The rope twitched.
Shakespeare braced himself, and it was well he did. The rope tightened and the dugout flew forward. Shakespeare hoped it was a dying spurt of energy. Sometimes, at the very last, animals marshaled their strength for a final effort. If not, if the creature’s vitality was undiminished, he was no better off than when he first hooked the thing, which did not bode well for the outcome.
He kept watch for logs, but the fog was so thick he would not see one until he smashed into it. Then something appeared ahead of them. Something low in the water. Shakespeare braced for the worst. There was a thump and a crunch and a squawk that might have come from a goose. He looked back and thought he glimpsed the stricken bird flapping about.
Another thump and another crunch, and this time Shakespeare saw a dead goose pass under the bow. The dugout was plowing through a flock. “Get out of the way!” he shouted. “Take to the air!” Another crunch and another goose flapped and thrashed.
Suddenly the craft gave one of its violent lurches and was off in a whole new direction.
Shakespeare had given up trying to figure out where on the lake he was. To try was pointless until the fog dissipated.
With surprising abruptness, the fish stopped. The dugout was brought to a halt by the rope.
Now what? Shakespeare wondered. He waited a bit, then opened the parfleche and treated himself to another piece of pemmican.
The fog was growing darker. A new gust brought the scent of water, but that could just be the scent of the lake. Wishful thinking, it turned out.
Off in the distance thunder boomed.
Shakespeare swore. A storm was bad enough; a thunderstorm was a calamity. The deluge would fill the dugout, and he had nothing to bail with other than his hands.
As if the fish had heard, or maybe it was coincidence, the rope snapped taut and the dugout burst into motion. But it did not hurtle forward. The bow dipped and the stern rose off the water and Shakespeare had to grab the sides or be thrown out.
The fish was trying to dive! It wanted to go deeper and was trying to pull the canoe down after it. For a few uneasy moments Shakespeare imagined it succeeding, imagined being pitched into the water as the canoe vanished under the surface.
“No, by God!” Shakespeare clawed for his knife. He must cut the rope whether he wanted to or not. He bent, the blade inches from the hemp, when the rope went slack and the stern smacked down. Shakespeare landed hard on the paddles and harpoons, and agony coursed up his spine. Grunting, he tried to sit up just as the canoe surged forward.
Shakespeare was thrown against the side. He grunted again at a prick in his ribs. The prick was replaced by sharp pain, and looking down, he saw why. He had stabbed himself. Not deeply, but deep enough to draw blood.
Shakespeare indulged in more curses. He yanked the knife out and more blood flowed. “Damn me for a fool.” Pressing his hand to the wound, he stanched the flow. But the dark stain on his shirt was not encouraging.
“Of all the stupid—” Shakespeare began. Another boom of thunder, closer than before, reminded him the rope still had to be cut. He pushed up onto his knees. Bracing himself, he slashed at it, but the dugout bounced and his stroke missed.
Wind buffeted his buckskins, a prelude to the riotous weather to come. He raised the knife again.
With a banshee shriek, the storm broke. Sheets of driving rain pummeled him. It was like having a bottomless bucket of water thrown in his face. He blinked to clear his vision but could not see the end of his arm. Again he bent toward the rope, but a blast of wind slammed into him, stripping his breath and plastering his soaked buckskins to his body. A cold wind stung his skin and brought shivers.
Everything had gone to hell. Shakespeare’s sole desire now was to survive. He groped for the rope and was thrown against the side when the canoe spun like a child’s top. The fish was swimming in small circles. Shakespeare clung to the gunwale as nausea flooded through him, either from the spinning, or his wound, or both.
Water spilled in over the side. The waves were rising. Normally so serene, the lake was being churned into a maelstrom.
Between the wind and the rain, Shakespeare could scarely breathe. Gasping for air, he dropped onto his belly and felt about. He found the rope. This time nothing would stop him. But as he brought the knife up, the rope went slack and the spinning slowed.
A clap of thunder made his ears ring.
Shakespeare pulled on the rope and it stayed slack. Maybe the fish at long last had pulled loose.
The wind nearly snapped his head back. He looked up just as lightning rent the heavens and lit the sky. The fog was almost gone, whipped away by the fury of the tempest.
Shakespeare’s heart sank.
The lake itself had been transformed into a monster. The water writhed and surged as if alive. White caps peaked the waves much as snow peaked the mountains, only these mountains were moving. As he looked on, a wave heaved up into a watery fist and smashed down over the dugout, knocking him flat.
Shakespeare had run out of time. He gripped the slack rope in his free hand and held it so he could cut it. A premonition made him look up just as another wave came crashing over the gunwale. Again he was knocked flat. The canoe tilted and settled back, water covering the bottom.
Shakespeare got to his knees, puzzled by a strange tightness around his left forearm. He tried to move his arm but couldn’t. A flash of lightning revealed why. Somehow the slack rope had looped around his wrist. He twisted his arm, but the rope would not slide off. He tugged, but that only made the rope tighten.
“Damn it.” Shakespeare let go of his knife and grabbed the rope to unwind it. Without any warning the rope went rigid, as it always did when the fish was about to move again. “No!” he shouted.
Jerked off balance, Shakespeare slammed down hard. His wrist, his whole arm, felt fit to be torn off. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The canoe was picking up speed, and the faster it went, the more pain he felt.
This was bad. This was very bad. Shakespeare tried to get to his knees but was yanked down. The rope was digging so deep into his flesh, his fingers were going numb.
Shakespeare rolled onto his side to try to get some slack in the rope. He did, for all of two seconds. He pried at it with his other hand but could not free his wrist.
The dugout hurtled headlong through the storm-tossed waters as lightning crackled and thunder crashed. Shakespeare managed to get to one knee and saw the knife at his feet. He reached for it just as the largest wave yet reared up out of the lake and curled above his head.
Tempest Fury
A ton of water smashed down. Shakespeare’s temple struck the bottom of the dugout, and for a few harrowing instants he feared he would pass out again. A black veil nipped at him, and his stomach tried to climb up out of his throat. Only by force of will was he able to stay conscious and shove his stomach back down where it belonged.
His wrist was in torment. The rope was a vise, the other end lost in the darkling realm under the canoe. He groped for his knife, but it was not where he had seen it last. Frantic, he cast about, but it was not to be found. Washed over the side, most likely.
Then Shakespeare remembered the harpoons. Grabbing one a few inches below the tip, he commenced sawing at the rope. The tip was not as sharp as his knife, but it would suffice.
The canoe kept swaying and bouncing, and he was handicapped by having to use one hand.
Wet drops spattered him, multiplying rapidly. Another cannonade of thunder heralded the unleashing of the deluge in all its elemental fury.