Ghosts of Manitowish Waters

by G. M. Moore

  “She’s not coming,” Cain was saying. “She’s not a part of this.”

  “She must,” the Mide replied. “I have seen it. The clans work in unison to keep balance.”

  “She’s not Ojibwe. She’s not of a clan.”

  “No,” the Mide agreed. “But the woods ghost chose her. It is the time of the Seventh Fire. Many of our people have fallen asleep. The old flames have yet to be rekindled. The spirits look elsewhere. She is of the Deer Clan now, the peacemakers.”

  “No,” Cain replied flatly. “She is not. The spirits don’t choose outsiders.”

  The medicine man sighed heavily. “Your journey begins then, Maadaadizi. Go to Stone Lake. Take the Rocky Ridge Trail. The camp you seek is not far from the bluff.”

  Tess heard shuffling as the two men walked toward the doorway. She practically leaped back to her spot near the burning pit. Cain emerged from behind the animal hides, a necklace of white shells around his neck, pulling a hoodie over his head. His demeanor had changed. He seemed very agitated, angry even.

  She looked up, questioning, searching his face. “Wha—” she started.

  “You’re going home,” he ordered, gesturing toward the door. “Now.”

  She jumped up. He had already reached the plank door and wasn’t waiting. Tess scurried after him. Something told her to turn back, and she did, for just a second. The Midewiwin priest stood at the altar, arms folded, a trancelike, otherworldly look on his face. Unnerved, Tess quickly turned back toward the door and grabbed for it. She stepped into the afternoon sun as an eagle’s piercing screech filled the room behind her.

  Chapter Four

  Butch grunted loudly as he squatted to the ground. He pushed the white deer over his head and ducked under its torso as the carcass dropped from its perch on his shoulders to the damp, mossy forest floor. He stayed low for a moment, hands on his knees, panting heavily.

  Damn kid, he huffed silently. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes. Their saltiness stung and his vision blurred as he slowly stood up. He wiped his face with the cuff of his sweatshirt and surveyed the area. He didn’t recognize any of it.

  Lost? he thought miserably. How can I be lost?

  He knew the area very well, had been hunting it since he was a kid. He wasn’t wearing a watch or carrying a cell phone but felt as if he’d been walking in the woods carrying that ghost of a doe for hours. He was sure he should have reached the old logging road by now.

  Butch twisted and stretched his sore shoulders.

  “Damn kid,” he cursed aloud.

  Not only did Wes leave him to manage the doe alone, he left Butch without a walkie-talkie and no means of calling for help.

  This is not going to sit well with Clyde, he grumbled. Not at all.

  Butch looked down at the deer. He was in no hurry to pick up what had to be more than one hundred pounds of dead weight again. He needed to figure out exactly where he was without that burden on his back. He knew this wouldn’t sit well with Clyde either, but he was leaving the animal right there until he got his bearings. Butch took one last look around, committing the area to memory before trudging off into the woods.

  A few minutes later he heard the sound of cascading water.

  No, he groaned. That can’t be the Yellow River. Please have that not be the Yellow River.

  If it was, Butch knew he had taken a very wrong turn somewhere and was now well over a mile from Clyde’s rendezvous point.

  He hurried toward the sound. Branches cracked and snapped around him as he plowed through the forest. Soon he caught glimpses of water ahead and pushed out of the dense woods onto the rocky edge of a creek.

  His lips pulled into a toothy, tobacco-stained grin. “Praise the Lord,” he muttered.

  It wasn’t the Yellow River. It was just a small, rocky creek about five-feet wide, its water about ankle-deep.

  The air was much cooler here, and the roar of rushing water much louder. The noise engulfed the area and drew Butch upstream. He walked along the creek’s edge, climbing over fallen trees along the way to the mouth of a rustic dam. The jumbled stack of logs and branches held back the flow of a small lake. The structure was obviously old. Many of its logs had slipped out of place; some lay in the creek bed itself, while some jutted out from the dam, letting water spill over and leak through.

  He still didn’t recognize the lake or the dam. This area had long been forgotten. He could feel that in his bones. The woods themselves felt abandoned. He could hear nothing but lake water as it rushed over the dam and pooled there before bubbling down the creek bed. The water brought a coolness and moistness to the warming afternoon air that immediately soothed the paunchy man. He shrugged. So he didn’t recognize it, that’s not so unusual, he assured himself. Small lakes and ponds dotted the Wisconsin landscape, many known only to locals. And even though he had hunted the area for years, this wasn’t his backyard. He was from Hayward. This was Spooner. Here was an old logger’s dam and that meant an old logger’s road had to be nearby. He was not as far off course as he had thought, and once he reached the logging road, someone would be there waiting. He knew it.

  Butch sat down heavily at the edge of the dam. He pulled off his sweatshirt, then his boots and socks. Break time, he thought with relief as the last sock came off. A thin, white, tobacco-stained undershirt clung to his large belly. He pulled at it, letting cool air flow over his hot, sticky skin. His back hurt, his shoulders hurt, but mostly his feet hurt. Butch rolled the legs of his pants up, sank his throbbing feet into the cold creek water, and carefully waded into the bubbling pool at the base of the dam.

  The water was much deeper here, hitting his legs just above the shin. He wobbled across slimy, algae-coated rocks, moving his outstretched arms up and down to steady himself.

  “Ooo! Ow!” he cried with a start as sharp tree branches buried in the water dug into his bare feet.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Butch thought and plopped down on one of the dam’s rotting logs. He lifted one foot but couldn’t see over the mound of fat now sitting in his lap. Butch twisted and turned, the dam groaning under his weight, as he tried to get ahold of his foot. Finally, he caught the heel with both hands and pulled. As his leg came up, Butch grunted in surprise. About half a dozen shiny black leeches clung to his flesh from the calf down.

  “Dadgum, bloodsucking varmints,” he ranted through clenched teeth.

  He pulled one off and lost his grip on the foot, plunging it back into the water. As he bent down to grab it again, the log underneath him popped. Butch felt himself drop lower.

  Uh-oh. Not good, he thought. Time to get up and outta here.

  As he started to rise, his feet slipped on the algae-covered creek bottom and flew out from under him. He fell backward hard, landing in a tangle of damp logs, bark, and branches. Cold lake water soaked his pants as the structure crackled and snapped around him. Butch struggled to push himself up, but his weight worked against him, and he couldn’t gather the leverage or momentum to get up and off the dam. His heart beat rapidly as panic crept in. No, no, he silently scolded, pressing on his pounding chest. Don’t be a dumbass.

  “Keep your cool, keep your cool,” he chanted, closing his eyes and taking a series of deep breaths until he felt his heart slow. “OK, Meat House,” he muttered and placed both hands on the dam. “You got this.”

  As Butch heaved his body upward, the water-soaked mound groaned violently and gave way. His arms plunged deep into the snarling, collapsing branches. He winced and gnashed his teeth as jagged splinters ripped his flesh. He thrashed and fought to get free but couldn’t. It was as if the dam had handcuffed him and now nature held him prisoner. Butch cried out for help again and again until movement in the woods silenced him. Something, or someone, was out there. His eyes darted left and right as an eerie fog rose from the creek’s edge and slowly rolled toward him. Butch moaned as
a ghostly figure formed in the mist. His moan turned into a whimper as the apparition began to glow. Piercing red eyes locked on him as the dam’s structure let out a final ear splintering pop and caved in. Butch sobbed as foaming, frigid lake water surged over him. He cried out one last time before disappearing under a tide of muddy debris.

  Chapter Five

  Tess could still hear the hum of Cain’s ATV as she shuffled, head down, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, up the path to her house. She sighed wistfully. So this was it? What a very boring end to a very interesting afternoon. Her eyes turned glassy as tears surfaced in them. “Figures,” she muttered, then paused, looking back down the path, listening. Her mouth dropped into a melancholy frown as the ATV’s hum grew fainter and fainter.

  Get over it, Tess told herself, wrapping her arms around her knotted stomach. She took in several long, deep breaths. You’ve got no reason to feel this way. Let it go. But her stomach wouldn’t let it go. Her body ached as if she had just been dumped, and she supposed in a way she had been. Cain Mathews had dumped her. He had driven her to the foot of the path to her house and dumped her there with not even a good-bye. Actually, he had barely spoken two words to her the entire trip back.

  So this was it, she concluded again. No more Cain Mathews.

  How could she have thought he would be interested in her anyway? And it wasn’t like her dad was going to let her date or anything close to it. He wouldn’t even let her go shopping. So don’t be a fool, she told herself. Just let it go, let him go. Tess wiped her eyes and started up the path once more.

  She paid no real attention to her surroundings, walking on autopilot up the path, across the patchy lawn, and to the blacktop driveway. As she passed the steel basketball pole at the foot of the drive, a flicker of movement caught her eye. There, perched stoically on the rim of the basketball net, sat a bald eagle so massive in size that she instinctively flinched and stepped back. The regal creature lifted its sharp yellow talons impatiently up and down as its pale eyes studied her. Then, without warning, the animal stretched open its chocolate brown wings and with one whooshing flap it rose slowly into the air.

  Tess raised her arm defensively, partly cowering, partly shielding her eyes as she watched the bird hovering just feet above her. Its mighty six-foot wingspan blocked out the glare of the late afternoon sky, and she noticed that the bird held something in its hooked beak. Before she could make out what it was, the eagle released a shrill, high-pitched cry, forcing Tess to flinch again, cover her ears, and cower even lower. The object dropped from the bird’s gaping yellow beak to the ground as the animal rose higher and higher in the sky. Then, with one mighty flap of its wings, it was gone.

  Tess slowly lowered her arm and, with uncertainty, stood tall again as she looked to the hazy, empty sky. That did not just happen, she told herself. No way. A shiver raced up her spine as she thought back to Cain’s Ojibwe godfather and the screeching sound she had heard coming from his sweat lodge.

  “There’s no way,” she muttered out loud, shaking her head slowly back and forth.

  Her eyes darted across the driveway, spotted the object that had fallen from the eagle’s beak, and she quickly moved to it. Tess recognized the object at once. It was a necklace made of white shells. The same one the old Mide had put around Cain’s neck. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The necklace was short, like a choker, with colored beads strung between four white shells. The shells hung from the necklace like teardrops and looked to be some sort of conch shell. The necklace was obviously part of whatever ceremony Cain’s godfather had performed. The last time she had seen a necklace like this it was around Cain’s neck, so how did that eagle get ahold of it and why was it dropped here? Her stomach flipped. You mean why was it delivered here? she corrected. No, Tess quickly dismissed the thought. Uh-uh. Not possible. She looked up, searching the sky uneasily. Her eyes fell to the basketball rim and lingered there a moment. Yes, she finally conceded. An eagle delivered the necklace here, to her. Oh, wow, her mind cried excitedly. This Indian stuff is all so strange. A playful grin surfaced on her face. But now I’ve got a good reason to talk to Cain Mathews again. She beamed happily. What a very exciting end to a very interesting afternoon. With the shell necklace in hand, Tess turned and raced up the drive and into the house.

  She stopped in the kitchen, grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator, and noticed the message light on the phone was blinking. She pushed play.

  Hi Tess. It’s Ann. Just got back from Superior.

  Tess could hear movement and murmuring voices in the background.

  You didn’t miss much. No biggie. A few of us are meeting out for—

  Hey, one of the voices called out, interrupting Ann. Who you calling?

  Shhhhhh, Ann scolded in a hushed voice. Tess, she replied.

  Tess? the voice questioned. Tess strained, but couldn’t tell who it was. Why bother? the voice continued. She won’t come.

  Shhhh, Ann scolded again, then spoke louder, continuing her message. We are doing the fish fry later on, around six. Call me, ‘kay. Bye.

  Stunned by what she had just heard, Tess barely had time to process it when the phone beeped and a second message began to play. It was her father. Tess’s stomach dropped.

  Tess, we need to talk—tonight. His voice was cold and stern. You were way out of line this morning. Storming off like that is not acceptable. Consider yourself grounded. He paused. Well, his tone softened slightly, we’ll talk. Be home.

  As the voicemail began its instructional litany—to save a message press three, to delete a message press seven—Tess stared, mouth agape, at the phone. Grounded? she questioned, her brow wrinkling in disbelief. For what? Asking to go shopping? Tears began to well in her eyes. There goes the fish fry. Her friends were right. She never went anywhere, never did anything.

  Tess slammed the can of Diet Coke onto the kitchen counter, flew out the backdoor, and stormed down the driveway. The basketball net loomed just ahead, and she stopped abruptly in front of it. Tess looked down at the necklace still clasped firmly in her hand. The words of the elderly medicine man came back to her.

  She is of the Deer Clan now.

  The woods ghost chose her.

  Take the Rocky Ridge Trail.

  Tess’s face hardened, and she looked resolutely at the sky. Enough was enough. “If I’m going to be grounded, it’s going to be for something worth it.”

  With that, Tess turned on her heels and ran back in the house.

  Chapter Six

  “Base Station out,” Wes Thayer announc- ed from his seat in front of the CB radio. He released the microphone’s talk button, then leaned back in the creaky, worn leather chair. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner, occasionally crackling and popping as it radiated heat through the small one-room cabin. Lips pursed tight, his brown eyes stared in puzzlement at the cabin’s log ceiling.

  Where is he?

  Wes ran fingers through his hair as he brooded, his palms coming to rest on the sweaty strips of dark blond hair now running in rows across the top of his head. He knew Butch should have made it to the old logging road hours ago, but no one had seen any sign of him there or here at the Stone Lake camp.

  So where is he?

  Wes leaned forward. The wooden chair dropped heavily to the floor. He stayed still for a moment, head hung low, before slapping both hands on the desktop and forcefully pushing up and out of the chair. Fingers twitching at his sides, he began pacing the cabin’s cement floor.

  I should have left Butch the walkie-talkie, he grumbled, popping his forehead with the palm of his hand. Dumb move.

  There was only one thing do to: find him and do it fast, because if Butch was missing, so was that albino doe. And that was bad, very bad, for all of them. Clyde had $10,000 riding on delivery of that doe to a wealthy client in Chicago. Wes shuddered to think what his father would do if he found out that money
was suddenly gone.

  Wes reached a wall stacked high with bunk beds and abruptly turned around. He cast a quick glance out a nearby window. The sky had dimmed. He was wasting daylight. With long, determined strides he moved back to the CB radio and tapped the talk button.

  “Base Station to Echo One.” He lifted his finger.

  The radio crackled and hissed until he finally heard, “Echo One, back,” faintly through the static. His field man was just on the edge of their frequency range.

  “Hold your position. Search party en route. Over.”

  “Roger that Base Station. Out.”

  Wes ran fingers through his hair once more, brooding for a moment over his decision—one that likely would mean a night spent in the woods. He let out an annoyed grunt. He didn’t have another option.

  “Damn it, Butch,” he huffed before grabbing a jacket off a rack near the cabin door and charging out it.

  ****

  As Wes Thayer paced the cabin floor, Cain Mathews moved covertly through the dense woods surrounding the poacher camp. Crouched low, he maneuvered quickly to a large oak, pressed his back against it, and peered over his shoulder. Three men had been milling about outside the camp’s main cabin for about a half an hour. Right now, he spotted one cleaning a rifle on the cabin’s front stoop and another chopping firewood at the edge of a small shed. The third man had entered the shed and was still out of sight, most likely looking after the albino fawn being held there.