In Darkest Depths

down the barrel a number of times.

Opening his powder horn, Shakespeare carefully upended it over his palm. Powder trickled out. Some was wet and some was not. He cast it over the side. He poured another handful and cast that over the side. A third handful had enough dry grains to suit him.

Shakespeare reloaded. Sliding the ramrod from its housing, he tamped a ball down the barrel. Since all his patches were soaked, he did without. The pistol should fire. He just needed to wait until the fish was right on top of him.

Waiting. That was the key. Shakespeare scanned the surface in all directions, fervently hoping the fish would come back. The minutes dragged, and he was about convinced it wouldn’t, when forty yards out the swell reappeared, rising until it was a foot high. As before, the fish circled the dugout.

Shakespeare extended the flintlock but he did not shoot. Wait, he told himself. Wait, wait, wait. As the fish had done the last time, the circles were narrowing. From forty yards to thirty-five and from thirty-five to thirty. At twenty yards Shakespeare fidgeted with excitement. At ten yards his palms were sweating.

Keep coming! Shakespeare mentally shouted. Another circle or two and it would be close enough. He thumbed back the hammer.

The next time the fish swept past, it was only five yards out.

Shakespeare intended to shoot it in the head. The only other way was the heart, and he could not be sure of hitting it. As huge as the creature was, the ball might not even penetrate far enough to reach it.

Another circle, and now the fish was only four yards from Shakespeare when the swell hissed by.

Shakespeare did not move. He remembered the time he squatted motionless for over two hours when he was after a bighorn. Compared to that, this was nothing. He sighted down the barrel and grinned when the swell filled his vision.

Only three yards out.

Then two.

Shakespeare licked his lips, but he had no spit to wet them with. His mouth was dry. He held the flintlock with both hands to steady it.

Only a yard separated the dugout from the swell as the fish coursed by for what would be the next to last time.

Shakespeare leaned down so the flintlock was practically touching the water. He shifted, eyes glued to the end of the canoe where the fish would reappear. Inwardly, he ticked off the seconds: one, two, three, four, five. The swell swept into sight and hissed toward him. This time the fish was practically rubbing the canoe.

Shakespeare had it dead to rights. His elbows locked, he held his breath and lightly curled his finger around the trigger. He was primed to fire.

Then the unexpected happened.

The swell slowed and split down the middle as a pea pod might split, revealing peas of a different sort: the creature’s eyes. Its head rose into plain sight, and those eyes, a pair of golden peas with black in their centers, gazed up at Shakespeare. Their eyes met.

Shakespeare gasped. His whole body trembled.

The fish had stopped and was floating there, staring. It made no attempt to attack.

“No!” Shakespeare said softly.

With an almost casual sweep of its powerful tail, the fish dived.

Shakespeare stared at the bubbles that marked its descent. He lowered the pistol and slowly let down the hammer.

Confused, doubting he had seen what he thought he saw, Shakespeare bowed his head. He sat perfectly still for the longest while. Finally, seemingly apropos of nothing, he remarked out loud, “As God is my witness, I would never have guessed.”

The lake was still, the waterfowl momentarily silent. Shakespeare surveyed the blue expanse and shuddered. But not because he was still damp and the breeze was brisk. He said, “What do I do now?”

He held up the pistol and laughed. Wedging it under his belt, he swiveled onto his belly and slowly dipped his feet and legs into the water until he was half in and half out. Reaching down to grip the sides, he began kicking.

The dugout moved at a crawl, but it moved. Shakespeare reckoned it would take him the rest of the day and the better part of the night to reach land, but by God, reach it he would.

Shakespeare chuckled. A great weight had been taken off his shoulders. He sought a suitable quote to mark the occasion, but for the first time in a coon’s age, he could not come up with one.

Several teal swam near and Shakespeare smiled and waved to them. “Wonderful,” he muttered as he lowered his hand. “I am behaving like a perfect idiot.”

His cold leg muscles were protesting and his hips were hurting, but Shakespeare ignored the pain and went on kicking. He wanted solid ground under him, wanted it more than he had just about ever wanted anything. He promised himself that if he made it back, he would fight shy of canoes for the rest of his born days. He thought of what he had almost done, and unbidden, a quote tripped from his tongue: “O monstrous arrogance. Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble, thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail, thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!”

He was not talking about the fish.

He was talking about himself.

A sustained hiss drew Shakespeare’s attention to the return of the swell some sixty feet out.

“You again! I have made my peace! Leave me be! Don’t remind an old man of his folly.”

But the swell grew. It started to circle and then swung slowly toward the dugout.

“What the devil!” Shakespeare hollered. “Go eat a duck, damn you!” Expecting the swell to swerve, he made no attempt to push clear.

But the swell didn’t swerve. It bore down on the canoe, rapidly gaining speed.

Appalled by the enormity of his mistake, Shakespeare shook a fist in the air. “Don’t you dare! Do you hear me? Don’t you dare!”

The swell kept on coming.

Aquatic Cavalry

The canoes were gone.

Nate King stood at the spot they should be, consternation flooding through him. Any hope he had of finding Shakespeare quickly had been shredded. The hurricane-force winds had sent the canoes out onto the lake, where the waves had carried them off or sunk them. But the storm was not entirely to blame. Part of the fault was his. He should have come back when the storm first hit and dragged them higher.

Hoping against hope, Nate scoured the lake, but all he saw were geese and ducks and gulls.

Nate had to get out there. He racked his brain for an idea. Building a new canoe would take too long. But there was something else he could build, something that would only take a couple of hours. With a little luck, he could complete it before the women returned and demanded to go with him.

Turning, Nate raced for his cabin. He saddled his bay and led it from the corral. Then he collected his axe and all the rope he had, climbed on, and galloped toward the woods. He knew right where to find a stand of slim pines ideal for his purpose. Bigger trees would provide bigger logs and be safer, but felling and trimming them would take most of the day.

Rolling up his sleeves, Nate gripped the heavy axe and went to work. He swung with steady, practiced strokes, the axe biting deep. After each tree toppled, he removed the branches and shoots. He worked as fast as he could, but worry made his frantic pace seem much too slow.

Four trees were down and Nate was chopping a fifth when a feeling came over him that he was being