In Darkest Depths

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