In Darkest Depths

point a golden eagle dived and snared a fish in its great talons, then took wing again, flapping powerfully to gain altitude.

It was the eighth evening after the steeple’s completion. Shakespeare had spent every minute he could on the lookout and not seen any sign of his quarry. He had begun to think that maybe his wife was right and he had gone to a lot of trouble for nothing, that perhaps their sightings of the thing would be no more frequent than before.

Then, as he was sweeping the spyglass from west to east, a tingle of excitement coursed through him.

The wind was still, the lake a mirror, its surface as calm as calm could be. But suddenly, out toward the middle, the water swelled upward as if something were pushing it from below. Shakespeare watched in fascination as the swell moved to the west, leaving broad ripples in its wake.

“I’ve found you, by God!” Shakespeare exclaimed. He waited with bated breath for the thing to show itself, but all he saw was the swell. After sixty or seventy feet it grew smaller and smaller until finally the lake’s surface was as flat and smooth as a mirror again.

“Damn!” Shakespeare grumbled. What were they to do if the thing never showed itself? Some fish, after all, rarely left the depths, and when they did, they never broke the surface, but swam below it where searching eyes could not see them.

Still, Shakespeare was hopeful. He related his sighting to Nate the next day in the steeple as they sat talking over the best way to see the thing up close.

“The only way is to be out on the water when the creature comes up,” Shakespeare said.

“It is too bad you and I do not have a canoe,” Nate remarked. They rarely traveled by water, so he saw no need for one.

“Yes, that is too bad,” Shakespeare agreed, and smiled a devious smile. “But we know someone who does.”

The Nansusequas loved their new home. The tall trees, which had never been scarred by an axe, reminded them of the dense eastern woodland from which they came. The Nansusequa had always dwelled in the deep woods; it was why they called themselves the People of the Forest.

Only five escaped the massacre of their tribe. Wakumassee, the father, and Tihikanima, the mother, and their three children: Degamawaku, their son, who had been seeing a lot of Evelyn King; Tenikawaku, their oldest daughter; and Mikikawaku, their youngest.

The family always wore green. Their buckskins, their blankets, their robes—everything they owned was dyed green out of reverence for the source of the green world in which the Nansusequa lived. That Which Was In All Things, they called it, or simply the Manitoa.

On this particular morning, Wakumassee was outside their Great Lodge mending a fishing net when a clatter of hooves heralded the arrival of Shakespeare McNair on his white mare.

Waku beamed and put down the net to greet his visitor. He owed Nate King and McNair a debt impossible to repay. They had taken his family in when all was lost. They had permitted him and his loved ones to stay in the valley, safe from the whites who had slaughtered the rest of their kind.

“Welcome, friend!” Waku said. His English was not all that good, but he was working hard to master the tongue.

“Men of peace, well encountered!” Shakespeare declared, and warmly clapped him on the shoulders.

“Eh?” Wakumassee tried to sort out the words to make sense of the meaning. McNair was forever saying things that confused him. He had mentioned it once to Nate King and Nate had laughed and said not to worry, that NcNair said a lot of things that confused him, too.

“A hearty good morning to you, sirrah,” Shakespeare elaborated. He regarded the net with interest. “I say. I didn’t know you had one of those.”

“We like to fish,” Waku responded, proud he had said it as it should be said.

“I thought you were hunters.”

“Hunt too,” Waku said. He gestured to the east. “We fish much in rivers.” He paused. “I say that right?”

“Close enough.” Shakespeare squatted, set down his Hawken, gripped the net in both hands, and tugged. “This is strong enough to hold a buffalo. What is it made of?”

“Plant,” Waku said. “Not know white name.”

“That’s all right.” Chuckling, Shakespeare said, “Ask and you shall receive.”

“Pardon?” Waku had learned that was the word to use when he was puzzled, and around McNair he was puzzled a lot.

“I have come to ask a favor.” Shakespeare glanced at the net. “Actually, two favors.”

“What I can do, I will,” Waku said.

“Maybe you should hear me out,” Shakespeare suggested. “It could be you don’t want to.”

Waku put his hand on McNair’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “You and Nate King save us. You much kind. Give us new home. Give me hope.” He struggled to find the right words. “I always your friend. Any help I can be, I do for you.”

“I thank you,” Shakespeare said. “I take it you have heard about my Holy Grail?”

“Pardon?”

“Perseus had the Gorgon. Theseus fought the Minotaur. St. George went up against a dragon. And now I am about to pit myself against the demon of the depths.”

“Pardon?” Waku said again. He had been confused before but never this confused.

“Ah. Then you haven’t heard. No matter.” Shakespeare indicated the net. “I wonder if I might borrow that. It appears to be more than big enough for my purpose.”

“Yes. Take. All I have be yours,” Waku said. “You want catch fish?”

“I don’t know what it is I want to catch, but I know I want to catch it, and once I catch it I will know what it is.”

“Ah.” Waku said, but he had no idea what the white-haired white was going on about.

“I would also like to borrow that,” Shakespeare said, and pointed.

“Our canoe?”

“Yes.” Shakespeare led the way over to the side of the Great Lodge, where the canoe sat ready to be carried to the water. Unlike the mountain tribes, who fashioned their canoes from hides or bark molded over wooden frames, the Nansusequa made their canoes using a single large log. They chipped out the center and sanded and smoothed the entire craft. The resultant dugout, while heavy and ponderous, was next to unsinkable.

“Take it,” Waku said.

“I don’t need the canoe right this minute,” Shakespeare explained. “It might be tomorrow, it might be next week, but sooner or later I will, and I wanted to get your permission in advance.”

“Take any time.”

Shakespeare took Waku’s hand in his. “I thank you, Wakumassee.’ Tis sweet and commendable in your nature to be so generous.” He bent and lowered his voice. “One thing more, and it is important. Our arrangement is to be our little secret.”

“Secret?” Waku repeated, trying to remember what the word meant.

“Yes. You are not to tell a soul.”

“Not tell Nate?”

“No. He has a leaky mouth and is bound to mention it to his wife, who will run to mine to inform on me.”

“You not want your wife find out?”

“Her most of all,” Shakespeare said. “The Gorgon and the Minotaur were as kittens compared to her, and as for the dragon, it would call her sister.”

“I not understand. But I do as you want.”

Shakespeare gazed at the lake. “O monstrous beast,” he quoted, “I am ready for you. Pit your wits against mine, and may the loser lead apes in hell!”