In Darkest Depths

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.

He was alive, though, and that was the important thing. Smiling, he sat up, pleased to find he had feeling again in his left forearm. His wrist hurt where the rope had dug into his skin, but his fingers wriggled as they should. Both pistols were still tucked tight under his belt, but the soaking had rendered them useless. His ammunition pouch, powder-horn, and possibles bag had likewise been under water.

Shakespeare sought some sign of land. All he saw was water and more water. Overhead, a gull screeched. Glancing up, he said in jest, “Fetch help, will you?”

Something brushed his left foot.

Shakespeare peered into the water, but it was like peering into a mirror. He saw his reflection, not whatever had brushed against him. He moved his legs back and forth, but it was gone.

A fish, Shakespeare thought. A small fish. Nothing for him to worry about. His first priority was to right the dugout. To that end, he slid off and tread water and put his hands under the canoe. He figured it would be easy to flip over, but when he tried he could only lift it half a foot or so. It was just too heavy. On land he might be able to, but not in the water.

Shakespeare sighed. Here he’d thought his luck had turned. He slid his arms farther under the canoe and bunched his shoulder muscles for all he was worth, but all he did was set his gash to throbbing.

Shivering from the cold, Shakespeare reached up to pull himself out of the water. But the smooth hull defied his grasp. The Nansusequa had stripped the bark, and the hull was as smooth as glass. He had nothing to hold on to.

“When it rains, it pours,” Shakespeare muttered. He had to get out of the water. The longer he was in it, the colder he would become. He might become so cold he could barely move, and once that happened, it was a slow sink to the bottom, and oblivion.

“If I ever go out on this lake again, someone should shoot me,” Shakespeare said to the canoe. He refused to give up. Moving to the near end, he extended both arms and tried to wriggle and shimmy his way higher. His soaked buckskins were so slick that twice he slipped back, but at length he had half his body on the dugout. All it would take was for him to swing a leg up.

Then something brushed against his foot. Again. Shakespeare glanced down. There could be no mistake. It was not his imagination. “Surely not,” he said.

As if in answer, ten yards away a swell rose. A small one, but since the wind had died, it could only be caused by one thing.

Shakespeare scrambled higher and slipped back. He tried again and again, and each time it was the same. The whole time, the swell circled the canoe, coming closer with each pass. It was within six feet when desperation lent him extra strength. He got a leg up out of the water. That was all the extra leverage he needed.

Prone on the overturned dugout, Shakespeare watched the swell go around and around. “What are you up to, devil fish?” To reach him it would have to show itself; he half hoped it would. One look. One good look was all he wanted.

The hiss of the swell again reminded Shakespeare of the hiss of a snake. He considered using a flintlock, but his pistols were so waterlogged they would surely misfire. He turned his head in time to see the swell slow and fade as its source sank. But the fish did not dive. It hovered just below the surface. Shakespeare had the impression it was studying him even as he was trying to study it. He prodded his memory, but he had never heard of a fish that behaved like this one. None in his personal experience, either, unless he counted the time a bass paced the bull boat he was in.

“What do you want, damn you?” Shakespeare asked the great shadowy bulk. His life, most likely. But the fish would have to work for it. He was too fond of living to give up without a struggle.

Shakespeare rested his cheek on his hand. The fish could float there all day. He needed to get to land and out of his wet buckskins. “Come closer so I can shoot you.”

As if it had heard, the fish swam nearer.

Shakespeare strained his eyes trying to make out details. The thing was so close he could almost reach down and touch it, and all he saw was shadow. Impulsively, he flung out a hand, and the shadow moved back out of reach.

“You are toying with me, damn you.”

Suddenly the shadow erupted into motion, making another circuit of the canoe.

Taking a gamble, Shakespeare slid further down and clutched at the swell. He could not quite reach it.

Determined not to be thwarted, Shakespeare eased lower still and held his arm a few inches above the surface. The swell reappeared, sweeping around the other end of the canoe, and he smiled. He had outfoxed the finny so-and-so. Spreading his fingers, he thrust them at the onrushing water. In a twinkling his hand was immersed and he flailed about for a solid body, but all he felt was water. “Impossible!” he bellowed.

Not if the fish had dived just as he reached for it. Shakespeare had forgotten how ungodly quick the thing was. Despite its size, it was aquatic quicksilver.

The surface was once again smooth and serene.

Shakespeare clambered back up. He was tired of the cat and mouse. Most especially, he was tired of being the mouse. It was high time he used the one advantage he had over the fish: his mind. Used it right, since so far the fish had gotten the better of him at every turn. “No more,” he vowed.

Shakespeare drew one of his flintlocks, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. As he expected, there was a click and nothing more. A misfire, thanks to the soaking he’d taken.

One eye on the lake, Shakespeare cleaned the weapon as best he was able, given that he did not have a dry cloth to work with. He used his sleeve to wipe the pan clean of the wet powder, then puffed to dry it, and blew