to grab the sides or be thrown out.
The fish was trying to dive! It wanted to go deeper and was trying to pull the canoe down after it. For a few uneasy moments Shakespeare imagined it succeeding, imagined being pitched into the water as the canoe vanished under the surface.
“No, by God!” Shakespeare clawed for his knife. He must cut the rope whether he wanted to or not. He bent, the blade inches from the hemp, when the rope went slack and the stern smacked down. Shakespeare landed hard on the paddles and harpoons, and agony coursed up his spine. Grunting, he tried to sit up just as the canoe surged forward.
Shakespeare was thrown against the side. He grunted again at a prick in his ribs. The prick was replaced by sharp pain, and looking down, he saw why. He had stabbed himself. Not deeply, but deep enough to draw blood.
Shakespeare indulged in more curses. He yanked the knife out and more blood flowed. “Damn me for a fool.” Pressing his hand to the wound, he stanched the flow. But the dark stain on his shirt was not encouraging.
“Of all the stupid…” Shakespeare began. Another boom of thunder, closer than before, reminded him the rope still had to be cut. He pushed up onto his knees. Bracing himself, he slashed at it, but the dugout bounced and his stroke missed.
Wind buffeted his buckskins, a prelude to the riotous weather to come. He raised the knife again.
With a banshee shriek, the storm broke. Sheets of driving rain pummeled him. It was like having a bottomless bucket of water thrown in his face. He blinked to clear his vision but could not see the end of his arm. Again he bent toward the rope, but a blast of wind slammed into him, stripping his breath and plastering his soaked buckskins to his body. A cold wind stung his skin and brought shivers.
Everything had gone to hell. Shakespeare’s sole desire now was to survive. He groped for the rope and was thrown against the side when the canoe spun like a child’s top. The fish was swimming in small circles. Shakespeare clung to the gunwale as nausea flooded through him, either from the spinning, or his wound, or both.
Water spilled in over the side. The waves were rising. Normally so serene, the lake was being churned into a maelstrom.
Between the wind and the rain, Shakespeare could scarcely breathe. Gasping for air, he dropped onto his belly and felt about. He found the rope. This time nothing would stop him. But as he brought the knife up, the rope went slack and the spinning slowed.
A clap of thunder made his ears ring.
Shakespeare pulled on the rope and it stayed slack. Maybe the fish at long last had pulled loose.
The wind nearly snapped his head back. He looked up just as lightning rent the heavens and lit the sky. The fog was almost gone, whipped away by the fury of the tempest.
Shakespeare’s heart sank.
The lake itself had been transformed into a monster. The water writhed and surged as if alive. White caps peaked the waves much as snow peaked the mountains, only these mountains were moving. As he looked on, a wave heaved up into a watery fist and smashed down over the dugout, knocking him flat.
Shakespeare had run out of time. He gripped the slack rope in his free hand and held it so he could cut it. A premonition made him look up just as another wave came crashing over the gunwale. Again he was knocked flat. The canoe tilted and settled back, water covering the bottom.
Shakespeare got to his knees, puzzled by a strange tightness around his left forearm. He tried to move his arm but couldn’t. A flash of lightning revealed why. Somehow the slack rope had looped around his wrist. He twisted his arm, but the rope would not slide off. He tugged, but that only made the rope tighten.
“Damn it.” Shakespeare let go of his knife and grabbed the rope to unwind it. Without any warning the rope went rigid, as it always did when the fish was about to move again. “No!” he shouted.
Jerked off balance, Shakespeare slammed down hard. His wrist, his whole arm, felt fit to be torn off. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The canoe was picking up speed, and the faster it went, the more pain he felt.
This was bad. This was very bad. Shakespeare tried to get to his knees but was yanked down. The rope was digging so deep into his flesh, his fingers were going numb.
Shakespeare rolled onto his side to try to get some slack in the rope. He did, for all of two seconds. He pried at it with his other hand but could not free his wrist.
The dugout hurtled headlong through the storm-tossed waters as lightning crackled and thunder crashed. Shakespeare managed to get to one knee and saw the knife at his feet. He reached for it just as the largest wave yet reared up out of the lake and curled above his head.
Tempest Fury
A ton of water smashed down. Shakespeare’s temple struck the bottom of the dugout, and for a few harrowing instants he feared he would pass out again. A black veil nipped at him, and his stomach tried to climb up out of his throat. Only by force of will was he able to stay conscious and shove his stomach back down where it belonged.
His wrist was in torment. The rope was a vise, the other end lost in the darkling realm under the canoe. He groped for his knife, but it was not where he had seen it last. Frantic, he cast about, but it was not to be found. Washed over the side, most likely.
Then Shakespeare remembered the harpoons. Grabbing one a few inches below the tip, he commenced sawing at the rope. The tip was not as sharp as his knife, but it would suffice.
The canoe kept swaying and bouncing, and he was handicapped by having to use one hand.
Wet drops spattered him, multiplying rapidly. Another cannonade of thunder heralded the unleashing of the deluge in all its elemental fury.
Shakespeare focused on the rope and only the rope. The fish had slowed, but that might be temporary, and it was entirely possible that its next burst of speed might yank him clear out of the canoe or tear his arm clean off.
With the storm roaring around him, Shakespeare sliced at strand after strand. Time seemed to slow. A result of the knock on the head, he reckoned. Or was there more to it? Shakespeare would be the first to admit that he was not getting any younger. He liked to joke about his creaking joints and aching muscles, but the truth was, they did creak and ache. Remarkable though his stamina and strength were for his age, he was not the man he used to be. The thought broke his concentration. He had never truly regarded himself as old before, but maybe it was time he started. He had limits, and the smart thing to do was to respect those limits and not go traipsing out on a lake after a creature more formidable, in its way, than a grizzly or a buffalo.
Shakespeare resumed slicing. He had lost all feeling from his fingertips to his wrist, and now the numbness was spreading higher. He prayed to God he would not lose the hand. “I have grown rather attached to it,” he said, and chuckled at his warped humor.
Shakespeare sliced as fast as he could, given how awkward it was to handle the harpoon with one hand. The canoe rocked without cease, threatening to upend him. Do it, damn you! he mentally shouted. So what if you are old? Think of your wife and think of your friends and do it!
As if in answer, the rope severed, and the end that trailed over the gunwale went sliding over the edge and was gone.
Wincing at the agony, Shakespeare unwound the loop from his wrist. He wriggled his fingers, or tried to, to help restore his circulation, which only made the pain worse.
Unexpectedly, the canoe pitched, throwing him onto his good arm. Thinking the fish might be to blame, Shakespeare looked up – and gaped in astonishment.
The world had gone mad. Writhing black clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon, broken by vivid jagged bolts. The rumble and boom of thunder was continuous. One bolt, quite near, sizzled the air with a sound like that of frying bacon and struck something on the lake in a brilliant flash. The rain was Noah’s flood all over again. But the wind was the worst; it howled and screeched and churned the water into convulsions. It was the wind that gave birth to increasingly larger waves. The lake, once so tranquil, was in upheaval.
&
nbsp; A wave caught the dugout and lifted it into the air, only to bring it smashing down with a jolt that jarred Shakespeare to his marrow. He had never seen the lake like this. It was just his luck – or lack of it – that he should be out in the canoe when the storm of the century swept in.
The fish was of no consequence now. All that mattered was surviving, staying alive so he could hold Blue Water Woman in his arms once again. So what if she would tease him with an endless litany of “I told you so”? She had been right and he had been wrong, and he was man enough to admit it.
Special moments rose unbidden in his memory. The first time he set eyes on her and was dazzled by her beauty; the deep, special love that blossomed; the giddy delight of taking her into his arms, and their first kiss. Lord, how he adored that woman! To think that he might lose her, or she him, because he had been too pigheaded to listen!
Another wave raised the dugout. Shakespeare braced himself as one side dipped lower than the other, using his good hand and his knees to keep from being catapulted out. He succeeded, but at the height of the wave, when he did not dare let go, his Hawken and one of the harpoons and the net slid over the edge. Impulsively, he almost lunged for the rifle, but if he did, he would follow it in.
Only then did Shakespeare remember he was not much of a swimmer. He could, when he had to, or occasionally for the fun of it, but he was not a seal like Zach, or even as good as Blue Water Woman. Were he to be tossed into the drink, he might never come up.
The dugout dipped into a trough between waves, giving Shakespeare a momentary respite. Then the next wave seized it and swept it aloft. Once again he braced himself, but this time, with the canoe tipped on the crest, his hand slipped. He felt himself start to fall. Only by exerting his aged sinews to their utmost was he able to avoid disaster.
The rain, the lightning, the thunder, the waves assaulted Shakespeare’s senses. He lost all awareness of time, of his own self, of everything except the din and the upheaval and the rolling motion that tossed his stomach as it did the waves. He was close to being sick.
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