A Superior Death

Once Anna had thought it an affectation. In the year she had known Chris it had persisted to such an extent that she now classified it as, if not a religious taboo, at least a superstition. Molly might well have termed it a neurotic denial of human mortality-but that’s what Molly was paid for. And though Anna believed everything her sister told her on principle, she tended to look askance at the labeling of the less socially ratified personality traits as “illness” and the therapists, quite profitably, as the “cure.”

“Three quarters of a mile and Friday,” she answered cheerfully. Even dark thoughts and tedious practicalities took on a different air when shared.

“Do you have to dive so deep?” Christina asked.

“Yup.”

“Are you scared?”

“Yup.”

“Are you par-ah-noyd?” Ally asked.

“Yup.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chris asked.

“Nope.”

“Nope,” Ally echoed, popping the p so it sounded like a cork coming out of a bottle.

The weather held all day. The water stayed smooth and flat. Inland it would be humid, buggy, but on the water it was cool. The shoreline in McCargo Cove was just warm enough for a little cautious sunbathing. Christina worked on matching her old tan with her new bathing suit and getting through Ryan’s Daughter because Bertie had recommended it. Anna skipped stones, tracked foxes in the sand, and annoyed caddis fly larvae with Ally.

Midafternoon they launched the canoe and paddled back up the long narrow cove. Sailboats moved slowly in McCargo’s protected waters, their sails as colorful and delicate-seeming as butterfly wings. Three miles long and no more than an eighth of a mile wide, McCargo was a favorite anchorage.

Anna planned an early picnic supper at the Birch campsite. Birch was a pretty little island set at the mouth of Brady Cove, a lagoonlike pocket of water off McCargo. From Birch they could watch the boat traffic and, if they got lucky, Anna could show Chris and Ally a moose. Brady Cove, behind the island, was barely six feet deep and moose often came there to browse. Several boaters had reported seeing a cow with twin calves in the past week.

A more prosaic reason was because fires were allowed on Birch. Open fires had been banned at most of Isle Royale’s camps. The areas got so much use, sites had been stripped bare by campers looking for firewood. In places branches and bark had been torn from trees as high as a man could reach. In a year or two fires would probably be banned park-wide. At present Birch was still legal, and Anna wanted a fire for Ally. Marshmallows, the smell of smoke, gathering twigs, being warned half a dozen times a minute by Mom- the core camping experience.

A thin line of smoke drifting out over the water announced that Birch was occupied. Anna couldn’t hide her disappointment. Hot dogs fried over the roaring invisible flame of her Peak 1 would be a poor substitute.

“We’ll eat down by the water,” Chris said. “That way we can see better. Besides, it’s always less buggy on the shore out of the trees.” She knew Anna and Alison had their hearts set on building a campfire. She was trying to make them feel better. They didn’t.

Alison sulked while Anna dragged the canoe up on shore and unloaded it. Anna tried to keep up her end of the day but she felt a childish resentment that her plans had been disrupted. “I’m the ranger,” she said peevishly.

“That and a dollar won’t even get you a cup of coffee here,‘’ Chris returned. She excused herself to find the ”ladies’ room“ and left Anna and Ally sitting with their legs dangling over the edge of the dock, both steadfastly refusing to play the Pollyanna Glad Game.

Anna had just about mustered up the energy to start behaving like an adult, when Christina returned.

“Anybody want to come eat supper by my fire?” she invited.

Anna’s first uncharitable thought was that the fire had been left unattended and she cursed herself for leaving her citation book back on Amygdaloid.

“Two very nice people said we could share.”

Anna’s anger dissolved. Sharing: the obvious solution and one that never would have occurred to her in a thousand years. Following Chris and Alison, she carried the picnic cooler up the trail. The sun was shining again; the clouds she and Ally had been fomenting cleared in an instant. The air smelled of pine and wild lily of the valley, marsh marigolds put their golden heads together along the boardwalk over the swampy areas. Goldthread nodded wisely in the woods.

“It’s like Disneyland,” Ally reported, running ahead.

Alison had never been to Disneyland but Anna knew exactly what she meant. In June, Isle Royale was very like the artist’s conceptions of the forest where Bambi and Snow White spent the bulk of their days. Now and then mosquitoes whined menacingly from the shadows, but their bloodthirsty hum only served to add the spice of reality.

Lugging the cooler, Anna came last into the clearing. From a low branch of a spruce tree two beady black eyes met hers. Oscar the bear was on watch, protecting Birch Island camp. Ally stood on a stump, a black cloak held vampirelike across the lower half of her face. Their hosts were Tinker and Damien.

“How did you guys get here?” Anna asked in surprise. “There’s no boat.”

“Pizza Dave brought us over in the Loon and dropped us off,” Tinker told her. “He was on his way to Thunder Bay on a pizza run.”

Taking an NPS boat forty miles across open water to get pizza: it was a firing offense. Anna liked Dave. She hoped she wouldn’t be the one to catch him. “I see Oscar’s on duty,” she said.

“He’s promised not to offer Ally cigars,” Tinker assured her. Anna eyed the woman narrowly but couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

Before the first marshmallow had melted off the stick and fallen into the ashes, Anna was glad the Fates had seen fit to put them in the way of the Coggins-Clarkes. Ally was completely taken with Damien. For at least a week Christina would be haunted by “Damien said…” and “Damien thinks…”

Tinker showed Anna a dead bat she’d found. Anna had heard the faint whistling of bats’ wings as they cut through the air over the dock at night, but she’d never seen more of them than shadows fleeting over the water. Even Christina was drawn in by Tinker’s knowledge and enthusiasm.

Tinker handled the little animal as if it still lived. Anna thought the creature would get a respectful interment for its unwitting service-probably with an appropriate ritual and a tiny headstone-but after Tinker had studied it she left it high in the crotch of a tree for the scavengers.

For some reason-maybe the eccentric clothes or the childlike love of ritual magic-Anna consistently underestimated the Coggins-Clarkes. There was nothing wrong with their minds.

“That reminds me,” Anna said, speaking to her own thoughts. “Did anyone ever tell you what happened to Donna Butkus?”

“No,” Damien replied and the inflection implied that no one needed to. He and Ally shared a bench at the picnic table. They’d shoved aside all the condiments, and played some gambling game involving pebbles and elbows of dried macaroni. Oscar looked on.

“The Windigo,” Damien intoned.

Mentally, Anna rolled her eyes.

“What’s a Windigo?” Ally demanded.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Damien asked the child.

“A scary one,” Ally insisted.

“I’ll tell the scariest kind of all-the true kind,” he promised.

“I don’t know…” Christina began.

“Please,” Ally begged.

Damien waited. Chris sighed. “The Windigo,” Damien began. With proper flourishes and a creditable French accent, he told Algernon Blackwood’s classic tale of the Windigo, the cannibal spirit who stalked the north woods snatching up unwary travelers and flying them through the air at such incredible speeds their feet were burned