Ned followed Peeler's instructions, then he cast out, tightened up on the slack and stood waiting. Now that he looked more closely at the water he noticed plenty of signs of life. Bugs danced across the surface, air bubbles ballooned up from the bottom and widening rings of concentric ripples formed here and there. Of course there had to be fish here, Ned thought. Peeler knew. Peeler would never come all the way out here to fish a dead pond. The boy fidgeted with impatience. Come on fish, he urged silently. He held the line taut in his fingers, the way Peeler was doing. Before long, he felt a nibble.
"Something's out there," Ned said. "I can feel it."
"Let him get it in his mouth and start to move on you," Peeler advised. "Then give a short, sharp yank on the line, and set that hook real good."
Nothing came of that nibble, but within the hour the old man had landed three good-size catfish and Ned one. Peeler showed him how to hold them without being stabbed in the hand by the fish's spiky whiskers. Cloudy whacked each one with his club and Peeler slit their throats, letting the blood drain out of the fish. He sliced open their bellies and scraped out the entrails. Then he wrapped them in wet grass and packed them in a wicker basket. Ned was startled by the fierce struggle put up by the first cat, whipping through the air in a frenzy, then the sudden splat of the branch, followed by the knife blade and the brief rush of bright red blood—it all happened so quickly. But it was exciting, not disturbing.
Ned was fascinated by the surface of the pond. It never remained the same for more than a few seconds at a time. The lightest breeze, a build-up of clouds, the shifting angle of light, all registered on the water, becoming part of its constant transformation. It was almost hypnotic, and with that and the afternoon heat, Ned began to feel drowsy. Then he saw something out in the middle of the pond. It was the kind. of roll and swirl in the water caused by a top-feeding fish. But it was too big. It was huge, perhaps five feet long judging by the movement it made, and Ned thought that no fish so large could live in such a small pond.
"Look," he said, pointing. "Look at that."
Both men stood up.
"I told you there's some big ones here," Peeler said.
"That is a monster," Cloudy said. "Don't catch that fella, Mr. Tadpole, otherwise you gonna have real trouble on your hands."
"It can't be a fish," Ned said. "Not in here, it's too big."
"They come that big." Peeler sat down again. "Bigger, too."
"Really?" There was awe in Ned's voice.
"Big enough to make a meal outta you," Cloudy added, breaking into laughter.
"Maybe it was a noekk." Peeler's smile had turned into a mischievous grin.
"A what?"
"A noekk."
"What's that?"
"Yeah, what you talkin' about?" Cloudy asked with an exaggerated look of skepticism on his face.
Peeler jiggled his line, putting the worms through an exotic dance for the benefit of any passing fish. "I never did see one myself," he said. "But a crazy Norwegian sailor once told me about the noekk."
"Just a second," Cloudy interrupted. "Would that be Happy Hansen?"
"That's him. Happy Hansen."
Cloudy smirked. "That old fool never had his head outta the gin bottle long enough to put two sentences in a row."
"What'd he say?" Ned asked Peeler.
"Well, he told me that the noekk is a big, black, slimy critter that lives in certain rivers and ponds. Nobody knows just what it looks like because nobody never sees more 'n a glimpse of it, and then only very rarely. But they're ugly as sin, with real sad eyes, and you're supposed to be able to hear 'em cryin' and wailin' for their lost love or because they're so lonely, or some damn thing like that."
"Can they hurt you?"
Peeler shrugged. "Could be. I know they're said to play tricks on a man, like sing to him from under the water, or knock a boat over, cut a fishin' line—that sort of thing."
"Do you believe it?"
"Who knows? Like I said, I ain't never seen one in my life, but Happy Hansen, he always did say there's one around here somewhere, and that he seen it once."
"Yeah, he saw it, I'm sure of that," Cloudy said. "From the floor of the bar, lookin' up."
The movement out in the middle of the pond had ceased. Ned continued to watch but there was no further sign of it. A noekk. He didn't believe it for a minute, of course. But still, he tried to imagine what it might look like if it really did exist. Peeler had such a could-be way of delivering such stories that it was hard for Ned to dismiss them completely, no matter how improbable they were.
"Whatever become of Happy Hansen?" Cloudy asked.
"I guess the noekk finally got him," Peeler replied, laughing some more. "He was somethin' else, that guy was."
"That's for sure."
Another hour passed without a bite so they decided to begin the long walk home. Ned reeled in his line slowly, but suddenly it stopped. The harder he tried to budge it, the more his rod bent over, until it looked as though it was about to break.
"I think I snagged a rock or a log," he said.
He waved the rod back and forth, hoping to dislodge the hook, but it didn't give an inch.
"Looks like you're gonna have to cut it," Peeler said.
Just as Ned was about to give up and snip the line, it slackened a little. He wound in a foot or two, and it felt like he was pulling a very heavy weight.
"It's loose," he said, grunting from the effort.
"Nice and slow," Peeler coached. "Save the hook."
Ned's eyes widened as he gasped as something broke the surface of the water right in front of him. It was dark green, as long as his forearm and just as thick. Ned saw two black, seed-like eyes staring at him. Then the jaws opened and the hook, stripped of its worms, was spat out. The thing sank back into the water, disappearing from sight. Ned gaped, unable to speak.
Finally he heard Peeler and Cloudy, giggling like a couple of school kids.
"What was that?" Ned asked.
"Must of been a monster, the way you looked," Cloudy said.
"The noekk," Peeler offered. "Darn near got you."
"What was it, really?"
Peeler smiled and came over to pat Ned on the back. "That was a big old turkle," he said. "A mean old turkle."
"Biggest turkle I ever seen," Cloudy added. "Why didn't you pull him in, boy? You had him there. Oh, my, but he would make a gorgeous meal."
"That was a turtle?" Ned was astonished.
"Jesus, Mary and jockstrap." Peeler had picked up Ned's line and now held the hook in the palm of his hand. "Look at that, will you."
The steel hook, normally shaped like the letter J, had been bent back and straightened out so that it looked like a miniature harpoon.
"Gosh," Ned exclaimed. "A turtle did that?"
"You seen him do it. Snapped the barb clean off, too." "You better watch out, Mr. Tadpole. I think you got that turkle so mad he just might come back lookin' for you."
Peeler cut the hook from the line and handed it to Ned.
"Show that to your dad," he said. "Now you got a real fish story of your own and the evidence to go with it."
They talked and joked all the way home, but Ned's mind was on the turtle. He kept seeing that powerful neck, the black, blank eyes and those defiant jaws spitting his hook back at him. A turtle that big and that strong—yes, maybe there were a few big fish in that little pond. He thought again of what he had seen moving out in the middle of the water—it must have been bigger than Ned himself.
When Ned went into the house and held up his catfish, his mother shrieked. His father came running, but when he saw what it was all about he laughed and insisted on taking a snapshot of the boy and his prize catch. Ned told them all about the fishing expedition and his parents listened attentively. He was pleased to see that they were both genuinely impressed by the straightened hook. Ned put it in an empty matchbox and kept it on the night table next to his bed. When he turned off the light to go to sleep he thought agai
n about that turtle. What other unknown creatures might lurk in that pond in Old Woods? A noekk? What were they doing now? Sleeping? No, nothing so dull. They would be prowling around in the murky darkness, maybe even crawling up onto dry land to hunt. Giant catfish, giant turtles, the noekk ....
Ned was glad to be home in his own bed.
* * *
17. Straight Lines Breaking, Becoming Circles
Things happen in August. The heat is deadening, paralyzing, enervating, but ... things happen. From one day to the next, or even in the space of a single afternoon, whole worlds may change decisively.
Ned crossed the lawn toward the house. He carried his T-shirt, which had become so sticky he couldn't bear to have it on anymore. He also had a Skippy jar full of cloudy, stagnant water from the little frog hole out in the back meadow. It wasn't even a pond, just a pocket of still water barely ten feet across, but Ned had been keeping an eye on it ever since he had arrived in Lynnhaven. Some nights, when he wasn't distracted by other noises, Ned could hear what sounded like a large frog out there. He had never seen it, but he was sure it dwelled in that pool. In spite of the heat, the sun and the lack of rain, it hadn't dried up, and Ned wondered if some underground source bubbled up just enough fresh water to keep it going.
Linda was sunning herself on the patio and she had a portable radio tuned to a phone-in program. A woman was complaining about American tax dollars being wasted on foreign aid. "We give them money, we feed them, we build dams and things for them," she said, "and they don't even like us." "And do you know why they don't like us, madam?" asked the program host, whose job it was to be provocative. "They spit on us and they bum our flag," the woman gave as an answer. "We ought to put a stop to it, right now." Linda appeared to be dozing through this, so Ned went into the house without disturbing her.
He poured a tall glass of icy lemonade and took it upstairs. The temperature in his room was only a few degrees cooler than outside, but it still felt like a refreshing change. Ned put the Skippy jar on his desk. While the water was settling he got some clean slides and adjusted his microscope to a low-power magnification. He finished the lemonade and was ready to begin work. Using a long eyedropper, Ned carefully took samples from the top, middle and bottom layers of the water, preparing a separate slide of each. He smeared a bit of green slime on a fourth slide. Ned angled the light mirror until it provided the best illumination, and he adjusted the lens so that the focus was sharp.
As always, he was amazed at what he saw. There was no great difference in the four slides, at least none Ned could detect, but each one presented the dizzy and extraordinary kingdom of the protozoa in all its absurd beauty. Amoebas lounged lethargically. Squads of paramecia zoomed about like manic bumper cars. A stentor stood atilt, a tiny replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa with a fringe on top. Rotifera wheeled and floated, stately as blimps. A hydra waited patiently for prey to blunder into its deadly tentacles. A euglena whipped itself in short, spasmodic movements, like a wandering penitent. And there—Ned's favorite: the volvox, which was not one creature but a vast colony of them linked together to form a whole, a perfect sphere, a shimmering green planet unto itself. All this, in a few drops of water. All this, invisible to the unaided human eye. It was a remarkable universe, and one in which Ned could easily spend hours.
The microscope was his sailing ship, his spacecraft. Ned tried to imagine what it would be like to be as small as a protozoan. He pictured himself as an explorer whose task was to chart a path from one side of the frog pond to the other, through that ocean of strange and menacing creatures. It could take a lifetime—if he survived the journey. What would he use for a weapon—a sliver of algae? Perhaps he could train a rotifer and ride it like a horse. Crossing the Pacific Ocean on a raft would be child's play in comparison.
Ned made a mental note. It probably wouldn't be like this if the water was brackish, so the pool must have a freshwater source, however small. It was an interesting thought, since the pool was so close to the sea. But then again, why not? Lynnhaven Spa was on the bay too, and it had been built because of its freshwater springs.
Ned looked up from the microscope and cocked his head to one side. What was that?
It might have been the buzzing noise again, but this time it was somehow different. It could almost be the sound of a human voice. It was far away, and yet there was something intimate about it. And unnerving. Ned forced himself to concentrate, to try and decipher what he was hearing. It was like listening to a distant radio station that faded in and out through static on a stormy night. It sounded like crying, or shouting, and there was an urgency to it that combined anger and sorrow in a single disturbing pitch. It is a voice, he thought. But is it human?
Ned shook his head violently and rushed out of the room.
He had to escape that awful sound. It seemed like a taunting, terrifying proof of his unformed fears. It was the threat which, although he couldn't define it, he knew was drawing closer to him. In his own room again. In the middle of a sunny afternoon.
Ned stopped in the kitchen. He was panting and sweating, but his head was clear. The house was as quiet and normal as on any other day. From the patio came the sounds of the Washington radio station. Callers were now discussing the high price of peanut butter. "The so-called shortage is a phony hoax," one man declared hotly. Ned went to the screen door and looked out. His mother was in the same place on the patio, stretched out and taking the sun. She had rolled over onto her stomach, but still seemed to be napping. Ned watched her for a moment and then turned away. He wondered what to do next, but he immediately knew he had no choice. He had to go back upstairs to his room.
His room.
Would these things be happening to him if he had a brother, or even a little sister, to play with? No. They never take place in front of witnesses. Could it be that he was imagining all these sounds, that his mind was creating them to make up for what was missing in his life? But you couldn't miss someone who never existed, could you? Besides, if he had conjured up an imaginary friend, that would be one thing; but vague and threatening noises—that was something else, and it didn't make sense. He had asked his parents once why he didn't have a brother or sister like other children did, but he couldn't remember what they had said. No, now that he thought about it he was sure it had nothing to do with his being an only child. It wouldn't just suddenly start bothering him now, when he was nearly ten years old. It would have developed earlier, if it was ever going to develop at all.
No, the real problem was: going crazy. Crazy meant you were sick in the head. Crazy meant there was something wrong with you that nobody could fix. Something haywire in the brain. Crazy meant being locked up for the rest of your life with other crazy people. That was the most frightening thought of all. Am I going crazy? Ned didn't even know how to begin considering that possibility; it was too overwhelming to bring into focus.
He hesitated at the threshold of his room but then walked in and went directly to his microscope. He prepared a fresh slide, extracting a drop of very cloudy water that looked promising. As he went about this, part of his mind silently counted the passing seconds, and each one made him feel a little better. Blurred shapes swam before him and he was on the verge of returning to the magic world of the protozoa when he found that he couldn't move.
Ned's eyes refused to concentrate. His fingers wouldn't turn the lens adjustment. His mind drifted without thought. He couldn't do anything. He stood up, but the effort seemed to drain away the last of his strength. He felt dizzy and his body was tired, so very tired. He thought he might fall asleep right there, on his feet, and he struggled feebly against it. That's how people drown, he knew, by giving in to it. He saw himself caught in a vast, slow whirlpool that was spinning him down, down, toward a black pit into which he would disappear forever. He remembered his mother, outside, just below his window, but now it was as if she were a million miles away. He tried to call out for help, but his voice was nothing more than a brief whimper lost in his th
roat. This is it, he thought, this time they're taking me.
When you destroyed the scarecrow you doomed yourself.
He could feel it now: the same sensation he had experienced in the cellar of the spa. The presence, the phantom, was there, in this room, right behind him—only this time it was worse. This time Ned was unable to move, let alone walk forward. He could feel the change as hot, lifeless air swirled around him like a shroud, and he could smell it, the foul, evil breath of the grave. It seemed to scorch the back of his neck and it curled around, over his face, stifling him. The thought came to him that he might suffocate on the spot, but still he couldn't move. It was all he could do to force a bit of air in and out of his lungs.
What is happening to me?
Hands touched his head.
No, no ...
Hands moved through his hair, brushed over his ears.
No, please, leave me alone.
Hands around his throat, coming up on the smooth features of his face. Invisible fingers pressing his eyelids shut, then allowing them to open again. The breath of the phantom roaring in his ears. One hand clamping over his mouth, the other pinching his nostrils shut. Nothing—there was nothing to see, but it was happening to him. His face felt as if it were caught in a steel press that was squeezing the life out of him. He was being taken.
Why?
The breath hesitated for a moment, then sighed softly, nauseatingly around him again. The grip tightened.
—I've missed you.
The voice was a whisper in his head, clear but anonymous. Ned could breathe again, just barely, and the hands continued to move over him. Everywhere they touched, his body felt like a thin film of jelly on a skeleton of twigs.
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