Shakespeare McNair refused to let anyone else be hurt. They were out on the lake at his bidding, their lives imperiled because of his belief the creature posed a threat. Louisa had very nearly drowned, and if the lake beast rammed another of their craft—Shakespeare was not about to let that happen. Suddenly pushing away from the others, he paddled his canoe into the path of the oncoming swell.
“What are you doing?” Nate demanded.
“Carcajou!” Blue Water Woman cried.
Shakespeare ignored them. He swung his canoe broadside to the swell and snatched up one of the harpoons. Rising, he balanced precariously on the balls of his feet and tensed for the throw.
Shakespeare had never been on a whaling vessel, but like most people, he was well aware of the particulars of the trade. The industry had existed since the late 1600s when Nantucket fishermen first began hunting whales for their livelihood. Half a century later, thanks to the valuable oil in their heads, sperm whales became the favorite catch.
Many a youth, inspired by dreams of an exciting life at sea and the big money to be made, yearned to be a whaler. Shakespeare himself caught the whaling fever; for a while he had been torn between his hankering for a life at sea and his yearning to travel west of the Mississippi. As fate would have it, the mountains and the prairie won out over the oceans, but it was a close thing.
Now, with the hissing swell sweeping toward him, Shakespeare prepared to cast his harpoon as a whaler would. He sought in vain to see the animal he had come to slay, but all he could see was a dark shape.
“Carcajou!” Blue Water Woman screamed a second time.
Shakespeare cast the harpoon with all the power in his frame. He was old, but he was far from puny, and he had every hope that could he but pierce its head or body, he could put an end to the thing.
The harpoon flew true. It struck the swell right where Shakespeare wanted it to, at the point where the silhouette suggested the head should be. By rights, the tip should have sheared through the water and cleaved the beast underneath. But it was swept aside. Whether the rushing water deflected it or it glanced off the creature, Shakespeare couldn’t say. He heard his wife shout something, and then the swell slammed into his canoe with the impact of a charging bull buffalo. Shakespeare felt the canoe rise up under him and tip. He threw himself out, or tried to, in an attempt to dive clear. Instead, jarring pain shot up both his legs, and the next thing he knew, he was under the water with a riot of frothing bubbles all around him.
And that was not all.
Shakespeare was aware of the canoe on its side above him, and of the gargantuan shape that had flipped it over. The thing had slowed and was turning.
It was coming back for him.
Levering his arms and legs, Shakespeare rose. He had to swim wide of the canoe, and he was still under the surface when his lower legs were struck a heavy blow. The forced knocked him back and down. Racked with pain, he glanced at his legs—and there it was.
The water devil, the creature, the thing was just below him. It was huge. He was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that it was twenty feet long if it was an inch. Although his lungs were shrieking for air, Shakespeare did not rise. Not yet. Bending, he tried to pierce the gloom, made darker by the shadow of the canoe. Then a glimmer of sunlight penetrated, casting the thing’s silhouette in relief against its watery domain.
It was a fish.
There could be no doubt. Shakespeare saw fins. Front fins and rear fins, a fin on top and possibly on the bottom toward the tail. The tail itself was split in the middle. The top half and the bottom half were not the same size, as in most fish. The top was twice as big and three times as long.
Shakespeare strained his eyes, but he could not tell what kind of fish it was. He started to rise, wondering if it would attack him, when suddenly the giant exploded into motion. But not toward him. It shot down into the depths. Living lightning, it was there one instant, gone the next. The last he saw of it was the sweep of its tail.
Too late, Shakespeare realized he had stayed under too long. His lungs would not be denied. He willed his mouth to stay shut, but his lips parted of their own accord. Cold water gushed into his mouth and nose and down his throat. He gagged and sucked in more water. His movements became strangely sluggish. He could see the surface, so near and yet so far, but he could not reach it. His body would not respond as it should.
Darkness overcame him. Shakespeare’s consciousness dimmed. He felt cold, clear to his marrow.
Then the darkness became total.
She went over the side before anyone could stop her.
They all saw the body, floating limp. Blue Water Woman cried out, “There he is!” and dived. She swam smoothly, despite her knee-length dress, and she had an arm around Shakespeare within seconds.
That was all it took for Nate to bring his canoe over. He grabbed hold of the back of Shakespeare’s shirt and lifted. Zach and Lou moved to make room, but there was not enough and Nate had to lay Shakespeare’s head and shoulders across Lou’s legs.
“Is he—?” Blue Water Woman asked anxiously, treading water.
Nate saw his friend twitch. Putting a hand on Shakespeare’s stomach, he pushed as hard as he could.
Water spewed from Shakespeare’s mouth. Gasping and coughing, he opened his eyes and looked about him in confusion, then calmed.
“Oh, it’s only you, Horatio. For a second there I thought I was being stomped by an angry elk.”
Blue Water Woman clung to the side and peered over at her man. “Are you all right?”
Shakespeare looked toward her, and coughed. “You dived in to save me, didn’t you?”
“It seemed like a good idea.”
“Lordy. I will never hear the end of this one.”
“No, you will not.”
Shakespeare smiled and reached up, and their fingers brushed. “If I have not told you that I love you today, permit me to remedy my oversight.”
“You nearly died.”
“An exaggeration if ever I heard one.” Shakespeare turned to Nate. “This is not going as well as we planned.”
“We must get you to shore.”
“I am fine.”
“We must get Lou to shore,” Nate amended.
Shakespeare blinked. “Oh. Yes, we must. I had forgotten.” He slowly sat up and grinned at his wife. “Are you going to cling there all the way back?”
Winona had brought her canoe in and now offered her arm to Blue Water Woman. “Here, let me help you.”
Presently, their stricken armada was underway.
“Wait!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “What about my canoe?”
Nate pointed.
Only one end was still above water, and it was filling fast. Trailing bubbles, the canoe slowly slipped from sight, leaving concentric ripples to mark the spot.
“There was a hole in it as big as a melon,” Zach said.
“That makes two the fish sent to the bottom,” Shakespeare said. “And after all the work we put into them.”
“We should have made dugouts,” Zach said. “That thing can’t knock a hole in them.”
“We aren’t licked,” Shakespeare said. “We will make more canoes and be back out here in no time.” He looked at Nate, expecting him to say something. “Did you hear me, Horatio?”
“I heard.”
“Fish got your tongue?”
“We will talk about it after we get you and Lou out of those wet clothes and in bed.”
“Since when is a little wet worth so much fuss?” Shakespeare replied. “I am as well as I can be, I tell you.”
“Take it up with your wife when we get back.”
“You fight dirty.” Shakespeare shifted and regarded Louisa. “How about you, young lady? You look pale.”
“I am as fine as you, but my lunkhead of a husband still wants to put me to bed.”