Soulshifter

by Barbara Pietron

  Brody lifted an eyebrow, his eyes distant as he scoured his memory. Then he focused on Jack and snapped his fingers. “Water.”

  “What, like walking through water to throw dogs off your scent?”

  “Kind of, except you don’t need to get wet, just cross water. The bigger, the better.”

  Jack stared at his adviser and felt a spark of hope followed by instant trepidation. They exchanged a look and Jack moved his eyes west, toward Lake Michigan.

  Brody nodded.

  Jack rose from the couch and picked up Natalie’s car keys. “I’ll meet you at the car.” Brody dashed from the room. A minute later, the engine was running and Jack drummed his fingers on the shifter as his adviser approached with a small pack. “My climbing gear,” he explained as he handed it through the window.

  “Thanks.” Jack looked Brody in the eyes. The older man bobbed his chin once.

  After a quick stop at home for his laptop, Jack sped south on Highway 31 and pulled in at the first place he saw advertising Wi-Fi.

  The connection slugged along at a glacial pace and Jack bounced his knee in agitation. Finally online, he Googled ‘ferry Michigan.’ The cursor hovered over the site for a Muskegon to Milwaukee ferry when Ludington caught his eye. Ludington to Manitowoc. Jack considered the choices—Ludington was only forty minutes away, Muskegon was at least twice the distance. Seemed like a no brainer, as long as the departure schedule fit his timing.

  When a picture of the ferryboat plowing through waves and kicking up a wake came up on his screen, Jack groaned. Oh God, was he really going to do this? He hadn’t been on a boat since his father’s accident.

  He chose the schedule and rates tab while his stomach churned in protest. The last boat left at three which didn’t give him any time to deliberate—he should get on the road immediately. But he needed one more piece of information. Researching the existence of sacred grounds near Manitowoc was not a clear-cut search. Jack clicked and scanned, knee jiggling constantly as precious minutes ticked away. His digging paid off when he finally discovered Native American burial grounds located on Walleye Island in Wisconsin, about a three hour drive from the ferry. As long as he made the three o’clock departure for Manitowoc, he’d have plenty of time to drive to the island.

  The clock on the car stereo read 2:13. Jack slammed his laptop shut and accelerated back onto Highway 31. He’d been on the road only ten minutes or so when he felt an odd vibration through his elbow which rested on the center console. “Crap,” he muttered, lifting his arm. Car trouble had been his last worry in Natalie’s new SUV. He pressed on the vinyl surface experimentally with his forearm. Nothing.

  He let his arm relax. Obviously he was too on edge.

  Another hum vibrated his elbow. A sudden realization dawned on Jack and he flipped the console open. A quick glance inside revealed a variety of items. Keeping his eyes on the road, he felt the objects inside until his fingers closed around her cell phone. One look at the display dropped a rock in Jack’s guts. It was a text from her dad.

  He plunked the phone into a cupholder. There would be plenty of time on the ferry ride to figure out what to do about this latest complication.

  He arrived at the dock with minutes to spare—barely enough time to buy a ticket and get on board. He considered renting a car on the other side and sparing Natalie’s car the extra miles, but decided he was better off saving time. As he drove up the boat ramp, he remembered Natalie’s reluctance to let him drive on the way back from Harbor Springs—he shook his head at the irony.

  With the window down to receive instructions from the parking attendant, the smell of hot grease and warm sugar assaulted Jack’s nose, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the night before. When the car was safely parked, he followed the aroma to the concession area. Despite the anxiety gnawing at his insides, his stomach rumbled.

  While waiting for his food, Jack pulled Natalie’s phone from his pocket. The screen displayed the numeric keypad requiring her security code. A sarcastic laugh escaped as he stared at the phone. He knew her code. She’d told him when he texted her dad for her on the way back from Harbor Springs. Fearing the worst, Jack read the text from Mr. Segetich: Late meeting tonight. Don’t wait for me for dinner.

  He felt his shoulders drop as some of the tension ebbed away. Finally, something in his favor.

  He carried his food to a table far from any windows and wolfed down the burger and fries while he contemplated a reply text. Natalie needed to be away from home at least until tomorrow and preferably not available to talk on the phone. Finally Jack sent: No problem. Some girls were talking about going to the movies tonight anyway. I’ll catch dinner with them. The movie is later so Renee invited me to stay the night at her house. I love you. See you in the morning J

  With that taken care of, he went back to the concession stand for a cinnamon-sugar pretzel. Since the large ferry was fairly stable, Jack scanned the area, thinking if he could find something to read—any sort of distraction—he might forget he was on a boat. Unfortunately the only printed material he found was a rack of brochures, but he collected a handful and went to find a seat.

  Eventually the stress, a night without sleep and a full belly caught up with him and his eyes drooped. Learning more than he wanted to know about things to do and see in Manitowoc and Green Bay couldn’t combat his extreme exhaustion. His chin dropped to his chest and he was asleep in minutes.

  Next thing he knew, a hand shook his shoulder gently. “We’ve arrived at Manitowoc, sir. Welcome to Wisconsin.”

  Jack opened his eyes to see an attendant walking away. He straightened in the seat and scrubbed his face with his hands. He checked the clock. Ten minutes to seven. En route to the parking bay, he noticed an information desk he wished he’d seen at the beginning of the trip. Many of the brochures he’d already read were laid out on the counter, but what caught his eye now were the maps.

  The information desk clerk highlighted two possible routes to Walleye Island. “You can catch a ferry in Miller Bluff or Eastport,” she added. “I’m not sure how late they run. You may have to wait until morning.”

  Jack thanked her and took the map, though he was mentally kicking himself. The detail shouldn’t have caught him off-guard. That it did was a testament to his inner turmoil and lack of sleep. Of course Walleye Island was an island—as in, land surrounded by water. Another boat ride was imminent.

  And if the ferry wasn’t running when he got there, he’d have to find a boat.

  Fantastic.

  The orange numbers on the car’s clock read 9:37 as Jack rolled into Miller Bluff. He’d made a brief stop for gas as the surrounding area became less civilized. At the station, he also decided to grab a couple of water bottles and snack bars.

  His nerves felt rubbed raw.

  Apparently the small town businesses shut down early, and judging by the parking lots, the residents that weren’t at home were in the bars. He found the Miller Bluff ferry depot as deserted as the downtown area. According to the posted schedule, the last one departed at three, just as Jack was leaving Michigan.

  He got back on the highway to Eastport. He arrived in town less than ten minutes later, surprised at the signs of life—he’d expected this town would be a replica of Miller Bluff. But the low level of bustle gave him a spark of hope that the ferry might still be in service. He located the brightly lit terminal, encouraged by people milling about. Jack parked and jogged to the building. He bounded up the stairs and pulled on the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Ugh,” he groaned out loud. According to the schedule posted near the door, the last ferry had left for Walleye Island at nine fifteen. He walked past the building and peered over the fence. The dock was empty. “Crap,” he muttered. “So close.”

  Back in the car, Jack let his head fall against the headrest and closed his eyes, racking his brain for ideas. Determined to do something—anything—he drove beyond the town, staying as close to the shoreline as possible, open to any sort of inspir
ation. When he happened across the marina, he pulled in, even though he knew many pleasure boats would already be dry-docked this late in the season. Regardless, he got out to poke around the few vessels still in the water, thinking he might run into someone.

  The night was calm and the thinly populated docks seemed eerily quiet. The intermittent pools of light made the space between them seem darker. His footfalls and an occasional creak from the wooden pier echoed across the water. Jack stayed alert to movement in all directions, frequently checking behind him as well. He saw only one man, snoring among empty beer cans in the bottom of an aluminum boat, an open whiskey bottle hugged to his chest. Desperation nearly prompted Jack to try and rouse the man, but the sight of the aluminum boat gave him an idea.

  Certain that he’d seen a brown and white state park sign just outside of town, Jack jumped into the car and back-tracked to find it. Then, following the arrow and subsequent signs, he proceeded along the coastline until he arrived at the park. In an area like this, a state park rowboat rental was a reasonable assumption. Since fishing was good well into the fall, he hoped the park still had boats at the ready.

  He paused with the headlights illuminating a sign that directed visitors to various park amenities. Although the list didn’t include boat rentals, ‘pier’ seemed the obvious place to start. Gravel crunched under the tires as he rolled into a parking area adjacent to a well-lit waterfront. Jack parked in the shadows cast by a row of pine trees, stuffed the water bottles and snack bars into Brody’s pack, and then picked his way to the dock, staying off the sidewalk.

  The black water glimmered in the lights, lapping gently at the shoreline. The mineral smell of the lake, combined with oil and gas fumes, instantly brought Jack back to time spent at the marina with his father. With those memories forefront, mixed feelings of terror and triumph coursed though him when he discovered a row of small aluminum boats bobbing next to the pier.

  He had no other choice.

  A ranger station situated close to the beach area showed lights in the window, but Jack knew there’d be no boat rentals this late at night. Nor could he stroll down the dock under the lights and simply take one of the rowboats without drawing unwanted attention. He sighed and stripped out of his jacket, socks, shoes, shirt and jeans. The crisp fall air stole across his exposed skin and Jack shivered as he tied the arms of his jacket together to form a bundle.

  He strode down the shore, away from the ranger station, before wading into the water. Although goose bumps already speckled his arms and legs, the shock of the icy water took his breath away. Jack gritted his teeth and kept going. His skin crawled as the water rose above his waist. He fought past his urge to dash back to shore by imagining how Natalie felt on the Precipice of Delusion.

  When he estimated he was about even with the boat farthest from shore, he turned and cut directly toward it. Panic shimmied up his spine as the water level rose nearly to his chest. Jack fought to breathe, as if the icy fingers of the lake held him in a vise-grip. He concentrated on his task to push away the rising tide of apprehension.

  The floodlights posted on the beach barely penetrated the darkness this far out. Still, he prayed the ranger was busy looking at a computer or television instead of out the window. With his clothes in one hand and Brody’s pack in the other, both held high enough to stay dry, he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He breathed a relieved sigh when he reached the boat and lowered his things inside. His legs felt numb, but he forced them to do his bidding. As he’d suspected, the boats were locked to the pier. Rummaging through Brody’s pack, Jack produced a knife and easily forced apart the lock—its purpose wasn’t so much to prevent theft as to keep customers from helping themselves. When it was free, he pushed the rowboat away from the dock and the ranger station.

  He waded slowly through the icy water, evaluating the boat he’d just heisted. A pull-start motor was mounted on the back, but the vessel was otherwise empty—no floatation devices and no oars. Although he planned to use the motor once he was out of ear shot, he had to get that far first. Besides, he’d be a fool to set out without oars or at least a paddle. Cursing, he turned toward shore and dragged the boat up on the rocky shoreline past the beach.

  The air felt about ten degrees colder now that he was wet, and his shaking limbs slowed the process of getting into his dry clothes. Once dressed, he crept to the ranger station assuming that if the park officer dispensed the gear, it would be close at hand. Jack spotted the woman through a side window, sitting at a desk with her feet up, watching television. In front of the building, a cluster of oars leaned next to the door. The good news, they weren’t locked up—the bad news, the jumble of oars was a giant game of pick-up sticks. Choose the right one, Jack, or they’ll all come tumbling down.

  He traced each oar with his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm and concentrate, though everything seemed to be taking too long. He clamped his mouth shut over his chattering teeth. One oar appeared not to be touching any others, so Jack plucked it from the group and set it aside. He debated on taking a second oar. One was enough for paddling a short distance, but suppose the motor wouldn’t start? Or quit? Or ran out of gas?

  Jack reached for another, easing it away from the rest. The stack shifted and he froze, hand still on the oar, holding his breath. When nothing happened for a long moment, he slowly let the air escape from his lungs, then gingerly continued to extract the oar. When it was free, he snatched the other off the ground and padded away from the building. As he reached the scrub trees, a loud scraping noise split the silence, followed by a noisy clatter as the group of oars crashed to the ground. Jack bolted without looking back.

  When he got to the boat he dumped the oars inside, gave the craft a hard shove and quickly jumped aboard. His heart thrummed out of control as he fitted the oarlocks into their holes. Jack blamed his uneasiness on the ordeal with the oars, but in his heart he knew the real reason. As the boat moved away from shore, Jack dug deep into the water and pulled hard, propelling the vessel across the open water. From his vantage point, the ranger station was hidden in the trees and he, thankfully, couldn’t make out any figures on the dock. Hopefully the ranger assumed a nosey animal knocked down the stack of oars.

  Rowing properly with his back to the boat’s prow, Jack was forced to watch the shoreline diminish while he fought the panic rising in the back of his throat. A sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with physical labor broke out on his forehead. When the only things discernible in the vicinity of the park’s dock were the spot lights, he leaned forward and pulled the cord on the motor, but his tremor-weakened arm produced only a sputter. Grunting aloud, Jack used anger to push aside his irrational fear and yanked hard on the starter. The motor roared to life.

  According to the map he’d picked up on the ferry, the burial grounds were located on the Fry Peninsula, which jutted out from the southeast corner of the island. The ride was mercifully short. Jack killed the motor as he neared the coast, even though no lights shone from the protected area. He picked out a short stretch of beach and rowed toward it, allowing himself a moment to breathe deeply when the boat touched land. Leaving the vessel beached and secured to a tree, he trekked inland, forging over sand dunes speckled by clumps of long grass.

  Gray, slowly drifting clouds obscured the moon, but the openness of the area afforded decent visibility. Since he doubted he’d see anything to alert him when he reached sacred ground, Jack stopped periodically to listen or test the air, relying entirely on his intuitive skill. By the time the terrain began to flatten out, he was breathing heavily and had completely shaken his earlier chill.

  Concentrating on his senses, he corrected his path to the east and was soon rewarded by a hum. A check of his phone confirmed midnight had already come and gone. Almost time.

  Wriggling his fingers into his gloves, he slowed his pace, mentally pushing against unseen boundaries as he wove across the area that seemed to vibrate with afterlife. Finally choosing a spot that felt right, he paused and gaze
d upward at the leaden sky, hoping his ruse worked. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to shake Zalnic off his tail.

  Without the moon’s location as a guide, he concentrated on the membrane, periodically exerting pressure against the thin line between worlds. Then suddenly, without warning, the resistance disappeared and he fell to his hands and knees. The sour smell of sulfur stung his nostrils and his knees pressed into charcoal dust instead of sand.

  He was back.

  Jack dropped to his knees at the rim of the Eternal Chasm. Though it had been a challenge to get his bearings when he descended, he eventually located the yellow glimmer which marked the abyss. The distinct lack of resistance convinced him his trip to Wisconsin was not in vain. Also, it seemed as if the brimstone might have been in effect—perhaps the tide had turned in his favor.

  Golden light bathed his face and he closed his eyes for a moment, afraid to look over the edge. If the precipice was empty…

  There was nothing to be gained by pondering the worst, so he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and leaned forward. Instant relief flooded through him. Natalie was there, lying on her side, curled toward the chasm wall.

  “Natalie!” he shouted.

  She didn’t move.

  “Hey, Natalie!” He pushed his voice even louder. “It’s Jack. I’m back.”

  Again she didn’t stir.

  Jack frowned. Sure, he’d told her to plug her ears, but bits of cloth or tissue couldn’t be that effective. The blood stain on Natalie’s sleeve had spread to an alarming size, making Jack wonder if she might have fainted from blood loss. That thought was followed by the disturbing recollection that the wound had been made by a shade dagger.

  He needed to rouse her or go down and get her—and do it quickly.

  Rising, he awkwardly gathered a handful of pebbles in his gloved hands and hurried back to the chasm. Aiming carefully, he dropped a stone. It hit the ledge and bounced into the abyss. He tried again. This time he was pretty sure he hit Natalie’s shoe, although she didn’t flinch. He took a deep breath. “She probably just fell asleep,” he mumbled, ignoring the quaver in his voice.