by Sahara Foley
“Damn, kid, you're full of energy today,” I remark sardonically, laying my hand on her shoulder as she stares up over the cliffs at the sky. “Okay, help me move our stuff inside, then I'll zap us a fire and we'll have something to eat,” I instruct, steering her towards the boat.
Toting our belongings to the tent doesn't take long, and shortly we're sitting in two red, folding chairs by the fire. Starting the fire had taken a lot more concentration than normal. Usually making fire is like snapping my fingers. I rub my forehead, thinking, I must be more tired than I realize. Not much sleep lately.
There's one big aluminum pot of water on the grate to be used for her tea and my instant coffee, next to the pot is a very empty frying pan.
“What do we eat?” Ruth inquires, licking her lips, staring hungrily at the empty pan.
I brought some canned foods and fresh fruit, but say, “Well, we have to catch dinner.”
It's just past noon and we haven't eaten all day. Rooting through the fishing equipment, I find four rods, and some bait, then throw the lines out off the sides of the boat. Because I want to be sure we actually catch some fish, I start scanning for schools of fish, and as I set the last rod down, the second rod takes off. I snatch up the pole and soon we have a three-pound Walleye. Before long, we're busy and catch eight more fish. Some fish are pretty small, and some aren't even Walleye, but we surely have enough for dinner and bait.
“Uh, you clean them, I'll cook them. Is that fair?” Ruth asks with a wrinkled nose, looking with revulsion at the flapping fish. She doesn't like touching live fish, but was forced to when I was too busy with my poles. Fishing isn't going to be one of her favorite pastimes.
“You got it, kid,” I agree with a grin, remembering the first fish Ruth took off the hook by herself. As I carry the fish for dinner to the fire, I chuckle. That little episode should've been on film, the fish flopping around, throwing sand everywhere, Ruth standing there, frozen, staring openmouthed at the fish, until I yelled that the fish was flopping towards the water. She did a belly-flop dive on the fish, which took the fight right out of him. When she dug the fish out of the sand, he wasn't flopping any longer. With the tips of her fingers, she gingerly removed the hook, then daintily tossed the fish up by the fire-pit. Next thing I knew, she's down at the water scrubbing her hands and washing the front of her shirt.
“What's the matter?” I yelled at her.
“Oh, my God, you never said they were slimy,” she complained.
Well, I guess that about covers that. Hey kid, they smell too.
She watches with wide eyes, biting her lip as I fillet two fish. “Is that how you clean them all?”
“No, some fish you gut, then cut the heads off and skin.” She'd probably freak if she knew the fish were alive while being skinned.
“Look, Arthur,” Ruth says defensively. “Every fish I've seen was wrapped in a bag and either fresh or frozen, but ready to cook. I think I'm handling this pretty well, if you consider I've never fished before, or seen fish cleaned the way you just did those two poor fish. It's okay, because now they look as they do from the grocery.”
I think, oh, you poor, little, spoiled rich girl. I catch myself. Did I accidentally say that aloud? Stealing a look at Ruth, with relief I see I didn't.
I'm having trouble telling whether I'm talking or thinking. I also feel drunk, which hasn't happened since my powers kicked in. But I haven't had anything to drink but one cup of straight coffee all day. I wearily run my hand through my hair. God, I'm tired. I'll need to be extra careful about what I'm thinking.
“Do we have anything to bread the fish with?” She's eyeballing the four fillets.
I wonder, very carefully, has she ever cooked? What with Gladys and her upbringing?
“No, kid, we either cook them like this, or we eat them raw. But for me, a little butter or oil will do just fine.”
No problem it seems, she gets up, finds the oil, and soon, I smell fish frying. My mouth starts drooling and my stomach rumbles in response.
“You must think I'm pretty spoiled and ignorant. I mean, never having seen anyone clean fish before,” Ruth says, laying another fillet in the hot oil. “But, believe me, so much has happened to me in the past three days, I'm ready for anything.”
Oh really, kid?
Chapter Seventeen
While Ruth is cooking the fish, she begins talking, maybe because I'm not. “You know, the legends about Excalibur are really interesting. Do you know anything about them?”
“Ruth, everything I know about the sword is from what you told me or the pamphlets at the Lodge,” I say with a guilty twinge, spouting my little white lie. “Anything I knew before would've been based on some movies I saw, or what I was told as a kid.”
“Well, I want to tell you a story. Which may not be important to you, but it might.” She flips the fish over, sending a waft of frying fish my way. I'm having a difficult time keeping the drool inside my mouth. She glances up to the cliffs at the dark, forbidding clouds, swirling with a riot of green and black colors.
Moving the pan around on the grill, she continues, “One night, Dr. Tober called me in to his office. Five people were waiting in his office, people I didn't recognize. They were never introduced to me, and to this day, I still don't know who they were. We had three meetings, and each meeting was about Excalibur. I'm not positive, but I had the impression that for several years these five people had been either looking into the legend or searching for the sword.
“I was invited into their group because I'd seen Excalibur, while some of them never had, and I learned facts about the sword I never heard before. You must remember I was only twenty-two or–three, but I still remember most of our discussions, at least the gist of them. And boy, did they have a lot to discuss.”
Looking at the frying fish, I see they're done, at the point of burning. Getting ready to say something, Ruth removes the pan of fish from the fire. She dishes the fish up on two plates, then hands me my plate, with a cup of hot coffee. Not waiting, I dig right in. With the first forkful, my mouth thinks it's in heaven, and my stomach is urging my mouth to chew faster.
Ruth places her chair next to mine and sits there; plate balanced on her lap, unnoticed, and keeps talking away. “One of our meetings I remember the most. We'd been arguing, and boy, did they like to argue. They were disagreeing about the exact location St. George threw Excalibur into the lake. Arthurian experts think the location is supposed to be at the Lodge. But I disagreed with them. King Arthur's last battle happened over there, ten miles from us, due west. So, if St. George rode ten miles to the closest point of the lake, which is here, why would he ride around the lake to where the Lodge is located? I mean, that's another twenty-five miles. Or would he be in a hurry to return to his dying King, and friend? Especially if he'd already ridden here and back once before, when he couldn't bring himself to throw Excalibur into the lake.”
Setting her plate aside, she rises, gliding a few feet, then points to the big gap in the cliffs to the south of us. “Over there is the river to the sea. When King Arthur used Excalibur in a fit of jealousy against Lancelot, the sword broke in two. Arthur presumably met the Lady of the Lake for the first time then. He met her on a river off a lake. This lake has two rivers. But the legends claim when Arthur fought Lancelot, the duel was near the sea. That river over there, a mile from us, has to be the river where they fought. The legends say they fought alongside high cliffs, and when Excalibur broke, King Arthur had to climb down to the water from the cliffs, at the mouth of the river, to find the broken pieces. And that's where he met the Lady.” Her fish forgotten for now, she's deep in thought.
“The legend also says that St. George was exhausted, and his horse was worn out because of the deep mud and boggy ground they had to ride over. The only boggy ground around the whole lake is back there, behind those trees. I say this area, right here, is where St. George threw in Excalibur. Using the Lodge as the location could've been a diversion to throw off anyone
searching for the magical Excalibur. Also, there isn't any way to build a castle here, because of the same boggy ground St. George had to cross twice before.” She strides back, sits, picks up her plate and starts nibbling on a small piece of lukewarm fish.
Finishing my dinner, I reflect on what she said. Her theory makes sense. Why would St. George have traveled the extra twenty plus miles? And whether he did, how could he cross a different bog, if this is the only one around? But the landscape around the lake could've changed over the decades.
“And we need to remember St. George's map,” Ruth says between small nibbles of her cold fish, “the one Dr. Tober has. Even though there wasn't a way to figure out exactly where the cave was located, because the bloodstain covered that part of the map, there was no doubt the map showed a cave, or cavern going in under the shoreline. The only other detail we could make out was the bottom of the lake, smooth sand. But that's not much help. Out in the lake, there are probably thousands of places the bottom of the lake has smooth sand.”
Ruth glances up at the storm clouds, then resumes picking at her fish. “One of the men at the meetings did everything he could to get us to argue, the devil's advocate to Tober's saint. He also ran tests on the map for Tober, to try to restore the writing under the blood, and during the process, destroyed the original map. However, no one seemed interested in my theory. They still thought the location of Excalibur was near the Lodge, especially since almost all the sightings were around that area, even mine. We were only three miles from the Lodge.
“I've given my theory plenty of thought, and I know I'm right. All the sightings were at that end of the lake, simply because that's where people are. No people, no sightings. And the map shows a smooth bottom. Now, try to imagine St. George swimming into fifty foot of water to map the bottom of the lake. There isn't any way he could've, and he wouldn't be able to see the bottom of the lake either. The bottom's too deep. But here, in this forty foot of water, he could've swum to the bottom. Only he wouldn't have had to because the water is so clear you can see the bottom from ten feet under. And even a knight, who wasn't a good swimmer, could've swum down at least ten feet.
“I still contend that after King Arthur died, St. George returned here and drew up his map, so he would always know where the sword was, and he could pass that information on to the next worthy knight. He then built the Lodge over there for comfort, safety, and to confuse anyone searching for Excalibur. And they did come, from all over the world, Germany, mostly, but there were also relic seekers from France, Belgium and even some barbarians. St. George sank their ships as they came searching, and the wrecks are still down there, dozens of them, and not one is British.”
I stare at her in wonder. Whew! When she gets going, she goes.
“I have a question, kid, uh, if you won't bite my head off?” I smile, but her return smile is upside down. “Why a cavern? St. George told King Arthur the sword sailed out farther than he could've thrown it, way out into the lake to the Lady. So why did he map a cavern along the shoreline? Why map below the surface at all? I doubt anyone back then gave much thought to underwater mapping. Few people could've read an aboveground map.”
The look on her face is between thinking I'm a fool, and wonderment. “In all the years I've thought about the location of Excalibur, I've never thought of that. Yes, it does seem strange when you think about it. Why a cavern at all? A cave has never been found by anyone anywhere around this entire lake. My God, we could have the wrong lake. Is that possible?”
She sits for a minute with creased brows, fidgeting with the ring on her necklace, then shakes her head. “No, I saw the Lady here, well, over there. This has to be the right lake, and this has to be the spot on the map. Why a cavern, I don't know, but the cave was on the map, and I still say this is the spot, right here.” She pours hot water into her cup, then seems to remember the storm and turns towards the cliff sky again. The sky is quite a sight. The clouds are rolling and boiling, showing black, green, gray then black, with white and yellow lines streaking through. The scent of saltwater and rain is heavy in the air.
To help take her mind off the storm, I ask, “Ruth, you've gone scuba diving before, right?”
“Sure, lots of times. Why?”
“Well, just so you'll feel better,” I say lightly, “I found a cavern last night when I was scanning the lake looking for Walleye, and I'd like you to dive the cave with me, after the storm passes.”
Ruth jumps as if I yelled at her, falling to her knees on the sand next to me. “Oh, my God. Where?” She grabs my arm, spilling the rest of my coffee.
Shaking the hot, spilt coffee off my hand, I point, “There, kid, right there, about fifty-feet over and ten-feet down. The cave angles down as it goes in, but I can't seem to scan it very far. There are ores in the cave creating a magnetic influx, causing my probe to peter out after twenty-feet.”
Still kneeling, holding my arm, with a childlike voice, she asks, “But how? After all the years searching and mapping, and I've gone over this area myself several times, how could we have missed the cave?”
“I don't know, kid, but trust me, the cave is there. You want to dive it with me later?”
“Yes, yes, very much. We can go now, can't we?” she implores with her large, dark jade eyes.
“No, I don't think that's a good idea. Let's wait 'till after the storm. If the storm gets really bad, I don't want to be in the water or down in the cave. What if the cave collapses on us?”
Biting her lower lip, she thinks about that, and I can tell the possibility doesn't please her.
For the past half hour, I've been hearing a far off thumping, rumbling sound. I thought the noise was the storm, coming earlier than expected. But now I recognize the beat of rotor blades. Dobie.
“Look, kid, your boss,” I say mildly.
Ruth shades her eyes, squinting. “Dr. Tober?”
“Yep, and Dobie too, with three other men. Probably came to see why their tracking devices aren't giving them the right headings. They've been up there awhile, found our boat, and have been circling since then. Let's call them on the radio.” I stride to the boat and switch on the SSB.
I lightly scan the chopper, trying to find the radio frequency they're using with the men left at the Lodge. Again, I have to concentrate harder to focus. But I finally see it.
“Yo, Dobie, Merlin here. Dr. Tober, Relman, good day, gentlemen,” I say cheerfully.
“Merlin, what you're doing is insanity,” Dobie thunders in his deep, arrogant voice. “This massive storm is destroying the whole coast. Are you trying to get Dr. Burns killed? I know you'll be safe, but what about her? Think, man.”
With a sigh, I think, apparently, Dobie's already recovered from last night.
“If you're so worried about the storm, Dobie,” I say impatiently, “I suggest you get the hell out of here and get your chopper secured. We have about an hour before the storm hits here, and maybe fifteen minutes after that before it hits the Lodge. I'll call you once it reaches us to warn you. Now, get moving. We're fine, Merlin out.” I shut the radio off as he begins shouting demands. Oh well, I think with a shrug, I probably didn't want to hear them anyway.
Rummaging through the fishing equipment, I find four level winds Ron uses for the really heavy fishing. Zebco Omegas, all four rods have two-hundred yards of sixty-pound monofilament line. Take quite a fish to break that. From his tackle boxes, I select three-inch hooks, and rig three of the rods. Fishing is a hobby I enjoy immensely. I sometimes wonder whether I fish because of the fish, or to play with all the toys, er, gear.
Scrounging through Ron's tackle boxes, I find some huge flies. I've used these types of flies for big Northern, and in the water they resemble a big, hairy beer can. I have no idea what the fish think they are, but to me it's like using a gerbil for bait. One of the hairy flies will go over the opening to the cave and we'll see what happens. Because the fish head out of the cave to move south while they feed, then come back in after feeding, we'll hav
e two opportunities each feeding time to catch Walleye.
With the approach of the storm, the air temperature shoots up damn fast; must be more than ninety degrees now. The humidity level becomes oppressive, and the air is so calm even the waves seem as though they're hiding. While I watch, the sky directly above us grows darker. Wiping sweat from her brow, Ruth scrambles into the tent wearing pants and a shirt, emerging a few minutes later wearing short shorts and a tiny halter top. Nice.
Mentally probing the cavern, I'm not able to penetrate very far. The magnetic influx is actually increasing, probably from the storm. All the upper-level wind is adding a whole lot of static electricity too, each causing me problems.
A slight breeze ruffles my hair and in a flash, the air cools down. Within fifteen minutes, the temperature drops a good thirty degrees. With goosebumps showing, Ruth sprints back into the tent to put her heavier clothes back on. She scrambles out with two ponchos, because we're starting to feel a few cold raindrops. The rain settles to a light, cold drizzle, and the sky is so dark now I can barely see the break in the cliffs where the sea river flows into the lake.
With our chairs facing towards the cliffs by the sea, Ruth sits next to me, handing me my poncho, and we watch the storm clouds build up and surge over the top of the cliffs, high in the sky. The wind's howling and blowing so hard the waves are moving like small walls of water, but out into the bay, maybe two-hundred feet in front of us. The powerful storm front is blowing right over us because of the cliffs. We're in a protected little area, in the lee of the wind. Farther down the shore, we see the wind slam into a few trees, tearing their roots from the ground, sending debris flying.
Apprehensively, I glance over at our tent; it's sitting under the pine trees, a gentle breeze rippling the nylon fabric. Even the big pine trees are barely moving. I'd been prepared to throw up a small force-field if the gale-force winds had reached us. But it looks as if all we'll get is cold, and a little damp.