“And me, I don’t know whether to say let’s go home or let’s try a few more casts. I mean, we both know there’s somethin’ pretty goddamn — excuse me — somethin’ pretty awful darn big out there. But common sense tells us we won’t get another crack at it tonight.
“So Cliff’s reelin’ in, and I’m tryin’ to think of somethin’ nice to say to him, when all of a sudden somethin’ hits the boat!
“Ka-thunk!
“Sounds as though we bottomed-out on a submerged log. But the thing is, we ain’t movin’ at all. Plus, why cripes, we’re way the heck out in the middle of the lake! I mean, any logs or stones or anythin’ like that would have to be thirty, forty feet straight down!
“I think both of us got real scared then. I could see Cliff a-shiverin’ jest as though the vibration from whatever hit us was still shakin’ inside him.
“Then Cliff lets out a holler, like the Devil hisself had jumped up and bit him on the ass — oh, sorry — on the behind. His fishpole jumps right out of his hands! Then it dives right into the water and heads down in-underneath the boat!
“Well, heck, I figure whatever he’s hooked into never really got away, she jest doubled back and swimmed right in-under the boat! An I’ll tell ya one thing, mister, no fish I ever seen will do that!
“So I makes a grab for Cliff’s pole when she comes out the other side, but, hell, she’s movin’ way too fast and I cuts my hand on the monofil’ment.
“So we’re jest sittin’ there, lookin’ out over the water, tryin’ real hard to see what it was that’s playin’ with us. An’ we looked down, trying to see if it swum under the boat again.
“But for a long time nothin’ happens. It keeps gettin’ later. And darker. Some of the other boats had gone in. You could see one or two was still out there with Coleman lanterns, way off in the distance. I remember how you could see their lights reflected in the water along with the reflection of the moon. No mirror was ever any smoother than the surface of that lake.
“Anyways, just then I seen somethin’ kinda movin’ off on the right side of the boat, off towards Melville Landin’. The water starts ripplin’ and churnin’, and then it’s like one of them logs that ain’t supposed to be there’s a-comin’ right out of the water, bobbin’ up to the surface.
“And all of a sudden — and Cliff seen it too — this black, pointy head comes right up out of the water! The head and neck is kind of juttin’ out on an angle, like the blade of a jackknife openin’ up.
“I can see the water drippin’ off it as it comes higher and higher out of the lake. I’m thinkin’ to myself, why Godfrey-mighty, this can’t be real. But it keeps comin’ and comin’, like a snake a-crawlin’ out of his hole. It’s all black, don’t ya know, and shiny. An’ it’s evil lookin’, like somethin’ out of one of them old, scary movies.
“And in the moonlight I can see Cliff’s nightcrawler, all white and puffy lookin’, hangin’ out of its mouth, and the monofil’ment line, jes’ like a long strand of silver thread, trailin’ off into the lake.
“There must’ve been six foot of head and neck juttin’ out of the water, and I’ll tell you, mister, I wasn’t interested in seein’ what sort of body that neck was hooked on to!
“But you know, the funny thing… I mean the thing I’m always gonna remember jest as long as I live, is the way that head turned, slow and easy-like, jest like a lighthouse or… or maybe the periscope of a submarine. It kept on turnin’ till its eyes locked right tight on to me and my boy.
“I tell you I looked right into the eyes of that thing, and it looked right into mine. It didn’t act scared or nothin’. We just kept lookin’, eye to eye, as if the thing was tryin’ to remember me, like it was tryin’ to memorize everythin’ about me so it wouldn’t never forget.
“You better believe I’ll never be able to forget it, though I’m here to tell ya I sure as hell want to.
“Anyways, after a while it just slides back into the water without a sound, just as if it had never been there. And me and Cliff, well sir, we hightailed it for home …”
Harrison ejected the cassette from his player and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He liked to listen to it now and then, whenever he wanted to reaffirm his purpose. He’d recorded it several months ago from a public-radio broadcast about the Lake Champlain Monster. It was an old interview, recorded back in 1968, but it was this actual eyewitness account that had inspired Harrison’s interest in monster hunting.
The speaker, Oliver Ransom, had since died, but Harrison knew he would be able to locate other witnesses that he could interview. He was especially eager to find Cliff, Oliver Ransom’s son.
Harrison felt confident that his research would lead to a definitive study of the monster. Hopefully, he would be the one to document the creature’s existence once and for all. Perhaps he’d become famous as a result.
His friend Mark’s enthusiasm about the search — at least judging from his latest letter — seemed to match Harrison’s. Mark had sent him some recent clippings from the Burlington Free Press. One said that the monster had been sighted 134 times since 1980.
One hundred thirty-four times!
And it was back in 1981 that Sandra Mansi’s famous, though somewhat questionable photograph — taken in July 1977 — was finally released to the media. Since then Lake Champlain had become known as America’s Loch Ness.
Two months ago Harrison had joined the American Cryptozoological Society. He’d quickly learned that sightings of “monsters” in North American lakes were not uncommon. Indeed, in various parts of the United States and Canada, all sorts of creatures were routinely reported: lake monsters, vanishing cats, giant unknown birds, and fearsome man-beasts covered with fur yet walking on two legs.
But in every case there was one maddening detail: the absence of proof. There was no proof of any of them.
Still, Harrison found the topic of monsters endlessly fascinating. It was as if these elusive oddities were placed among us deliberately, as reminders that we don’t know all there is to know. To Harrison, they suggested that our science, our space program, and especially our high-tech computers were little more than modern forms of hubris, ways of distracting our attention from the natural world.
Harrison was convinced that one need not be an expert or even a scientist to study these phenomena. After all, one cannot earn a degree in the mating habits of the yeti.
Indeed, Harrison smiled, the credentials of an out-of-work marketing executive were every bit as solid as those of a university professor when it came to stalking the monster of Lake Champlain.
Chapter 2 - A Change of Scene
1
In the late afternoon darkness, Harrison climbed the steps of the old brick building on Union Street. The heavy wood and glass door to Mark and Judy’s condominium opened almost too quickly when he knocked. Then, for the first time in nearly five years, Harrison Allen and Mark Chittenden stood face to face.
The balding head was new to Mark’s bearded, ascetic-looking face. He seemed much thinner than Harrison remembered, almost drawn and sickly. Probably jogging too much with the rest of the faculty members, Harrison thought. God, he was so sick of exercise and gyms and fitness programs and — he caught himself, recognizing envy for what it was.
Mark stepped away from the door, allowing Harrison room to enter. “Welcome,” he said, offering his hand, his smile placid and uncharacteristically reserved.
Judy Chittenden entered from the kitchen, her long black hair in a tight braid. “Well, hello, stranger.” She beamed. “Come in, Harry, sit down!”
She took Harrison’s hand and they exchanged kisses on the cheek. With smiles and great animation, Judy led him to the living room.
“You guys sit down. Harry, please, make yourself at home. I’ll get us some drinks. What’s your pleasure, stranger?”
“A beer would hit the spot.”
“Should have known. You’ll never change.” Judy turned with the grace of a dancer, her long braid swingi
ng.
Maybe you’re right; maybe I won’t change. It was a discouraging notion.
He looked around the room: large old building, fourteen-foot ceilings, white plaster walls, prints — Picasso and van Gogh — in metal frames, light oak bookshelves, green plants in the windows. Hanging ferns. Things looked tidy, orderly, as if all had been made clean and comfortable for the expected guest.
“Nice place,” said Harrison, still glancing about.
“Yeah, nice,” said Mark, “if you don’t mind living in a woolen mill.”
“They did a beautiful job of renovation. Looks great!”
“It’s home.” Mark’s face sank into a comic frown, as if to say, Okay, so I did it, I’m a card-carrying member of the great American middle class. Then, the frown broadened into a beatific smile that said, But hey, so what? The middle class ain’t such a bad place to be.
Both men started laughing, and the tension passed. They hadn’t lost their knack for nonverbal communication. For a moment it was as it had been many years ago in college. Harrison knew the undergraduate was still alive in both of them.
“It didn’t take you two long to start acting foolish,” said Judy, returning from the kitchen with three bottles of Molson ale. “At least you could have waited for me. Would you like a glass, Harry?”
As the empties piled up, Mark was saying, “Actually, Harry, I’m not much of a believer in the thing. When that Mansi woman’s photograph came out in the Free Press, back in — when was it? 1980 or so? — there was quite a bit of interest in the monster. It was big time. I mean we had TV crews up here and everything. Some people even managed to get it placed on the endangered species list. So if it turns out to be real, it will be illegal to catch it or kill it. Right now interest has pretty much died down. People either accept that it’s out there or they don’t give much of a shit. You can bet the local merchants are getting their pound of flesh, though. We even had a Champ Car Wash open up on Shelburne Road, and there’s a local potato chip company making Champ Chips.”
“Are you saying you don’t believe in it at all?” Harrison heard the disappointment in his own voice.
“I don’t rule out the possibility. I mean, it’s a goddamn big lake. One of America’s great lakes, really. Over one hundred miles long, eleven miles wide in some places. And four hundred feet deep, or so I’m told by my learned colleagues at the U of VM. That’s a pretty big body of water. I wouldn’t go so far as to say the monster’s definitely not out there. It could be there and I’ve just missed it. Me and a shitload of other people. I might add that I don’t personally know anyone who’s seen it.”
“And you wouldn’t admit it if you did, right, dear?” Judy laughed.
Mark gave Judy a comic scowl over the top of his eyeglasses.
“So what about the photograph?” Harrison pressed, “How do you feel about that?”
“Oh, God,” said Judy. “Now you’ll really get him going”
Mark’s eyes flicked toward his wife, then back to Harrison. “It makes me think of Conan Doyle and his fairies.”
“Fairies? What do you mean?”
“A put-on. Flimflam. A hoax. To me Mansi’s photo looks like a picture of a swimmer in a wet suit. Look at it this way: The woman allegedly took the photo in 1977, right? But she didn’t get around to releasing it to the press until ’81. Now she can’t even produce the negative, and she can’t remember just exactly where she was when she snapped it. ‘Somewhere north of St. Albans,’ she says. Christ, do you realize how much shoreline there is north of St. Albans?”
“I agree the picture could be a hoax,” said Harrison. “And it shouldn’t be used to prove or disprove the monster’s existence. But what about the hundreds of other sightings, starting with Champlain himself back in 1609?”
“Who knows what he saw. We can’t conjure him up to ask him. To the best of my knowledge, the monster has never been spotted by anyone trained in scientific observation. I’ll go this far, Harry. I’ll admit it has to be one of four things—”
“Watch out,” said Judy, “he’s getting behind his podium again.” She winked at Harrison, saying, “You and I will definitely be needing more beer. I’ll get them.”
Harrison watched her leave the room, admiring her pretty bottom as it moved beneath snug denims. Self-consciously he pulled his attention back to Mark. “You were saying you’d narrowed it down to four possibilities?”
“Right.” Mark held up an index finger. “It’s either a hoax, the work of generation after generation of organized tricksters over the last four hundred years.
“Two” — another finger. “It may be honest misinterpretation. For example, many people have seen sturgeon ‘porpoising’ — you know, breaking the surface of the water, then diving again — and thought they saw the monster’s humps. Big carp will do the same thing in the late spring, while sturgeon do it in the hot weather. A family of otters might do it anytime at all.”
Harrison nodded.
“A third possibility, of course, is illusion. Out-and-out seeing things. Hallucinations. You know as well as I do, Harrison, ‘the sea plays strange tricks on a man.’”
“Or a woman,” added Judy, coming back with three more green bottles of Canadian ale. “So,” she continued, lowering her voice, “you’ve got one guy playing a trick, another who sees a family of otters swimming single file, and a third guy who’s tripping or something. What have you got? Three sightings and no monster.”
All three chuckled at Judy’s imitation of Mark.
“After ten years, she knows all my rants.”
Harrison smiled. “But you said there were four possibilities. So what’s the fourth?”
Mark lifted his eyebrows. “Reality. The fourth possibility is that the monster’s really out there.”
One A.M.
Judy, relaxed from the effects of the alcohol, rose from her cushion on the floor. She stretched languorously, announcing through a yawn that she was going to bed. She kissed her husband somewhat awkwardly and walked over to Harrison, where she stood in front of his chair. She bent forward and kissed him, too. “We’re happy to have you with us, Harry,” she said, “And you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Let me leave you with something to sleep on: Maybe going to the island’s not such a good idea. It’s a creepy place, not the idyllic little vacation spot that you probably imagine. That’s why we left. You’re better off here in Burlington. There’s more to do, lots of people to meet, better opportunities to find work. And you can stay right here with us until you find a place of your own. What do you say, Harry?”
Harrison smiled warmly at her. He was touched by her offer. “I say I’ll sleep on it. Thanks, Judy.”
“Well, guys, I’m done in. Good night.” She excused herself and was soon snoring drunkenly in the next room.
In the living room the men continued to talk quietly. The air was saturated with Mark’s cigarette smoke; Harrison’s eyes watered from irritation and fatigue.
Mark was half reclining on the couch as Harrison slid from the chair to the soft, thick carpet on the floor.
Their conversation rolled like a great wheel, from monsters to careers to marriage to women to politics … to the old days, and back again to monsters.
“Somehow I still get the feeling you’re not sincere about this, Harry. That it’s just a lark, or a whim.” Mark crushed out the last Marlboro from the last pack. The conversation had leveled to an intimacy only possible between old and partially drunken friends.
“Sincere? Shit, what’s sincere? You go to Egypt, you dig for ruins, you’re doing archaeological research. Fine. That’s respectable; it’s even encouraged. But if you go to Vermont to look for a lake monster, you’re some kind of crank, right?”
“Now come on, Harry, don’t get defensive. I’m just wondering what’s in all of this for you? I wish you’d level with me.”
Harrison closed his eyes and thought. He took a deep, slow breath. Then spoke softly, “I don’t know. I really don’t.
I mean you gotta be someplace, right? And I had to get the fuck out of Boston. Look, I’m thirty-five years old. I got no job, no house, no family. Most people my age have their mortgage nearly paid off, are department chairmen, and are failing at their second marriage. Christ, I don’t even have a girlfriend!”
“That’s crap, Harry, and you know it. Look at me — I’m still an assistant professor of English, I live in a condo with my wife of nearly ten years. And you and I are the same age. I mean, what have I got if I give up teaching? What salable skills do I possess? I’d very likely end up working for the government, or maybe in public relations or marketing. And you’ve already outgrown that kind of thing. You see? You and I aren’t in such different boats. You think I’m the picture of educated middle-class contentment? Hell, I fight with my wife, we threaten to leave each other, we make up, we get sick of work, we consider career changes, we consider not changing careers. Christ, Harry, I still wake up in the middle of the night sweating, teeth clenched, wondering where’s the fucking payoff.”
“I know, I know.”
“So what’s with the monster-hunting crap? Even if you photograph and identify it, what have you got? It’s still not going to make you rich and famous. It’s not as if you invented video games or compact disc players, or something like that. The only people who’ll get rich are the ones selling monster T-shirts, and monster stuffed animals, and McMonsterburgers at the neighborhood McDonald’s. You’re not even going to get it named after you. It’s already been dubbed Belua Aquatica Champlainiensis after our old pal Samuel de.”
“Okay, okay, so call it a vacation. I’ve got six months of unemployment checks coming to me. If I’m careful with my money I can be completely self-indulgent from now until midsummer of next year. I’ll read, write, look for the monster. Drink. When I get bored I’ll look for a job. Talk about a case of arrested adolescence…”
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