Everything had gone to hell. Shakespeare’s sole desire now was to survive. He groped for the rope and was thrown against the side when the canoe spun like a child’s top. The fish was swimming in small circles. Shakespeare clung to the gunwale as nausea flooded through him, either from the spinning, or his wound, or both.
Water spilled in over the side. The waves were rising. Normally so serene, the lake was being churned into a maelstrom.
Between the wind and the rain, Shakespeare could scarely breathe. Gasping for air, he dropped onto his belly and felt about. He found the rope. This time nothing would stop him. But as he brought the knife up, the rope went slack and the spinning slowed.
A clap of thunder made his ears ring.
Shakespeare pulled on the rope and it stayed slack. Maybe the fish at long last had pulled loose.
The wind nearly snapped his head back. He looked up just as lightning rent the heavens and lit the sky. The fog was almost gone, whipped away by the fury of the tempest.
Shakespeare’s heart sank.
The lake itself had been transformed into a monster. The water writhed and surged as if alive. White caps peaked the waves much as snow peaked the mountains, only these mountains were moving. As he looked on, a wave heaved up into a watery fist and smashed down over the dugout, knocking him flat.
Shakespeare had run out of time. He gripped the slack rope in his free hand and held it so he could cut it. A premonition made him look up just as another wave came crashing over the gunwale. Again he was knocked flat. The canoe tilted and settled back, water covering the bottom.
Shakespeare got to his knees, puzzled by a strange tightness around his left forearm. He tried to move his arm but couldn’t. A flash of lightning revealed why. Somehow the slack rope had looped around his wrist. He twisted his arm, but the rope would not slide off. He tugged, but that only made the rope tighten.
“Damn it.” Shakespeare let go of his knife and grabbed the rope to unwind it. Without any warning the rope went rigid, as it always did when the fish was about to move again. “No!” he shouted.
Jerked off balance, Shakespeare slammed down hard. His wrist, his whole arm, felt fit to be torn off. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The canoe was picking up speed, and the faster it went, the more pain he felt.
This was bad. This was very bad. Shakespeare tried to get to his knees but was yanked down. The rope was digging so deep into his flesh, his fingers were going numb.
Shakespeare rolled onto his side to try to get some slack in the rope. He did, for all of two seconds. He pried at it with his other hand but could not free his wrist.
The dugout hurtled headlong through the storm-tossed waters as lightning crackled and thunder crashed. Shakespeare managed to get to one knee and saw the knife at his feet. He reached for it just as the largest wave yet reared up out of the lake and curled above his head.
Tempest Fury
A ton of water smashed down. Shakespeare’s temple struck the bottom of the dugout, and for a few harrowing instants he feared he would pass out again. A black veil nipped at him, and his stomach tried to climb up out of his throat. Only by force of will was he able to stay conscious and shove his stomach back down where it belonged.
His wrist was in torment. The rope was a vise, the other end lost in the darkling realm under the canoe. He groped for his knife, but it was not where he had seen it last. Frantic, he cast about, but it was not to be found. Washed over the side, most likely.
Then Shakespeare remembered the harpoons. Grabbing one a few inches below the tip, he commenced sawing at the rope. The tip was not as sharp as his knife, but it would suffice.
The canoe kept swaying and bouncing, and he was handicapped by having to use one hand.
Wet drops spattered him, multiplying rapidly. Another cannonade of thunder heralded the unleashing of the deluge in all its elemental fury.
Shakespeare focused on the rope and only the rope. The fish had slowed, but that might be temporary, and it was entirely possible that its next burst of speed might yank him clear out of the canoe or tear his arm clean off.
With the storm roaring around him, Shakespeare sliced at strand after strand. Time seemed to slow. A result of the knock on the head, he reckoned. Or was there more to it? Shakespeare would be the first to admit that he was not getting any younger. He liked to joke about his creaking joints and aching muscles, but the truth was, they did creak and ache. Remarkable though his stamina and strength were for his age, he was not the man he used to be. The thought broke his concentration. He had never truly regarded himself as old before, but maybe it was time he started. He had limits, and the smart thing to do was to respect those limits and not go traipsing out on a lake after a creature more formidable, in its way, than a grizzly or a buffalo.
Shakespeare resumed slicing. He had lost all feeling from his fingertips to his wrist, and now the numbness was spreading higher. He prayed to God he would not lose the hand. “I have grown rather attached to it,” he said, and chuckled at his warped humor.
Shakespeare sliced as fast as he could, given how awkward it was to handle the harpoon with one hand. The canoe rocked without cease, threatening to upend him. Do it, damn you! he mentally shouted. So what if you are old? Think of your wife and think of your friends and do it!
As if in answer, the rope severed, and the end that trailed over the gunwale went sliding over the edge and was gone.
Wincing at the agony, Shakespeare unwound the loop from his wrist. He wriggled his fingers, or tried to, to help restore his circulation, which only made the pain worse.
Unexpectedly, the canoe pitched, throwing him onto his good arm. Thinking the fish might be to blame, Shakespeare looked up—and gaped in astonishment.
The world had gone mad. Writhing black clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon, broken by vivid jagged bolts. The rumble and boom of thunder was continuous. One bolt, quite near, sizzled the air with a sound like that of frying bacon and struck something on the lake in a brilliant flash. The rain was Noah’s flood all over again. But the wind was the worst; it howled and screeched and churned the water into convulsions. It was the wind that gave birth to increasingly larger waves. The lake, once so tranquil, was in upheaval.
A wave caught the dugout and lifted it into the air, only to bring it smashing down with a jolt that jarred Shakespeare to his marrow. He had never seen the lake like this. It was just his luck—or lack of it—that he should be out in the canoe when the storm of the century swept in.
The fish was of no consequence now. All that mattered was surviving, staying alive so he could hold Blue Water Woman in his arms once again. So what if she would tease him with an endless litany of “I told you so”? She had been right and he had been wrong, and he was man enough to admit it.
Special moments rose unbidden in his memory. The first time he set eyes on her and was dazzled by her beauty; the deep, special love that blossomed; the giddy delight of taking her into his arms, and their first kiss. Lord, how he adored that woman! To think that he might lose her, or she him, because he had been too pigheaded to listen!
Another wave raised the dugout. Shakespeare braced himself as one side dipped lower than the other, using his good hand and his knees to keep from being catapulted out. He succeeded, but at the height of the wave, when he did not dare let go, his Hawken and one of the harpoons and the net slid over the edge. Impulsively, he almost lunged for the rifle, but if he did, he would follow it in.
Only then did Shakespeare remember he was not much of a swimmer. He could, when he had to, or occasionally for the fun of it, but he was not a seal like Zach, or even as good as Blue Water Woman. Were he to be tossed into the drink, he might never come up.
The dugout dipped into a trough between waves, giving Shakespeare a momentary respite. Then the next wave seized it and swept it aloft. Once again he braced himself, but this time, with the canoe tipped on the crest, his hand slipped. He felt himself start to fall. Only by exerting his aged sine
ws to their utmost was he able to avoid disaster.
The rain, the lightning, the thunder, the waves assaulted Shakespeare’s senses. He lost all awareness of time, of his own self, of everything except the din and the upheaval and the rolling motion that tossed his stomach as it did the waves. He was close to being sick.
A monster wave flung the canoe toward the black clouds, and it began to roll. Shakespeare closed his eyes and fought down bitter bile. He prayed as he had not prayed in years, prayed with every fiber of his being that he would live to see Blue Water Woman again. Her face floated at the back of his eyelids. She was smiling, and she was beautiful, and he had never loved her so much as he did at that moment.
Then Shakespeare was tumbling and clawing for a hold that was not there. The shock of hitting the cold water snapped his eyes open. It snapped his mouth open, too, allowing water to gush down his throat. He swallowed and sucked in a desperate breath, but instead of air he sucked in more water.
There was a tremendous splash next to him and a glancing blow to his shoulder. Shakespeare needed to reach the surface, but he could not tell up from down or down from up. Weakly, he stroked, and went nowhere. He fought to stay conscious, but there were limits to how much punishment the human body could endure, and he had exceeded his, and then some.
Shakespeare envisioned Blue Water Woman. He wanted his last thought to be of her. He wanted to say he was sorry, and to thank her for putting up with him all these years.
Then there was nothing, nothing at all.
“You are not going out after him and that is final,” Nate King said, standing in front of the cabin door, arms folded across his broad chest.
“How can you do this?” Blue Water Woman asked, tears brimming in her eyes. She had hurred to the King cabin when she discovered Shakespeare was gone. “You are his best friend.”
Nate glanced at Winona, who was pouring steaming cups of tea. She sadly shook her head. “Listen to it out there,” he said. Thunder conveniently boomed, stressing his point. “Look out the window.” He had done so just a moment ago. “See how bad that storm is.”
“All the more reason I must try to find him,” Blue Water Woman pleaded. She had wanted to go out earlier, but Nate had advised her to wait until the fog broke. Now the storm had swept in, and she was so worried, her insides were twisted into a knot.
Nate gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “A canoe would not last five minutes in this storm. It would be torn to pieces.” He was sorry he said it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Shakespeare is in a canoe.”
“Yes,” Nate said, mad at his stupidity. “But he took the dugout, not the bark canoes. It will not fall apart on him.”
Blue Water Woman bowed her head and her shoulders drooped. “What was he thinking?” she asked softly. “Why did he go out again? Alone?” She was hurt that he had not taken her. Even more hurt that he had not told her he was going.
Nate shrugged. “You know how he is. When he wants to do something, he never lets anything stand in his way. I am the same way.”
“I warned him the water devil is bad medicine, but he would not listen,” Blue Water Woman said.
“Men,” Nate said. “We are all born with rocks between our ears.” He grinned, but she did not grin back.
Winona came over and clasped Blue Water Woman’s hand in hers. She was worried, too, greatly worried, but for her friend’s sake she hid it. “Come. The tea is ready. Have a seat and calm your nerves.”
“If he dies I will not want to go on living.”
Winona and Nate exchanged glances, and Nate took Blue Water Woman’s other hand.
“Enough of talk like that. Shakespeare is not called Carcajou for nothing. Wolverines are the toughest animal around.”
Blue Water Woman let them lead her to a chair. She slumped into it, feeling as if all the life had been drained from her body. “He is not a young man anymore. He pretends he is by ignoring his wrinkles.”
Just then Evelyn came out of her bedroom. She had been listening and wished there was something she could say or do to cheer Blue Water Woman up. A bolt of lightning lit the window, and she nearly jumped. She never had liked lightning. As a little girl, during thunderstorms she would often cower in her bed with the covers over her head. “Is there anything I can do, Ma?”
Winona frowned. “There is nothing any of us can do until this storm lets up.”
“I hope it stops soon.”
So did Nate, but from the sound of things, it would be a while, and every moment Shakespeare spent out on the lake increased the likelihood they might never see him again.
“I am glad Dega is not out there,” Evelyn said without thinking. She had him on her mind a lot of late.
“Why don’t you make us some toast?” Winona suggested, distressed at her daughter’s lapse.
“Sure, Ma.”
Nate was glad no one else had gone with Shakespeare, or whoever did would be in the same dire straits. A thought startled him. What if someone had? He would not put it past his son to tag along, and he had not seen hide nor hair of Zach since the day before. He’d assumed Zach was tending to Louisa, but he never knew with that boy of his. “As soon as the storm ends, I am going out.”
“We are,” Blue Water Woman amended.
“He is my friend.”
“He is my husband.”
“The three of us will go,” Winona interjected.
“I would rather you stayed here,” Nate said casually, so she would not construe it as a command and be insulted.
“Three sets of eyes and ears are better than two,” Winona said, as if that settled the matter.
“Four sets are better yet,” Evelyn piped up.
Nate thought fast. “If all of us are out on the water, who will search the shoreline?” He left unsaid the reason: that McNair, or McNair’s body, might wash up on shore. Pointing at Evelyn, he said, “I want you to ride to the Nansusequa and ask them to help you search the east shore.” She would be glad to be with Dega, and she would be off the lake.
“If you want, Pa.”
Nate turned to his wife. “I would like you to check in on Zach and Lou and make sure she is all right, then search along the north shore.”
“I suppose I should see if Louisa has recovered,” Winona reluctantly conceded.
“Blue Water Woman will search the south shore while I go out in a canoe,” Nate concluded. “That way we cover all there is to cover.” It made sense to him, but would it make sense to Blue Water Woman? Females had an exasperating habit of thinking they knew better than males just because they were females.
“If there is no one else to do it, very well. But if I find no trace of him, I am coming right out in a canoe.”
“We will go out together,” Winona told her.
Nate smothered a grin. “Whatever you two think is best.”
Thunder chose that moment to rattle the dishes in the cupboard. They all gazed at the rain-lashed window.
“Oh, Carcajou.” Blue Water Woman gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles were nearly white.
“He will be all right,” Nate said, reading her expression.
“His heart is my heart. My heart is his.” Blue Water Woman bit her lower lip.
Evelyn felt sorry for her. For some reason, the comment brought Dega to mind. “When I get married, I hope the man I care for cares for me as much as you and Shakespeare care for each other.”
Winona hid her considerable surprise. That was the first time their daughter had ever mentioned marriage in a serious tone. And Evelyn had said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’
Nate was listening to the bedlam outdoors. The storm showed no sign of abating any time soon.
“I hope you find a man like mine,” Blue Water Woman said. She was sorry that she was upsetting them so much, and in an effort to cheer them, and herself, she said, “I should do as Shakespeare always says to do and look at the bright side.”
; “There is one?” Evelyn asked.
“All that lightning,” Blue Water Woman said. “If I am lucky, it will strike that stupid steeple.”
Water Womb
Warmth revived him. Blessed, wonderful warmth on his face and neck showed he was still alive.
Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and squinted against the harsh glare of the midday sun. His face was warm, but the rest of him was cold and wet and a patchwork of pain. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he raised his head and looked about him.
The storm had ended. Far to the east a few thunderheads were visible, but otherwise the vault of sky was a pristine blue. So, too, the lake. The waves had stilled and the surface was undisturbed save for cavorting waterfowl.
“Thank God,” Shakespeare croaked, his throat raw, his voice not sounding at all like it should.
The next fact he established was that he was somewhere in the middle of the lake. That he had survived at all was in no small measure due to a fluke of circumstance some might call a miracle.
The dugout was floating upside down in the water. His head, right shoulder, and right arm lay across one end. Were it not for being buoyed by the canoe, he would surely have drowned.
But how had it happened? Shakespeare wondered. The last thing he remembered was being pitched into the water. He remembered, too, hearing a loud splash that must have been the canoe crashing down next to him. The only explanation he could think of was that the canoe had gone under and bobbed back up—directly under him.
“I’ll be switched,” Shakespeare said, amazed at his deliverance. He patted the bottom of the dugout. Here he had poked fun at it for being a turtle in the water, and the turtle had saved his life.
But his ordeal was far from over. He had lost both paddles. He had lost his knife and his rifle and the harpoons and the net. Worse, he had lost the parfleche with his food. The lantern, too, and they only had the one. Blue Water Woman would take him to task for his carelessness.
In Darkest Depths w-56 Page 11