Loch and Key
by
Seanan McGuire
Buckley Township, Michigan, 1937
“Has anybody seen my tackle box?” Alexander Healy emerged from the attic, clomping down the extendable ladder until he reached the hallway floor. His daughter-in-law peered at him from the nearest doorway, looking puzzled but not alarmed. He frowned at her. “I need my tackle box. I could have sworn it was in storage up in the attic, but it’s not there.”
“If you’d left it in the attic, the mice would’ve dismantled it for ritual purposes years since and you know it,” Fran replied, unperturbed by his frown. Then again, Frances Healy was unperturbed by most things, even when they were actively trying to kill her. One slightly irritated father-in-law was nothing. “You know better than to store anything up there.”
“It’s a big tackle box,” he said defensively.
“Then it needed to be put in a big place where the mice weren’t,” Fran said. “Ask Enid. She’s probably the one who moved it.”
“Fran, have you seen my socks?” Jonathan’s voice drifted mournfully up the stairs, his tone implying that the absence of socks was a tragedy previously unknown in human history.
“Yes,” Fran shouted back. “I saw them when I packed them. Calm down and start making the sandwiches.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“You’re welcome.” Fran turned back to Alexander, rolling her eyes. “How did that boy survive before I came to live here and manage his laundry’s every move?”
“He bought more new pairs of socks than any single person needs,” Alexander said, and pushed the ladder back up into the attic. “I’ll go ask Enid about the tackle box. Do you have everything you need?”
“Close enough for monster hunting,” Fran replied, with a brief but sunny smile. “Go on, then, go if you’re going. I’ll finish getting everything together up here, and I’ll be down in the hallway before Enid starts fussing about beating the sunset.”
“Thank you dear,” said Alexander. He walked over and pressed a kiss to Fran’s temple, causing her to laugh and wave him off, before he turned to head down the stairs. She was right about one thing: if they didn’t finish getting their supplies together soon, Enid would start fussing about the time, and once that happened, they were none of them getting any rest.
Thank God for that.
Preparations for the annual Healy family fishing trip had been consuming the household for the better part of the week. Bearing that in mind, Enid Healy had absolutely no idea why things were still in such disarray. The Coleman cooler was packed with sandwiches and drinks for the drive; the somewhat larger kitchen box was full of spices, dried meat, preserves, and things that didn’t need space in the precious cold. All the hunting, fishing, and tanning gear was already boxed up and in the back of the truck, and yet her son and her husband were both tearing around the house like basilisks with their heads cut off, inventing problems where there didn’t need to be any.
“Darling, have you seen my tackle box?” asked Alexander, coming into the kitchen for the third time in less than an hour.
Enid bit back a sigh, forcing herself not to entertain any thoughts of peaceful widowhood as she replied, “Yes, I have.”
“Wonderful. Where is it?”
“In the back of the truck, along with all the other tackle boxes, the rods, the bait, and everything else. Tell me, when I said ‘I’m moving the fishing gear to the truck,’ what did you think I was talking about? Because I really didn’t think that was a phrase that left much room for misinterpretation.”
Alexander blinked. Then, flushing slightly, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make sure that everything about this trip goes as well as possible.”
Enid reached out to touch his cheek with her fingertips, a small smile on her face. “I know, and I love you for it, but we can’t force the kids to enjoy spending time with their elders. If that were something that could actually be forced, it would have been written into law long ago.”
“I know, I know. It’s just…” Alexander glanced over his shoulder to the kitchen door, checking to be sure that neither Jonathan nor Fran was standing there, a silent, observant third party in what was intended as a private conversation. Turning back to his wife, he finished, “It’s been so long since either of them has been this happy. I don’t want to do anything that could endanger it.”
“I know.”
It had been a little over two years since the youngest member of the family, Daniel Healy, was killed in his crib by a bogeyman assassin hired by some unknown individual. They’d been searching for the one who paid for Daniel’s death ever since, only to come up empty-handed every time they thought they might have found a lead. Alexander had spent countless hours in the library, combing through the records for an idea of who they might have offended. Enid had spent almost as many hours sitting in The Haven, Buckley’s one cryptid-friendly drinking house, buying beers for Bigfoots and waiting for someone to let something slip.
No one had. After two years, the trail was as cold as it had ever been. The wards on the doors were better, more precisely designed to stop potential enemies from getting inside. The mice had started keeping watch by the doors, little groups of five and six trading off throughout the night to make sure that the humans they were so devoted to were not in any danger. The house was as safe as it had ever been, and time was finally beginning to do its duty: time was finally beginning to heal all wounds.
“Fran’s been smiling more lately,” said Enid, touching Alexander’s cheek again. “I think she’s ready for this. I know Johnny is. Have you seen the way he’s been stepping around the house these past few days, like the last two years never happened?”
“But they did,” Alexander said.
Enid sighed. “Yes, and we can’t undo them, more’s the pity. But Daniel wouldn’t want us to be sad forever. We’ve mourned him near as long as we had him with us. It’s time for everyone to move on, his parents included.”
“But are they ready to see it that way? That’s my concern.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” said Enid, with a small shrug that did nothing to alleviate his worry, although it did provide a momentary distraction as he watched her shoulders moving under the thin fabric of her house shirt. Near forty years of marriage, and sometimes her smallest gestures could still take his breath away. Enid smiled impishly, catching the angle of his eyes. “Now come and help me load the truck.”
It took three hours of driving down increasingly narrow and unmaintained roads before they reached White Otter Lake. There were other lakes closer to Buckley Township, including the Black Lake—one of hundreds with that name, sure, but it was the only one that actually touched on their hometown. Some of those other lakes had their own reputations as excellent fishing spots or for beautiful scenery, but… “Good reputations draw people, and people are what we’re trying to avoid,” had been Alexander’s last word on the subject. So it was four people crammed into a three-seat truck already laden with camping gear and fishing equipment, rattling down gravel paths that barely merited the title of “road.”
Enid drove, with Alexander sitting shotgun, while Jonathan and Fran struggled to maintain their balance in the cluttered truck bed. Well, Jonathan struggled, shifting constantly from spot to spot as things slid and endangered his knees. Fran spent the entire ride perched cross-legged and easy atop Alexander’s tackle box. When it slid, she slid with it, seemingly unperturbed by her change in orientation.
The first time Jonathan watched his wife glide past him like a sailboat in a high wind, he was annoyed. By the third time it happened, he was laughing, and Fran was laughing with him, and that joyful sound—along with the growl of the engine—heralded their arrival at thei
r final destination.
“We’re here, kids,” called Enid through the window as she parked the truck in the shelter of a stand of tall white pines. She killed the engine and slid out of the cab, planting her hands in the small of her back and stretching mightily. “Hoo, that drive gets longer every year. Think someone’s been moving the lake?”
“It seems unlikely,” said Alexander, emerging from the cab on the opposite side of the truck and promptly moving to lower the gate at the back of the bed. “Come on, you two. Let’s get unpacked before the sun goes down and the bears come out.”
“There’s bears here?” asked Fran, grabbing a sleeping bag in each hand as she climbed to her feet.
“If nothing has eaten them, yes,” said Alexander. “And may I take this opportunity to apologize again for never having brought you here? White Otter Lake is a Healy family tradition. You’ve been with us for nine years. How have we never managed to take you fishing?”
“Bad timing, that unseasonal jackalope migration, and other factors,” said Jonathan, picking up the cooler as he followed his wife out of the truck. “It’s all right, Father. We’re here now. The past doesn’t matter.”
Alexander sighed to himself, watching the younger, stronger members of his small family move around the truck to ask Enid where they should start setting up. The past matters, son, he thought, knowing he’d never be able to convince Jonathan of that; not while it was early enough to make a difference. The past matters more than you can ever know.
Enid directed the establishment of their small camp in the shelter of yet more pines, these ones tall and strong and opening on the stretch of hard-packed mud that served the lake as a beachfront. The four of them made a surprisingly compact footprint: two tents, the bucket that they were intended to use for washing up—both dishes and bodies—and the portable grill and cooler, set off a bit to reduce the chances of anyone accidentally setting themselves on fire during the night.
“We’ll keep any fish we catch but don’t intend to eat straight away in the larger cooler back at the truck,” said Alexander, making the final adjustments to the hammock where he had stated his intent to spend most of the days. “That way, if any bears do decide to show up, they’ll have something more interesting than us to cut their teeth on.”
“Y’all keep taunting me with bears, but I don’t see anyone actually producing any,” complained Fran. She had already taken advantage of their isolation from Buckley’s “civilized world,” stripping down to cutoff shorts and a thin white T-shirt she had probably stolen from Jonathan. “If you’re going to keep promising me bears, you’d better be prepared to actually give me bears.”
“I promise you, the lake has better than bears to offer,” said Enid. She made a shooing gesture. “Go on, you two, and make sure that we’re alone before we get too comfortable. I’d hate to get everything unpacked and then learn that we’re going to need to move if we want to see any of the local wildlife.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Jonathan. He paused to kiss her on her temple before following Fran, who was already running for the lake. Enid laughed as she watched them go.
Alexander stepped up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Has anyone actually warned her about what’s in the lake?” he asked.
“Not in so many words, no,” said Enid. “It seemed like the sort of thing that would go over better as a surprise.”
“‘Go over better’ in the sense that she’d have an easier time of things, or ‘go over better’ in the sense that you’d get to hear her screaming her head off?”
From the direction of the lake, Fran screamed. It was a long, loud bellow of a sound, with nothing shrill or terrified about it. Toward the end, it even sounded like she might be screaming in delight.
Enid smiled, looking pleased with herself. “Oh, a bit of both, I’d say.”
The creature that had reared out of the lake and startled a scream out of Fran—a woman who hadn’t screamed even when she saw the ceiling of a train station transformed into a quilt of Apraxis wasps, their fat, venomous bodies pulsing—looked at her curiously through one eye as it waited for her to stop making that bizarre noise. Jonathan, standing a few yards away, tucked his hands into his pocket and watched. Some introductions went better when you didn’t interfere.
Fran stopped screaming and pressed a hand flat against her chest, catching her breath. “Lord, you startled me,” she gasped, eyes fixed on the vast gray-green shape of the beast from the lake. “What are you?”
The creature made a chirping noise that would have sounded much more appropriate coming out of a blue jay or something of the sort. Under the circumstances, it just seemed…wrong.
It was about the size of a Clydesdale horse, all things considered, although its long, snaky neck made it seem larger, made the eye want to give it more bulk to go with its serpentine improbability. It had a solid, barrel-shaped trunk, and a head like a gar, all jagged teeth and dangerous potential. Its eyes weren’t gar-like, though; they were more like the eyes Fran had seen on Gila monsters back in the desert, reptilian and old and somehow mellow, ready to accept whatever came along without getting particularly worked up about it. The great beast didn’t have scales, although from the shape of it, it was more like a lizard than anything else she’d ever seen. Instead, it had rubbery green and gray skin.
“Well I’ve never,” said Fran, after a longer examination. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature had been examining her right back. At least it hadn’t attacked, or slithered back down into the lake; it must have liked what it was seeing. She half-turned and demanded, “Well, city boy? I don’t think my new friend here can talk, so that puts proper introductions on you.”
Jonathan actually laughed. “What makes you think I know what this is?”
“You’re not going for your gun, you’re not shouting for me to get away from it, and you and your folks were all very clear that this was where the family fishing trip happens. Now maybe I’m being a naïve country girl again, but I don’t think my friend here,” she pointed at the lake beast, “got this big since the last time you came fishing. That means you know what it is, and you were probably anticipating watching me get an eyeful. Eyeful gotten. Now what is it?”
“Very good deductions,” said Jonathan. “Fran, I’d like you to meet one of my favorite examples of Dolichorhynchops mishigamaa, better known as the ‘Michigan lake monster.’ This particular beautiful girl is Bessie.” He walked down the beachhead to the creature, stroking its—her—neck with one hand. Bessie replied by making that bizarrely tiny chirping sound again.
Fran nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. What’s that when it’s at home? Some kind of giant water-lizard?”
“They’re actually a relict population of plesiosaurs,” said Jonathan, still stroking Bessie’s neck. “We’ve discovered four different species that have managed to survive into the modern day. All unrelated, all geographically isolated. The Michigan lake monster is the most common, possibly because we have a great many lakes suitable for them.”
“So she’s a dinosaur?” Fran looked impressed. “Shoot. I never thought I’d get to meet a dinosaur.”
Bessie chirped again.
Jonathan beckoned for Fran to come closer. “Then you’d best meet this one properly. Don’t worry. She won’t bite unless you startle her.”
“You know, I’ve been married to you long enough that I know you meant for that to be reassuring,” said Fran, giving Bessie’s long, toothy head a cautious look. Then she started forward, holding her hands loosely at her sides in an effort to make herself look as non-threatening as possible. As she grew closer to the lake monster, the vital, swampy smell of her skin became obvious above the watery smell of the lake. It was a healthy-beast smell, both like and unlike the smell of frogs and salamanders. “Hello, pretty girl. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Bessie chirped, looking at Fran thoughtfully out of one large amber eye.
“Now reach out—slowly, very slowly—and put your han
d against her neck,” advised Jonathan.
“Are you being serious, city boy? Or have you decided that you’re tired of being married, but not so tired of it that you want to deal with going through a divorce?”
Jonathan chuckled. “I’m quite serious, I assure you.”
“Right. Well, if she eats me, you get to explain it to your mother.” Fran reached out, with glacial slowness, and put her hand against Bessie’s neck. Bessie didn’t react. Fran’s face slowly transformed with wonder. “She’s like a rubber balloon, but she’s warm.”
“Their skins are remarkably like the skins of whales and dolphins,” said Jonathan, stroking Bessie’s neck again. “They don’t have scales to protect them from cuts and bruises, but they’re remarkably maneuverable, and they don’t have to worry about shedding.”
“Well, I never,” said Fran, beginning to mimic his stroking motions. “Me, petting a dinosaur. Who thought I’d live to see the day?”
Jonathan just smiled.
Bessie proved to be surprisingly docile—surprising to Fran, anyway, who had always expected dinosaurs to be big, angry monsters more interested in eating the locals than having their necks petted. Jonathan, who had met Bessie several times previous, eventually just stepped back and enjoyed the sight of his wife bonding with one of his favorite monsters.
The two had been standing in silent communion for perhaps ten minutes when a belling call echoed across the lake. It was deeper and more solemn than Bessie’s chirps, and yet the two somehow shared an indefinable quality of pitch, something buried deep in the makeup of the sound. Bessie’s head went up, her snaky neck extending to its full length, before she made a long, low belling sound in answer.
The first call sounded again, and Bessie dug her front flippers into the mud, slithering back out into the water. In a matter of seconds she was gone, not even leaving ripples on the surface to mark her passing.
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