Ghosts of Manitowish Waters

by G. M. Moore

  Tess could feel his warm breath on her, and she looked up from his lap and into his hazel eyes. He looked puppy-like just then, gazing at her through strands of dark brown hair with earnest, longing eyes. He leaned in, and Tess raised her lips to his, all thoughts of the dream vanishing. But Cain’s lips brushed past hers and landed lightly on her forehead. “It’s OK,” he said again, releasing her and standing up. “Look.” He pointed out to the twinkling river water. “It’s all good. It’s morning. Nightmare gone.”

  Tess nodded slowly as she turned her head to the river, disappointment replacing the panic that had consumed her just minutes before. “I’ll get breakfast going and break camp,” she heard Cain say. “You stay put.” Then she heard him duck under the poncho and out of the lean-to, leaving her staring blankly at the river.

  Why hadn’t he kissed her? she wondered. She cupped a hand over her mouth and puffed a breath into it. She hadn’t brushed her teeth in two days, but didn’t think her breath was that bad—not bad enough to repulse him anyway. She made a face. His actions dumbfounded her, as did the dream she had woken from. Tess wrestled with her dazed mind for an answer but quickly gave up, sighing in aggravation. She had a hard enough time trying to figure her father out—how could she possibly hope to understand a guy like Cain Mathews? Tess decided to let the meaning of the missed kiss go—for now. She turned her mind to the dream. Analyzing it should be easier, the teen thought. But it wasn’t. The details of it were fading now, but she knew it had been very similar to the dream she had had in the Ojibwe cemetery. What did it mean? The answer stayed just out of her mind’s reach, but the feeling that it wasn’t a dream grew stronger. She was certain now that it was a memory. Tess absently stroked the scar on her neck. The accident. Could that be it? She quickly dismissed the thought. She had been told she would never remember it. The trauma and terror of being pinned in that burning car, of seeing her mother and sister trapped in the front seat, were too much for her nine-year-old mind to handle. Her brain had shut down and had blocked it out forever—and for the best, the doctors had said. Tess had come very close to dying herself that night, saved only by a heroic firefighter who freed her before the fire could consume her and the backseat.

  Tess’s eyes glassed over, and as the river water danced with sunlight, her mind drifted farther away. She felt a nudge on her arm, but despondent and lost in thought, she ignored it. The fifteen-year-old didn’t like to think or talk about the accident, largely because doing so left her empty and aching with guilt. She missed her mother and her sister, Tara, who was only twelve at the time, terribly. But that was what she was supposed to feel, what she was supposed to say. The guilty truth was that Tess didn’t remember them, not really. The ugly truth was that she missed the idea of them but not the people themselves. Tess had been in the hospital for weeks following the accident. By the time she was released, the visitations, the memorials, the burials, and the good-byes were over. For Tess, it was like Tara and her mother had never really existed. To help her heal, the home she returned to had been sanitized of them, and her memories of the two quickly became faded and distant. Just like memories of the accident, she thought. Always just out of reach. She felt the nudge again and this time it drew her attention, and she slowly surfaced from her thoughts to see the albino fawn standing beside her. As soon as she smiled, it pushed its face in hers, nudging her again under the chin.

  “OK. OK,” she said, pushing its cold, wet nose back. “Are you hungry? Is that the problem?”

  Her stiff muscles groaned as she pushed herself up and stretched out her back and arms. She moaned at the soreness the previous day’s paddling had caused. Tess looked down at the fawn and saw that it too was stretching. “I know, believe me. I hurt—all over.” She noticed that Cain had taken the princess fishing pole, so there would be fish for breakfast. “Let’s go get something to eat. We are going to need the energy. Today is not going to be fun.”

  A few hours later, Tess was at the front of the canoe again with the albino fawn lying behind her in the middle section and Cain steering from the back. They traveled along the ever-changing Chippewa River as it wove its way through the wooded Wisconsin landscape, connecting a series of small lakes as it widened and narrowed, turned and straightened. It had already taken them through two lakes and, according to the map, they would soon come to another one. She and Cain had found their groove quickly this morning, paddling easily up the river. The fawn, too, seemed to have found a groove, nestling into the bottom of the canoe and moving only to raise his head every now and then. He seemed very calm, and to Tess it was as if he now knew where they were headed and was patiently waiting for them to get there. She and Cain worked against the current, but the water was calm enough that it did not slow their progress. The day before had been more of a struggle. Tess hadn’t been canoeing in years, and it took the two teens some time to synch up and find their rhythm. She felt more at ease on this, the river leg of their journey. The Chippewa River attracted fishermen and kayakers and yesterday they had seen a few, making her feel less isolated from the world than the vast woods had, and less fearful of the poacher following them. This morning, however, was quiet. A lazy Sunday, Tess thought, as they glided through a large patch of lily pads and reeds. The river rounded a bend, and just past the turn a rock bed rolled out from the banks creating a sweeping border of pebbles and stones.

  “Look out,” Tess called over her shoulder, pointing to several dark, mossy boulders in the riverbed ahead.

  “Aye. Aye,” Cain answered.

  He easily guided them through the obstacle course, and Tess watched the lethargic river water lap steadily over the boulder tops as they passed. She studied the peaceful scenery slipping by her: a fallen tree, flowing green grasses, an old signpost. The wooden post leaned dramatically out from the brush, and she read the worn sign attached to it: Winter Electric Light and Power Company. The faint sound of rushing water caught Tess’s ears and, as they rounded another bend, it grew louder. She saw a washed out brick building up on the ridge to the left. A concrete slab path with metal rails lead down to the river and then followed along the bank. The river widened into a slough here, and the rumble of water became a roar as their course dead-ended a few yards away from a tree-fringed dam. A fish jumped at the bottom of what Tess thought had to be a ten-foot spillway. Water foamed and bubbled as it flowed over, spitting out a mist that wetted Tess’s face. She squinted against it, struggling to read words etched in the dam’s concrete structure.

  “Snap Tail Rapids Dam,” Tess announced, looking over her shoulder to Cain.

  “That’s on the map,” he said. “But we must have missed a turn or something.”

  Boulders edged the rocky inlet where the water gathered before continuing downstream. An otter swam leisurely across it, and the scene to Tess was the perfect picture of serenity. It held her mesmerized until Cain signaled for them to move on and began turning the canoe around. She reluctantly picked up her paddle and dipped it into the water again.

  The two stroked hard and deep trying to make up the lost time, and soon they were once again at the boulder obstacle course where they had missed the narrow right fork of the river, which they now took. It bypassed the dam, merging with a man-made channel about a half of a mile upstream. They paddled on and on, Tess’s arms and shoulders aching with each stroke. Stands of cedar, white pine, and yellow birch slipped by, as did bogs clogged with bright green sedge and spindly tamarack. Tess badly wanted a break, and Cain, as if sensing—or seeing—her discomfort, finally offered one.

  “Blaisdell Lake should be on the other side of these islands,” he said as they passed the first of three small islands forested with pine trees. “We’ll break around noon—OK?—then try to get as far north of the lake as possible. We’ll see who loses steam first, us or the sun.”

  Tess rested the paddle on her thighs and turned back to him, smiling thinly.

  “I’m going to say us.�
��

  ****

  Hours later a pinkish glow began to filter into the blue sky above. Finally, Cain sighed. He was happy to see the sun lowering, signaling the end to a very long day. Within a few hours it would drop behind the ridge walls surrounding this section of the Chippewa River, silhouetting them in an orange glow. And then we will call it a day, he thought wearily. Cain knew Tess was tired. He was too. The river had been so easy to navigate with very little obstructing their progress that Cain had been encouraged, falsely assuming they could paddle all the way up to Glidden—and maybe even farther north. But that was before the river turned on them. They had made it effortlessly through Blaisdell Lake to what a fisherman had told them was Sturgeon Bay. Then the Chippewa River decided to test them and their canoeing skills. It turned swampy and narrow, with some parts less than fifteen-feet wide. It became filled with riffles too shallow and rough to navigate, forcing them to get out and carry the canoe. Deadfall from tiny, tree-filled islands blocked their progress as the river snaked around them.

  Despite the bushwhacking and the walking, Cain was very glad they had taken Mooney’s canoe and used the river. He figured they had covered close to 20 miles, better than they would have done on foot. And whoever was following them must have given up or lost their trail on the river, just like Mooney had said, because he and Tess had seen very few people and none of them poachers. They likely wouldn’t see anyone on this section of the river, he thought. It was too remote. Cain was determined to take the river as far as it would let them. And that might be right here, he concluded, looking ahead to where the river suddenly and dramatically narrowed into a shallow riffle.

  “Seems like Mother Nature wants us to stop here,” he said to Tess.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him and the fawn, who had perked up and was looking curiously out at the river. “We aren’t going to—what did you call it? Portage again, are we?” she asked, hopefully.

  “No,” Cain assured. “No more today. We are losing the sun, and up ahead looks as good a place as any to camp.”

  “Yea!” Tess cheered. He laughed as she struggled to pump her paddle enthusiastically in the air.

  They continued up to the riffle and as close to the mouth of the narrow passage as they could.

  “Paddle right. Again. Again,” Cain instructed as he turned the canoe sideways hoping for a better look at the river beyond. From what he could see the water ahead was impassable, shallow, and filled with rocks and deadfall.

  “Spooky, huh?” Tess said with a shiver. “Is it me or is it cooler in there?” she asked, pointing into the passage.

  Cain nodded. He could actually feel cold air coming out of the passage and could now see puffs of misty fog rising up in the distance.

  “No,” Tess bellowed. “Not more fog.” She looked at him with disbelief filling her eyes. “What’s up with all the fog?” she demanded.

  He stayed silent for a moment, only shaking his head in reply. The fog was very strange. He wondered if it was summoned by the Midewiwin or conjured by angry spirits? Goose pimples spread across his arms as the sound of that bone-chilling moan from the Ojibwe cemetery came back to him. That fog had carried in it something sinister, he was certain of that. Even if the Midewiwin had conjured a spirit to aid them, once one was unleashed, he knew from his we-eh’s teachings, it was difficult to control. He and Tess needed to set up camp and shelter quick.

  “I don’t know,” he finally replied, watching the fog grow and begin to roll through the channel toward them, “but we better get aground. It’s coming.”

  “It’s coming,” Tess said softly, the frustration on her face quickly morphing into fear. The look puzzled Cain. He knew she was having nightmares, but that seemed normal under the circumstances. Now he wasn’t sure. Did her dreams have something to do with the fog? He started to ask, but Tess abruptly turned her back on him and began paddling. He decided to let it go and follow her lead.

  Once the canoe hit ground, Cain braced it as Tess got herself and the fawn out. He watched the pair walk along the bank, the fawn stopping occasionally to dip his head down for a drink of river water. Satisfied that they were safe, he stood up in the wobbly canoe, steadying himself before moving toward the front. Arms out for balance, he was about to step over their gear when something struck the back of the canoe.

  Ping!

  Then again. Ping!

  The canoe pitched sideways, and Cain toppled over the middle seat hitting his head hard on the vessel’s rim. The scabbed wound on his forehead ripped open and blood oozed down his face. Cain tried to push himself up but everything blurred, and he woozily slumped over the side of the canoe. The vessel dislodged from shore and began floating down river.

  “Cain!” He heard Tess cry out from somewhere that seemed very far away. His head, throbbing steadily, dropped lower. Cain closed his eyes as nausea swept over him. He felt wet and was vaguely aware of water lapping around him.

  The gear, his mind struggled to think against the pain and sickness. We will lose the gear.

  He was about to push himself up again—or try to—when the canoe suddenly rolled over, plunging his face into the cold river. The vessel quickly righted itself, leaving him sputtering and spitting out water.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He heard Tess apologize, and when he opened his eyes he saw her standing knee deep in the Chippewa River holding the canoe upright and steady.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He wiped his face on his sweatshirt, then pushed dripping wet hair off his forehead. “For being knocked out and drowned. Yeah, I guess I’m OK.”

  “Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “I just saved you. Again I might add.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure. But I’m finding your style of saving a little dangerous.”

  She made a face at him.

  “What the heck happened?” he asked, rubbing the sides of his head and wiping blood away.

  “I’m not sure. I think the canoe hit something. It’s flooding.” She pointed to the stern. Cain looked back and saw that it was slowly sinking underwater and their gear was beginning to submerge with it.

  “Get the gear,” he yelled. “I’ll get the canoe.”

  Tess grabbed what she could from the sinking vessel and pushed her way through the water to shore. Cain pulled the damaged stern forward and up out of the water. With the dry bow now at the rear, he followed Tess hauling the canoe behind him.

  Tess dropped her load heavily on the shore and looked up and down the grassy, boulder-lined riverbank. Cain lowered the canoe to the ground a few feet away.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “The albino fawn,” she said. “He’s gone.”

  ****

  T-Rex Thompson made his way up the ridge holding the struggling albino fawn in the crook of his arm.

  “Settle down,” he ordered, squeezing its mid section hard. The fawn stopped moving.

  Tracking those kids had not been as easy as he had thought. He had actually lost them. The man crudely spit at the ground, cursing their good luck, knowing that was all it was—luck. Two teenagers could not outsmart him. Ain’t a chance of that, he thought bitterly. They didn’t have the know-how to throw him off their scent, but yet they had. Angry and frustrated, he had been forced to track and backtrack trying to pick up their trail. Then the luck had turned. T-Rex smiled giddily at the thought. He had come across a fisherman and fooled him into thinking that T-Rex was searching for two lost or possibly runaway teens. Had the fisherman seen them? Why yes he had. They were canoeing up the Chippewa River.

  Bingo!

  All T-Rex had to do then was find them—easy peasy—and then scout the river for the perfect spot to sabotage them. Again, easy peasy. Very easy peasy, T-Rex grinned, as he trudged up the steep ridge. The river practically dead-ended at the foot of this valley, and he knew the kids would be forced to stop at the shallo
w riffle below. The ridge itself was a sniper’s dream, beautifully snaking its way along the river valley and providing him and his high-powered rifle cover. He simply had to lie and wait. Literally, lie and wait. He grinned again. He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect location if he had designed it himself.

  The fawn twisted in his arms, and he squeezed it tight but still it squirmed and kicked.

  “Stop it,” he ordered gruffly, but this time the fawn didn’t obey. “Quit your squirming or I’ll give you something to squirm about.” He was about to grab the fawn and shake it but movement in the woods stopped him. He paused, carefully scanning the area with his eyes and ears. He heard a small rustling, then the quick scurry of an animal, but he saw nothing. Just a squirrel or chipmunk, he thought, dismissing it and continuing up the path that wound its way through spindly pine trees and thick brush. Just a few steps from the top of the ridge, the rustling drew closer. T-Rex paused again, listening and looking, but still seeing nothing. He stepped forward, turned a curve, and stopped short.

  A skunk stood in the middle of the path.

  T-Rex cursed, staying immobile for a moment, hoping the skunk would move on. When it didn’t, he slowly raised one leg and cautiously took a step back. The heel of his biker boot landed on something soft and a loud, agonized screech filled the woods. He jerked his boot off the ground just as the albino fawn began thrashing wildly in his arms. Teetering on one leg, T-Rex struggled to keep his balance and keep ahold of the fawn as a second skunk scurried out from between his legs. The fawn twisted sharply, kicking him hard in the ribs with its tiny pink hooves. He swayed out of control, groaning angrily as the deer sprang away and his body crashed to the ground. With a loud grunt, T-Rex landed hard on his shoulder, the butt of his rifle digging into his groin. He lay there grimacing for a second or two, before hearing stomping and hissing around him. The Vietnam vet looked warily over his shoulder to the path beyond. There, just inches from his face, two skunks raised their bushy black tails. His eyes widened. “No, no, no, no,” he moaned just before their noxious spray hit his face.