Safe, Shakespeare somberly reflected. The notion was laughable. He was anything but.
The bow slid under the surface and went on sinking. With a start, Shakespeare realized the fish might pull the dugout under. He had one recourse: he must cut the rope. His hand flew to the sheath at his hip and he started to draw his knife. But his fingers had barely gripped the hilt when the canoe gave the most violent lurch yet. He was propelled forward. Flinging out his arms, he kept from smashing into the lantern, but his forehead hit the side. It was like being kicked by a mule.
Pain exploded, Shakespeare’s vision spun, and his gut was wrenched by invisible fingers. He struggled to sit up, but his body would not do as he wanted. “No!” he cried, and got his hands under him.
Inner blackness swallowed all there was left to swallow.
Ordeal
Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and thought he was dead. He was floating in a misty cloud. Pale grayish wisps hung in the air in front of him, writhing like ethereal serpents. He reached up to touch one and it dissolved at his touch.
The mist was everywhere; above him, below him, around him, a vaporous cocoon his vision could not penetrate.
Shakespeare had never been sure how the afterlife would be, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. A lot of folks were certain they knew: heaven would have pearly gates and great white mansions and winged angels singing in celestial choirs; hell would be fire and brimstone and unending torment. It was Shakespeare’s view that it was presumptuous to anticipate the Almighty; he would find out when he got there. Wherever there turned out to be.
Then pain racked his head, and when he gave a start, his elbow bumped wood. In the distance a gull shrieked.
Shakespeare came back to his senses. He was not floating in a cloud; he was floating in the dugout. He had not died; he had been knocked unconscious. The mist was not heavenly vapor; it was fog.
Disgusted with himself, Shakespeare sat up. He was surprised to see that the lantern had gone out. It had enough fuel to burns for hours. He glanced skyward but could not see for the fog. But judging by the raucous shrieks of the gulls and the quacks of ducks and cries of other fowl, the new day had dawned. He had been out all night.
Shakespeare went to turn and the pain grew worse. Gringerly, he touched his brow. He had a nasty gash and was caked with dried blood. “This is a piece of malice,” he quoted to the wispy tendrils.
McNair took stock. The dugout was intact and afloat, the paddles and harpoons and his rifle and parfleche were still lying on the bottom. Other than the gash, he was fine. There was no reason to head for shore.
Leaning over the side, Shakespeare dipped his hand in the water and splashed some on his face and neck. As cold as ice, it helped revitalize him. He picked up the pistol he had dropped and tucked the flintlock under his wide leather belt.
The rope lay limp next to him. Either it had snapped or the fish had come loose of the grappling iron and gone on its way.
“If I did not have bad luck, I would not have any luck at all,” Shakespeare groused. He gripped the rope to pull it up and suddenly it came alive in his hands. Instantly the canoe leaped forward, and the paddle he had tied the rope to started to rise. Lunging, he got his legs on top of it and bore down with all his weight.
The canoe moved faster.
Shakespeare bent over the side to peer into the water, but he could not see for the fog. A hiss fell on his ears.
“You blunt monster, with uncounted heads,” Shakespeare quoted. “All the whole heap must die.”
As last night, so now: the dugout bounced violently, the bow rising and falling as if it were a flat stone skimming the surface. The fish must not be swimming in a straight line but in an undulating fashion, rising up and going down, over and over. Why it would do that was beyond him. But it vindicated his decision to use the dugout and not a bark canoe. By now, the bark craft would have been shattered to bits and pieces.
Shakespeare put his hand on the bundled net. His plan still might succeed. Tire the fish, draw it to the surface, and slay it with a harpoon, either outright, or if he could not get a good cast, then get the net over it and pull it close enough to thrust a harpoon clean through the beast. “Malignant thing!” he quoted. “By my hand, I’ll turn my mercy out of doors, and make a stock fish of thee!”
The canoe gave a wild lurch as it changed direction. Shakespeare grabbed the side. He winced as the paddle nearly came out from under him, smacking his shin hard.
Shakespeare wished he could tell where they were. They might be close to land, and a shout would bring his wife and friends to his aid. But no. He refused to call for help. He’d gotten himself into this predicament; he would prevail without imposing on them. Yes, he was being stubborn. He was succumbing to the sin of pride. But he could not help it. He was acting on his belief that it was in their best interest to dispose of the thing before it disposed of one of them.
The rope abruptly went slack and the dugout coasted to a stop. Shakespeare peered over the side again, but he might as well try to see through mud. The damnable fog foiled him. He was tempted to tug on the rope, but didn’t. It might provoke the fish into another mad run.
The minutes dragged. The fish was content to remain still. Shakespeare splashed more water on his head, which had taken to throbbing, then opened his parfleche and took out a bundle of pemmican Blue Water Woman had made. A mix of finely ground deer meat, fat, and chokecherries, it was just about his favorite food in all the world. He munched and mulled over his dilemma. Or should he say, the fish’s dilemma. He had caught it. It could not shake loose the grappling iron. Eventually it would tire and be at his mercy. All he had to do was wait.
But for all his years, Shakespeare had never been the most patient of men. He could not stand to sit still when he could be doing something. In this instance, as soon as he finished another piece of pemmican, he made sure the parfelche was snug in the stern, then wrapped his hands around the rope and pulled. He wanted to provoke it. He wanted another underwater sprint and more after that, to exhaust the fish that much sooner.
But nothing happened. The rope did not snap rigid. The dugout did not move.
Shakespeare tugged harder. His first thought was that the fish had slipped free, but no, if that were the case, the rope would be slack. The fish was still caught. It must be resting.
“I have you, but you do not know it.” Shakespeare smiled. By the end of the day he would have a surprise for his doubting Thomas of a wife and his best friend. The canoe shook, but not from the fish. The wind was stirring the lake and creating small waves.
Shakespeare had hoped the fog would soon disperse, but if anything it became thicker. What pale light there was began to fade, which told him the sun was being blotted out by clouds.
It could be that the storm he had been expecting was about to break.
The dugout had withstood battering by the beast, but battering by a tempest would be more than it could endure. It would be swamped and capsize, leaving Shakespeare at the pitiless mercy of the elements.
He had a decision to make. He could stay and continue his battle with the fish, or he could cut the rope and make for land, and safety. Craning his neck, he probed the fog above, seeking a break, looking for sign of thunderheads. But all he saw was fog.
Shakespeare shook his head. He had seen it through this far. He would stay and hope he was wrong about the storm.
A faint shout reached him. It sounded like someone calling his name. He did not answer. It was inevitable they would search for him, but he was determined to go it alone. Bad enough he had nearly cost Lou her life. He would not endanger anyone else.