Shakespeare continued to wriggle the rope. The quiet of the night and the near total dark gnawed on his nerves. It occurred to him that the fish could be lurking outside the ring of light and he would not know it. He reached for the lantern to extinguish it, then changed his mind. Without the light he could not see the rope, and he must be ready when the fish took the bait.
Shakespeare’s uneasy feeling grew. He and the canoe were an island of light in an ocean of dark. The glow could be seen for miles. Possibly even from the bottom of the lake.
None of them knew how deep the lake was. Once, shortly after they built their cabins, Shakespeare and Nate had lashed together the logs they had left over and ventured out on the lake on the raft. Nate had the notion to find out how deep the lake was by tying a rock to a hundred-foot rope and lowering the rope until it struck bottom.
It didn’t.
They added fifty feet, then fifty more, and when that was still not enough, Nate went to Bent’s Fort for the express purpose of buying a hundred more. Surely, they had reasoned, three hundred feet would suffice.
It didn’t.
The lake was more than three hundred feet deep. Shakespeare did not know how that compared to other mountain lakes, but three hundred feet was damn deep, deeper than most fish ever went. The thing he was up against was extraordinary if, in fact, it normally dwelled at the bottom.
To the best of Shakespeare’s logic, there were three possibilities. Either the fish was an oversized member of a known species, it was of a species yet to be officially discovered, or it was a holdover from an earlier era, a relict from the time when, according to many Indians, the land and the water were overrun by huge animals of all kinds.
Shakespeare could not say what the fish was, but he hoped to have an answer by the rising of the sun.
Time passed. The swaying of the canoe lulled Shakespeare into lowering his chin to his chest and closing his eyes. He had no intention of drifting off, but before he could stop himself, he did.
Suddenly Shakespeare’s head snapped up and his eyes opened. He tried to figure out what had woken him. The lake was as still and dark as it had been before, save for the splash of a fish.
Shakespeare started to succumb to drowsiness again. Another splash, louder than the first, brought him out of it. Acting on the assumption that the bigger the fish, the bigger the splash, he gazed about for the source.
The rope had not moved. The chicken still dangled in the depths. Leaning back, Shakespeare sighed. He had forgotten how much waiting there was with fishing, whether the fisherman was after bass or sunfish or catfish—or monster fish.
Shakespeare wondered if the monster might not be a catfish. They sometimes grew to exceptional lengths. He was not sure exactly how big they could get, but he seemed to recollect hearing that twelve feet was not out of the question.
The dugout swayed slightly.
Stiffening, Shakespeare raised the lantern. The wind was not strong enough to account for the movement. He peered over the side, but it was like gazing into a black well. “Was it you?” he asked the water.
As if in answer, the dugout abruptly rose half an inch, then settled back down again. In reflex, Shakespeare grabbed the gunwales. He waited for another bump or the rising of a swell, but nothing happened.
Not so much as a twitch from the rope.
Shakespeare picked up a harpoon, then put it down again. The cocoon of water the fish displaced when it moved at high speed had deflected Zach’s cast. What made him think he would fare any better? He drew a pistol instead.
The lake was still again. Above him a multitude of stars sparkled. More wind renewed his concern about an incoming front. Once again he debated heading for shore and safety.
Then the rope moved. Not much, no more than a shake, but something was interested in the bait.
Scarcely breathing, Shakespeare glued his eyes to it. It moved again and his heart jumped. It occurred to him that maybe a smaller fish was nipping at the chicken, and his elation vanished. It surged again when he realized a small fish could not move the rope like that. It would take a fish of considerable size. It would take his fish.
Shakespeare smiled at this thought. His fish? It was not a pet. It was his adversary, his enemy, his personal dragon.
Another jerk on the rope prompted Shakespeare to lightly wrap his hand around it. He felt an ever-so-slight vibration. “What are you doing, fish?” he wondered.
The vibration stopped.
Once more Shakespeare waited with bated breath, but the rope stayed still. He feared the fish had lost interest, that a chicken was no substitute for a duck.
That was when the rope jumped taut. Shakespeare started to whoop in triumph, but the shout died in his throat as the paddle he had tied the end of the rope to started to slide out from under him. Setting down his pistol, he gripped the paddle with both hands and shifted so all his weight was on it. It worked. The paddle stopped moving.
The canoe moved instead.
The rope began cleaving the water, pulling the canoe after it. Shakespeare chuckled, pleased that his ploy had worked. The fish had taken the bait and swallowed the chicken. Now it was only a matter of time before the fish tired and he could haul it up out of the benighted depths and dispatch it.
The canoe was gaining speed. Apparently the dugout was no more of a hindrance to the fish than a leaf would be.
Shakespeare tugged on the rope, but he could not draw it up. The fish was too strong or too heavy, or both.
The canoe went faster, knifing the water more swiftly than Shakespeare could ever hope to paddle. More swiftly, even, than two men could. The sheer brute strength the fish possessed was a wonderment.
A sliver of doubt pricked Shakespeare, but he cast it aside. His plan would work. It might take longer to tire the fish, was all.
The bow began rising and falling, rising and falling, slapping down with enough force to rattle Shakespeare’s teeth and spray water all over him. He hunched his shoulders, determined to ride it out.
Suddenly the rope changed direction. Shakespeare clung on, his hair and shirt soaked. Cold drops trickled down his chest and back, raising yet more goose flesh. “Damn you, fish,” he growled. He had not counted on anything like this. He had not counted on anything like this at all.
Incredibly, the dugout went faster. The bow was smacking the surface in violent cadence, the harpoons and his rifle and pistol clattering and bouncing madly about. He worried the Hawken would go over the side. He could always get another rifle, but it would mean riding all the way to St. Louis, and Lord, he did not want to do that.
The rope was a rigid bar. Try as he might, Shakespeare could not budge it. He was at the mercy of the fish. His wife’s warnings came back to him, and he was almost sorry he had not heeded her. Almost.
To complicate matters, either the canoe was moving so fast it was whipping his beard and hair, or the wind from the west was gusting relentlessly, which did not bode well.
“Damn,” Shakespeare said again. Too many things were going wrong. In frustration he wrenched on the rope, but all he succeeded in doing was to give his palms rope burn.
The lantern tilted. Another hard jostle and it would fall.
Shakespeare had forgotten about it. He would be in total darkness if it went out, an unappealing prospect. Lunging, he set it back up and slid it flush against the inner curve of the bow so it would not tip.
A loud hissing arose. Shakespeare marveled anew at the prodigious might the fish displayed.
Again the dugout changed direction. By now Shakespeare had lost all sense of where he was. He might be out in the middle, he might be close to shore. All he could say for certain was that he did not like the predicament his stubbornness had placed him in.
The canoe smacked down so hard, Shakespeare nearly tumbled. He had to grip the sides to stay on his knees. The next instant the whole canoe commenced shimmying, shaking him to his marrow.
Shakespeare had a terrible thought: What if the canoe
collided with something? Drifting logs were not uncommon. Deer and elk sometimes went for a swim. Once, years ago, he had caught sight of a black bear splashing about.
Once more the dugout changed direction. Seconds later, yet again. A few more seconds, and a third time. It suggested the fish was growing frantic.
Shakespeare took that as a good sign and clung on. He wished he knew where he was. He sought a glimpse of a cabin but could not even see the shore. The bow abruptly dipped, almost spilling him, but the dugout righted itself and he was safe.
Safe, Shakespeare somberly reflected. The notion was laughable. He was anything but.
The bow slid under the surface and went on sinking. With a start, Shakespeare realized the fish might pull the dugout under. He had one recourse: he must cut the rope. His hand flew to the sheath at his hip and he started to draw his knife. But his fingers had barely gripped the hilt when the canoe gave the most violent lurch yet. He was propelled forward. Flinging out his arms, he kept from smashing into the lantern, but his forehead hit the side. It was like being kicked by a mule.
Pain exploded, Shakespeare’s vision spun, and his gut was wrenched by invisible fingers. He struggled to sit up, but his body would not do as he wanted. “No!” he cried, and got his hands under him.
Inner blackness swallowed all there was left to swallow.
Ordeal
Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and thought he was dead. He was floating in a misty cloud. Pale grayish wisps hung in the air in front of him, writhing like ethereal serpents. He reached up to touch one and it dissolved at his touch.
The mist was everywhere; above him, below him, around him, a vaporous cocoon his vision could not penetrate.
Shakespeare had never been sure how the afterlife would be, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. A lot of folks were certain they knew: heaven would have pearly gates and great white mansions and winged angels singing in celestial choirs; hell would be fire and brimstone and unending torment. It was Shakespeare’s view that it was presumptuous to anticipate the Almighty; he would find out when he got there. Wherever there turned out to be.
Then pain racked his head, and when he gave a start, his elbow bumped wood. In the distance a gull shrieked.
Shakespeare came back to his senses. He was not floating in a cloud; he was floating in the dugout. He had not died; he had been knocked unconscious. The mist was not heavenly vapor; it was fog.
Disgusted with himself, Shakespeare sat up. He was surprised to see that the lantern had gone out. It had enough fuel to burns for hours. He glanced skyward but could not see for the fog. But judging by the raucous shrieks of the gulls and the quacks of ducks and cries of other fowl, the new day had dawned. He had been out all night.
Shakespeare went to turn and the pain grew worse. Gringerly, he touched his brow. He had a nasty gash and was caked with dried blood. “This is a piece of malice,” he quoted to the wispy tendrils.
McNair took stock. The dugout was intact and afloat, the paddles and harpoons and his rifle and parfleche were still lying on the bottom. Other than the gash, he was fine. There was no reason to head for shore.
Leaning over the side, Shakespeare dipped his hand in the water and splashed some on his face and neck. As cold as ice, it helped revitalize him. He picked up the pistol he had dropped and tucked the flintlock under his wide leather belt.
The rope lay limp next to him. Either it had snapped or the fish had come loose of the grappling iron and gone on its way.
“If I did not have bad luck, I would not have any luck at all,” Shakespeare groused. He gripped the rope to pull it up and suddenly it came alive in his hands. Instantly the canoe leaped forward, and the paddle he had tied the rope to started to rise. Lunging, he got his legs on top of it and bore down with all his weight.
The canoe moved faster.
Shakespeare bent over the side to peer into the water, but he could not see for the fog. A hiss fell on his ears.
“You blunt monster, with uncounted heads,” Shakespeare quoted. “All the whole heap must die.”
As last night, so now: the dugout bounced violently, the bow rising and falling as if it were a flat stone skimming the surface. The fish must not be swimming in a straight line but in an undulating fashion, rising up and going down, over and over. Why it would do that was beyond him. But it vindicated his decision to use the dugout and not a bark canoe. By now, the bark craft would have been shattered to bits and pieces.
Shakespeare put his hand on the bundled net. His plan still might succeed. Tire the fish, draw it to the surface, and slay it with a harpoon, either outright, or if he could not get a good cast, then get the net over it and pull it close enough to thrust a harpoon clean through the beast. “Malignant thing!” he quoted. “By my hand, I’ll turn my mercy out of doors, and make a stock fish of thee!”
The canoe gave a wild lurch as it changed direction. Shakespeare grabbed the side. He winced as the paddle nearly came out from under him, smacking his shin hard.
Shakespeare wished he could tell where they were. They might be close to land, and a shout would bring his wife and friends to his aid. But no. He refused to call for help. He’d gotten himself into this predicament; he would prevail without imposing on them. Yes, he was being stubborn. He was succumbing to the sin of pride. But he could not help it. He was acting on his belief that it was in their best interest to dispose of the thing before it disposed of one of them.
The rope abruptly went slack and the dugout coasted to a stop. Shakespeare peered over the side again, but he might as well try to see through mud. The damnable fog foiled him. He was tempted to tug on the rope, but didn’t. It might provoke the fish into another mad run.
The minutes dragged. The fish was content to remain still. Shakespeare splashed more water on his head, which had taken to throbbing, then opened his parfleche and took out a bundle of pemmican Blue Water Woman had made. A mix of finely ground deer meat, fat, and chokecherries, it was just about his favorite food in all the world. He munched and mulled over his dilemma. Or should he say, the fish’s dilemma. He had caught it. It could not shake loose the grappling iron. Eventually it would tire and be at his mercy. All he had to do was wait.
But for all his years, Shakespeare had never been the most patient of men. He could not stand to sit still when he could be doing something. In this instance, as soon as he finished another piece of pemmican, he made sure the parfelche was snug in the stern, then wrapped his hands around the rope and pulled. He wanted to provoke it. He wanted another underwater sprint and more after that, to exhaust the fish that much sooner.
But nothing happened. The rope did not snap rigid. The dugout did not move.
Shakespeare tugged harder. His first thought was that the fish had slipped free, but no, if that were the case, the rope would be slack. The fish was still caught. It must be resting.
“I have you, but you do not know it.” Shakespeare smiled. By the end of the day he would have a surprise for his doubting Thomas of a wife and his best friend. The canoe shook, but not from the fish. The wind was stirring the lake and creating small waves.
Shakespeare had hoped the fog would soon disperse, but if anything it became thicker. What pale light there was began to fade, which told him the sun was being blotted out by clouds.
It could be that the storm he had been expecting was about to break.
The dugout had withstood battering by the beast, but battering by a tempest would be more than it could endure. It would be swamped and capsize, leaving Shakespeare at the pitiless mercy of the elements.
He had a decision to make. He could stay and continue his battle with the fish, or he could cut the rope and make for land, and safety. Craning his neck, he probed the fog above, seeking a break, looking for sign of thunderheads. But all he saw was fog.
Shakespeare shook his head. He had seen it through this far. He would stay and hope he was wrong about the storm.
A faint shout reached him. It sounded like
someone calling his name. He did not answer. It was inevitable they would search for him, but he was determined to go it alone. Bad enough he had nearly cost Lou her life. He would not endanger anyone else.
The rope twitched.
Shakespeare braced himself, and it was well he did. The rope tightened and the dugout flew forward. Shakespeare hoped it was a dying spurt of energy. Sometimes, at the very last, animals marshaled their strength for a final effort. If not, if the creature’s vitality was undiminished, he was no better off than when he first hooked the thing, which did not bode well for the outcome.
He kept watch for logs, but the fog was so thick he would not see one until he smashed into it. Then something appeared ahead of them. Something low in the water. Shakespeare braced for the worst. There was a thump and a crunch and a squawk that might have come from a goose. He looked back and thought he glimpsed the stricken bird flapping about.
Another thump and another crunch, and this time Shakespeare saw a dead goose pass under the bow. The dugout was plowing through a flock. “Get out of the way!” he shouted. “Take to the air!” Another crunch and another goose flapped and thrashed.
Suddenly the craft gave one of its violent lurches and was off in a whole new direction.
Shakespeare had given up trying to figure out where on the lake he was. To try was pointless until the fog dissipated.
With surprising abruptness, the fish stopped. The dugout was brought to a halt by the rope.
Now what? Shakespeare wondered. He waited a bit, then opened the parfleche and treated himself to another piece of pemmican.
The fog was growing darker. A new gust brought the scent of water, but that could just be the scent of the lake. Wishful thinking, it turned out.
In Darkest Depths Page 10