A monster wave flung the canoe toward the black clouds, and it began to roll. Shakespeare closed his eyes and fought down bitter bile. He prayed as he had not prayed in years, prayed with every fiber of his being that he would live to see Blue Water Woman again. Her face floated at the back of his eyelids. She was smiling, and she was beautiful, and he had never loved her so much as he did at that moment.
Then Shakespeare was tumbling and clawing for a hold that was not there. The shock of hitting the cold water snapped his eyes open. It snapped his mouth open, too, allowing water to gush down his throat. He swallowed and sucked in a desperate breath, but instead of air he sucked in more water.
There was a tremendous splash next to him and a glancing blow to his shoulder. Shakespeare needed to reach the surface, but he could not tell up from down or down from up. Weakly, he stroked, and went nowhere. He fought to stay conscious, but there were limits to how much punishment the human body could endure, and he had exceeded his, and then some.
Shakespeare envisioned Blue Water Woman. He wanted his last thought to be of her. He wanted to say he was sorry, and to thank her for putting up with him all these years.
Then there was nothing, nothing at all.
“You are not going out after him and that is final,” Nate King said, standing in front of the cabin door, arms folded across his broad chest.
“How can you do this?” Blue Water Woman asked, tears brimming in her eyes. She had hurried to the King cabin when she discovered Shakespeare was gone. “You are his best friend.”
Nate glanced at Winona, who was pouring steaming cups of tea. She sadly shook her head. “Listen to it out there,” he said. Thunder conveniently boomed, stressing his point. “Look out the window.” He had done so just a moment ago. “See how bad that storm is.”
“All the more reason I must try to find him,” Blue Water Woman pleaded. She had wanted to go out earlier, but Nate had advised her to wait until the fog broke. Now the storm had swept in, and she was so worried, her insides were twisted into a knot.
Nate gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “A canoe would not last five minutes in this storm. It would be tom to pieces.” He was sorry he said it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Shakespeare is in a canoe.”
“Yes,” Nate said, mad at his stupidity. “But he took the dugout, not the bark canoes. It will not fall apart on him.”
Blue Water Woman bowed her head and her shoulders drooped. “What was he thinking?” she asked softly. “Why did he go out again? Alone?” She was hurt that he had not taken her. Even more hurt that he had not told her he was going.
Nate shrugged. “You know how he is. When he wants to do something, he never lets anything stand in his way. I am the same way.”
“I warned him the water devil is bad medicine, but he would not listen,” Blue Water Woman said.
“Men,” Nate said. “We are all born with rocks between our ears.” He grinned, but she did not grin back.
Winona came over and clasped Blue Water Woman’s hand in hers. She was worried, too, greatly worried, but for her friend’s sake she hid it. “Come. The tea is ready. Have a seat and calm your nerves.”
“If he dies I will not want to go on living.”
Winona and Nate exchanged glances, and Nate took Blue Water Woman’s other hand.
“Enough of talk like that. Shakespeare is not called Carcajou for nothing. Wolverines are the toughest animal around.”
Blue Water Woman let them lead her to a chair. She slumped into it, feeling as if all the life had been drained from her body. “He is not a young man anymore. He pretends he is by ignoring his wrinkles.”
Just then Evelyn came out of her bedroom. She had been listening and wished there was something she could say or do to cheer Blue Water Woman up. A bolt of lightning lit the window, and she nearly jumped. She never had liked lightning. As a little girl, during thunderstorms she would often cower in her bed with the covers over her head. “Is there anything I can do, Ma?”
Winona frowned. “There is nothing any of us can do until this storm lets up.”
“I hope it stops soon.”
So did Nate, but from the sound of things, it would be a while, and every moment Shakespeare spent out on the lake increased the likelihood they might never see him again.
“I am glad Dega is not out there,” Evelyn said without thinking. She had him on her mind a lot of late.
“Why don’t you make us some toast?” Winona suggested, distressed at her daughter’s lapse.
“Sure, Ma.”
Nate was glad no one else had gone with Shakespeare, or whoever did would be in the same dire straits. A thought startled him. What if someone had? He would not put it past his son to tag along, and he had not seen hide nor hair of Zach since the day before. He’d assumed Zach was tending to Louisa, but he never knew with that boy of his. “As soon as the storm ends, I am going out.”
“We are,” Blue Water Woman amended.
“He is my friend.”
“He is my husband.”
“The three of us will go,” Winona interjected.
“I would rather you stayed here,” Nate said casually, so she would not construe it as a command and be insulted.
“Three sets of eyes and ears are better than two,” Winona said, as if that settled the matter.
“Four sets are better yet,” Evelyn piped up.
Nate thought fast. “If all of us are out on the water, who will search the shoreline?” He left unsaid the reason: that McNair, or McNair’s body, might wash up on shore. Pointing at Evelyn, he said, “I want you to ride to the Nansusequa and ask them to help you search the east shore.” She would be glad to be with Dega, and she would be off the lake.
“If you want, Pa.”
Nate turned to his wife. “I would like you to check in on Zach and Lou and make sure she is all right, then search along the north shore.”
“I suppose I should see if Louisa has recovered,” Winona reluctantly conceded.
“Blue Water Woman will search the south shore while I go out in a canoe,” Nate concluded. “That way we cover all there is to cover.” It made sense to him, but would it make sense to Blue Water Woman? Females had an exasperating habit of thinking they knew better than males just because they were females.
“If there is no one else to do it, very well. But if I find no trace of him, I am coming right out in a canoe.”
“We will go out together,” Winona told her.
Nate smothered a grin. “Whatever you two think is best.”
Thunder chose that moment to rattle the dishes in the cupboard. They all gazed at the rain-lashed window.
“Oh, Carcajou.” Blue Water Woman gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles were nearly white.
“He will be all right,” Nate said, reading her expression.
“His heart is my heart. My heart is his.” Blue Water Woman bit her lower lip.
Evelyn felt sorry for her. For some reason, the comment brought Dega to mind. “When I get married, I hope the man I care for cares for me as much as you and Shakespeare care for each other.”
Winona hid her considerable surprise. That was the first time their daughter had ever mentioned marriage in a serious tone. And Evelyn had said ‘when’ not ‘if.’
Nate was listening to the bedlam outdoors. The storm showed no sign of abating any time soon.
“I hope you find a man like mine,” Blue Water Woman said. She was sorry that she was upsetting them so much, and in an effort to cheer them, and herself, she said, “I should do as Shakespeare always says to do and look at the bright side.”
“There is one?” Evelyn asked.
“All that lightning,” Blue Water Woman said. “If I am lucky, it will strike that stupid steeple.”
Water Womb
Warmth revived him. Blessed, wonderful warmth on his face and neck showed he was still alive.
Shakespeare McNair
opened his eyes and squinted against the harsh glare of the midday sun. His face was warm, but the rest of him was cold and wet and a patchwork of pain. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he raised his head and looked about him.
The storm had ended. Far to the east a few thunderheads were visible, but otherwise the vault of sky was a pristine blue. So, too, the lake. The waves had stilled and the surface was undisturbed save for cavorting waterfowl.
“Thank God,” Shakespeare croaked, his throat raw, his voice not sounding at all like it should.
The next fact he established was that he was somewhere in the middle of the lake. That he had survived at all was in no small measure due to a fluke of circumstance some might call a miracle.
The dugout was floating upside down in the water. His head, right shoulder, and right arm lay across one end. Were it not for being buoyed by the canoe, he would surely have drowned.
But how had it happened? Shakespeare wondered. The last thing he remembered was being pitched into the water. He remembered, too, hearing a loud splash that must have been the canoe crashing down next to him. The only explanation he could think of was that the canoe had gone under and bobbed back up – directly under him.
“I’ll be switched,” Shakespeare said, amazed at his deliverance. He patted the bottom of the dugout. Here he had poked fun at it for being a turtle in the water, and the turtle had saved his life.
But his ordeal was far from over. He had lost both paddles. He had lost his knife and his rifle and the harpoons and the net. Worse, he had lost the parfleche with his food. The lantern, too, and they only had the one. Blue Water Woman would take him to task for his carelessness.
He was alive, though, and that was the important thing. Smiling, he sat up, pleased to find he had feeling again in his left forearm. His wrist hurt where the rope had dug into his skin, but his fingers wriggled as they should. Both pistols were still tucked tight under his belt, but the soaking had rendered them useless. His ammunition pouch, powder-horn, and possibles bag had likewise been under water.
Shakespeare sought some sign of land. All he saw was water and more water. Overhead, a gull screeched. Glancing up, he said in jest, “Fetch help, will you?”
Something brushed his left foot.
Shakespeare peered into the water, but it was like peering into a mirror. He saw his reflection, not whatever had brushed against him. He moved his legs back and forth, but it was gone.
A fish, Shakespeare thought. A small fish. Nothing for him to worry about. His first priority was to right the dugout. To that end, he slid off and tread water and put his hands under the canoe. He figured it would be easy to flip over, but when he tried he could only lift it half a foot or so. It was just too heavy. On land he might be able to, but not in the water.
Shakespeare sighed. Here he’d thought his luck had turned. He slid his arms farther under the canoe and bunched his shoulder muscles for all he was worth, but all he did was set his gash to throbbing.
Shivering from the cold, Shakespeare reached up to pull himself out of the water. But the smooth hull defied his grasp. The Nansusequa had stripped the bark, and the hull was as smooth as glass. He had nothing to hold on to.
“When it rains, it pours,” Shakespeare muttered. He had to get out of the water. The longer he was in it, the colder he would become. He might become so cold he could barely move, and once that happened, it was a slow sink to the bottom, and oblivion.
“If I ever go out on this lake again, someone should shoot me,” Shakespeare said to the canoe. He refused to give up. Moving to the near end, he extended both arms and tried to wriggle and shimmy his way higher. His soaked buckskins were so slick that twice he slipped back, but at length he had half his body on the dugout. All it would take was for him to swing a leg up.
Then something brushed against his foot. Again.
Shakespeare glanced down. There could be no mistake. It was not his imagination. “Surely not,” he said.
As if in answer, ten yards away a swell rose. A small one, but since the wind had died, it could only be caused by one thing.
Shakespeare scrambled higher and slipped back. He tried again and again, and each time it was the same. The whole time, the swell circled the canoe, coming closer with each pass. It was within six feet when desperation lent him extra strength. He got a leg up out of the water. That was all the extra leverage he needed.
Prone on the overturned dugout, Shakespeare watched the swell go around and around. “What are you up to, devil fish?” To reach him it would have to show itself; he half hoped it would. One look. One good look was all he wanted.
The hiss of the swell again reminded Shakespeare of the hiss of a snake. He considered using a flintlock, but his pistols were so waterlogged they would surely misfire. He turned his head in time to see the swell slow and fade as its source sank. But the fish did not dive. It hovered just below the surface. Shakespeare had the impression it was studying him even as he was trying to study it. He prodded his memory, but he had never heard of a fish that behaved like this one. None in his personal experience, either, unless he counted the time a bass paced the bull boat he was in.
“What do you want, damn you?” Shakespeare asked the great shadowy bulk. His life, most likely. But the fish would have to work for it. He was too fond of living to give up without a struggle.
Shakespeare rested his cheek on his hand. The fish could float there all day. He needed to get to land and out of his wet buckskins. “Come closer so I can shoot you.”
As if it had heard, the fish swam nearer.
Shakespeare strained his eyes trying to make out details. The thing was so close he could almost reach down and touch it, and all he saw was shadow. Impulsively, he flung out a hand, and the shadow moved back out of reach.
“You are toying with me, damn you.”
Suddenly the shadow erupted into motion, making another circuit of the canoe.
Taking a gamble, Shakespeare slid further down and clutched at the swell. He could not quite reach it.
Determined not to be thwarted, Shakespeare eased lower still and held his arm a few inches above the surface. The swell reappeared, sweeping around the other end of the canoe, and he smiled. He had outfoxed the finny so-and-so. Spreading his fingers, he thrust them at the onrushing water. In a twinkling his hand was immersed and he flailed about for a solid body, but all he felt was water. “Impossible!” he bellowed.
Not if the fish had dived just as he reached for it. Shakespeare had forgotten how ungodly quick the thing was. Despite its size, it was aquatic quicksilver.
The surface was once again smooth and serene.
Shakespeare clambered back up. He was tired of the cat and mouse. Most especially, he was tired of being the mouse. It was high time he used the one advantage he had over the fish: his mind. Used it right, since so far the fish had gotten the better of him at every turn. “No more,” he vowed.
Shakespeare drew one of his flintlocks, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. As he expected, there was a click and nothing more. A misfire, thanks to the soaking he’d taken.
One eye on the lake, Shakespeare cleaned the weapon as best he was able, given that he did not have a dry cloth to work with. He used his sleeve to wipe the pan clean of the wet powder, then puffed to dry it, and blew down the barrel a number of times.
Opening his powder horn, Shakespeare carefully upended it over his palm. Powder trickled out. Some was wet and some was not. He cast it over the side. He poured another handful and cast that over the side. A third handful had enough dry grains to suit him.
Shakespeare reloaded. Sliding the ramrod from its housing, he tamped a ball down the barrel. Since all his patches were soaked, he did without. The pistol should fire. He just needed to wait until the fish was right on top of him.
Waiting. That was the key. Shakespeare scanned the surface in all directions, fervently hoping the fish would come back. The minutes dragged, and he was about convinced it wouldn’t, when for
ty yards out the swell reappeared, rising until it was a foot high. As before, the fish circled the dugout.
Shakespeare extended the flintlock but he did not shoot. Wait, he told himself. Wait, wait, wait. As the fish had done the last time, the circles were narrowing. From forty yards to thirty-five and from thirty-five to thirty. At twenty yards Shakespeare fidgeted with excitement. At ten yards his palms were sweating.
Keep coming! Shakespeare mentally shouted. Another circle or two and it would be close enough. He thumbed back the hammer.
The next time the fish swept past, it was only five yards out.
Shakespeare intended to shoot it in the head. The only other way was the heart, and he could not be sure of hitting it. As huge as the creature was, the ball might not even penetrate far enough to reach it.
Another circle, and now the fish was only four yards from Shakespeare when the swell hissed by.
Shakespeare did not move. He remembered the time he squatted motionless for over two hours when he was after a bighorn. Compared to that, this was nothing. He sighted down the barrel and grinned when the swell filled his vision.
Only three yards out.
Then two.
Shakespeare licked his lips, but he had no spit to wet them with. His mouth was dry. He held the flintlock with both hands to steady it.
Only a yard separated the dugout from the swell as the fish coursed by for what would be the next to last time.
Shakespeare leaned down so the flintlock was practically touching the water. He shifted, eyes glued to the end of the canoe where the fish would reappear. Inwardly, he ticked off the seconds: one, two, three, four, five. The swell swept into sight and hissed toward him. This time the fish was practically rubbing the canoe.
Shakespeare had it dead to rights. His elbows locked, he held his breath and lightly curled his finger around the trigger. He was primed to fire.
Then the unexpected happened.
The swell slowed and split down the middle as a pea pod might split, revealing peas of a different sort: the creature’s eyes. Its head rose into plain sight, and those eyes, a pair of golden peas with black in their centers, gazed up at Shakespeare. Their eyes met.
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