“Possible,” Nate said.
“Probable,” Shakespeare amended. “But what kind of fish? Fish near the surface or fish down deep?”
“Mostly down deep,” Nate reasoned, “or we would see it near the surface more than we do.”
“Good point, Horatio. So if it spends most of its time down in the depths, how are we to lure it up?”
Nate shrugged. “I am open to ideas.”
“I wish I had one.”
“All this talk is getting us nowhere,” Nate said. He stood, gave the spyglass to Shakespeare, and moved toward the stairs. “I’d better get home. Winona will have supper on soon and she does not like it when I am late.”
“Off you go, then,” Shakespeare said. “Be careful not to trip over the ball and chain on your way down.” He raised the spyglass to his right eye and the water came into sharp focus. Sweeping it from one end of the lake to the other, he said to himself, “Where are you, beastie? We will make you some sport if only you will show yourself.”
But all Shakespeare saw was water and more water, and ducks and geese and sundry waterfowl swimming or floating or taking wing or landing. In his disgust at this state of affairs, he watched several mallards. The spyglass made it seem as if he could reach out and touch them. A male caught his interest. It was quacking up a storm. Why, he could not imagine, since the lake was as tranquil as nature allowed.
The mallard’s yellow beak, the brilliant green plumage on the head, the deep chestnut brown of the front of the body, all were brought out in vivid relief by the bright rays of the setting sun.
Then suddenly the mallard was gone.
Shakespeare blinked, not sure what he had seen. One instant it had been there, quacking like crazy, the next it had disappeared under the surface. It did not dive. It did not sink. It shot straight down as if wrenched from below. He kept the telescope trained on the spot, thinking the mallard would reappear. It did not.
“There are more things in heaven and earth…” Shakespeare began, but he did not finish the quote. He was studying the other mallards. Most had taken wing. One female was paddling around and around near where the male had vanished. The male’s mate, Shakespeare reckoned, and was touched by her devotion. Evidently ducks were not strangers to the noblest of all emotions.
Presently, the female took flight as well. But Shakespeare flattered himself that he detected a certain reluctance in her movements.
By then the sun had set, and gray twilight was spreading like a fog across the water.
Shakespeare lowered the spyglass and scratched his snowy beard. “I wonder,” he said.
The next morning, the sun had not yet risen when Shakespeare climbed to the steeple. He was bundled in a heavy buffalo robe against the chill. At that altitude, even in summer, the nights could be downright cold. He had left Blue Water Woman asleep in bed. Waking her would only result in more criticism of his quest, and Shakespeare could do without that. Besides, she would be up in half an hour.
The lake lay quiet under the last of the starlight. As with most living things at that hour, the geese and ducks were silent. It was so still that a splash somewhere well out on the lake lent Shakespeare hope that at least one creature was abroad.
“Show yourself today, consarn you,” Shakespeare said to the empty air. “I defy you to prove yourself in the great heap of my knowledge.”
A pink blush soon tinged the eastern horizon. On land the songbirds roused in avian chorus. Out on the water the ducks and geese stirred, their cries adding to the racket.
As soon as it was light enough, Shakespeare surveyed the lake from east to west and north to south. He saw no sign of the creature.
Indulging a hunch, he concentrated on the water birds. The variety would excite a naturalist. Of ducks alone, in addition to the mallards there were buffleheads, mergansers, and goldeneyes. There were teals and grebes and coots. A few storks had shown up. Swans were conspicuous by their grace and beauty. A flock of Canadian geese were sticking close together. A killdeer had waded a short way out from shore and was giving itself a bath.
Shakespeare smiled. God, how he loved the wilderness. He could never live anywhere else, not once he had supped at the feast of nature’s table and tasted of nature’s many delights.
So many feathered fowl were cavorting about that Shakespeare could not make up his mind which to watch. The mallards were closer to shore than they had been the night before, and he suspected that if the thing in lake came out of the deep to partake of its breakfast, it would do so farther out.
A group of green-winged teal, with their cinnamon-red heads and rainbow-hued plumage, seemed as likely as any others, and were near the area where the male mallard had disappeared the night before. Shakespeare counted twelve, six males and six females, floating serenely.
The rising sun lent a golden glow to the lake. The light became so bright that Shakespeare had to squint against the glare. He saw the teal bob up and down on the waves, then realized, with a start of surprise, that there was no wind to speak of and the lake was virtually undisturbed. There should not be any waves.
That was when he saw it.
Something—it could well have been a giant mouth—came up out of the water and in the blink of an eye closed on one of the male teal. Before the bird could so much as lift a wing, it was swallowed whole. The rest of the teal took immediate panicked wing.
His body taut, Shakespeare raked the spot for further sign, but the thing did not reappear. After a while he stopped and leaned back with a smile. “So. Our water devil likes water fowl. Interesting.”
At last Shakespeare had a tidbit of information he could use. The question was, how to use it best? He had an idea, but to put it into effect he would need Waku’s canoe.
He watched the lake for another half an hour, then went down the stairs and around the cabin to the front door. The aromas that greeted him as he opened the door caused his belly to growl. “Good morning, one I love,” he said cheerfully as he entered.
Blue Water Woman was fixing eggs with strips of fried venison and toast. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “What is so good about it?”
Shakespeare sank into his chair and stretched his legs. “Can’t a man say good morning to the other half of his heart without her being suspicious?”
“I know that tone and that look,” Blue Water Woman said. “You are up to something.”
“Perish forbid,” Shakespeare said. “I live but to please you and wait on your every whim.”
“What is the white expression?” Blue Water Woman pretended to try and remember. Suddenly she rounded on him, shaking a large wooden spoon. “You are full of it.”
“Such language, madam,” Shakespeare declared. “I am shocked.”
“What new silliness have you cooked up?”
Shakespeare sniffed and quoted, “Were I like thee, I would throw myself away.”
“Were I like you, I would need a keeper,” Blue Water Woman held her own.
“Say what you will. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.”
“So you are up to something,” Blue Water Woman said. “And I think I know what it is.”
“I say thee, ha,” Shakespeare said smugly.
“I was talking to Tihikanima yesterday. She says you paid her husband a visit.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Strange that you never mentioned it to me. I asked her what you and Waku talked about and she said that Waku would not tell her.”
“Good for him!” Shakespeare declared. “A man with backbone is worth his weight in wildcats.”
“Waku also said that none of them were to use their canoe unless they checked with him first, since you might have need of it on short notice.”