Shakespeare focused on the rope and only the rope. The fish had slowed, but that might be temporary, and it was entirely possible that its next burst of speed might yank him clear out of the canoe or tear his arm clean off.
With the storm roaring around him, Shakespeare sliced at strand after strand. Time seemed to slow. A result of the knock on the head, he reckoned. Or was there more to it? Shakespeare would be the first to admit that he was not getting any younger. He liked to joke about his creaking joints and aching muscles, but the truth was, they did creak and ache. Remarkable though his stamina and strength were for his age, he was not the man he used to be. The thought broke his concentration. He had never truly regarded himself as old before, but maybe it was time he started. He had limits, and the smart thing to do was to respect those limits and not go traipsing out on a lake after a creature more formidable, in its way, than a grizzly or a buffalo.
Shakespeare resumed slicing. He had lost all feeling from his fingertips to his wrist, and now the numbness was spreading higher. He prayed to God he would not lose the hand. “I have grown rather attached to it,” he said, and chuckled at his warped humor.
Shakespeare sliced as fast as he could, given how awkward it was to handle the harpoon with one hand. The canoe rocked without cease, threatening to upend him. Do it, damn you! he mentally shouted. So what if you are old? Think of your wife and think of your friends and do it!
As if in answer, the rope severed, and the end that trailed over the gunwale went sliding over the edge and was gone.
Wincing at the agony, Shakespeare unwound the loop from his wrist. He wriggled his fingers, or tried to, to help restore his circulation, which only made the pain worse.
Unexpectedly, the canoe pitched, throwing him onto his good arm. Thinking the fish might be to blame, Shakespeare looked up—and gaped in astonishment.
The world had gone mad. Writhing black clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon, broken by vivid jagged bolts. The rumble and boom of thunder was continuous. One bolt, quite near, sizzled the air with a sound like that of frying bacon and struck something on the lake in a brilliant flash. The rain was Noah’s flood all over again. But the wind was the worst; it howled and screeched and churned the water into convulsions. It was the wind that gave birth to increasingly larger waves. The lake, once so tranquil, was in upheaval.
A wave caught the dugout and lifted it into the air, only to bring it smashing down with a jolt that jarred Shakespeare to his marrow. He had never seen the lake like this. It was just his luck—or lack of it—that he should be out in the canoe when the storm of the century swept in.
The fish was of no consequence now. All that mattered was surviving, staying alive so he could hold Blue Water Woman in his arms once again. So what if she would tease him with an endless litany of “I told you so”? She had been right and he had been wrong, and he was man enough to admit it.
Special moments rose unbidden in his memory. The first time he set eyes on her and was dazzled by her beauty; the deep, special love that blossomed; the giddy delight of taking her into his arms, and their first kiss. Lord, how he adored that woman! To think that he might lose her, or she him, because he had been too pigheaded to listen!
Another wave raised the dugout. Shakespeare braced himself as one side dipped lower than the other, using his good hand and his knees to keep from being catapulted out. He succeeded, but at the height of the wave, when he did not dare let go, his Hawken and one of the harpoons and the net slid over the edge. Impulsively, he almost lunged for the rifle, but if he did, he would follow it in.
Only then did Shakespeare remember he was not much of a swimmer. He could, when he had to, or occasionally for the fun of it, but he was not a seal like Zach, or even as good as Blue Water Woman. Were he to be tossed into the drink, he might never come up.
The dugout dipped into a trough between waves, giving Shakespeare a momentary respite. Then the next wave seized it and swept it aloft. Once again he braced himself, but this time, with the canoe tipped on the crest, his hand slipped. He felt himself start to fall. Only by exerting his aged sinews to their utmost was he able to avoid disaster.
The rain, the lightning, the thunder, the waves assaulted Shakespeare’s senses. He lost all awareness of time, of his own self, of everything except the din and the upheaval and the rolling motion that tossed his stomach as it did the waves. He was close to being sick.
A monster wave flung the canoe toward the black clouds, and it began to roll. Shakespeare closed his eyes and fought down bitter bile. He prayed as he had not prayed in years, prayed with every fiber of his being that he would live to see Blue Water Woman again. Her face floated at the back of his eyelids. She was smiling, and she was beautiful, and he had never loved her so much as he did at that moment.
Then Shakespeare was tumbling and clawing for a hold that was not there. The shock of hitting the cold water snapped his eyes open. It snapped his mouth open, too, allowing water to gush down his throat. He swallowed and sucked in a desperate breath, but instead of air he sucked in more water.
There was a tremendous splash next to him and a glancing blow to his shoulder. Shakespeare needed to reach the surface, but he could not tell up from down or down from up. Weakly, he stroked, and went nowhere. He fought to stay conscious, but there were limits to how much punishment the human body could endure, and he had exceeded his, and then some.
Shakespeare envisioned Blue Water Woman. He wanted his last thought to be of her. He wanted to say he was sorry, and to thank her for putting up with him all these years.
Then there was nothing, nothing at all.
“You are not going out after him and that is final,” Nate King said, standing in front of the cabin door, arms folded across his broad chest.
“How can you do this?” Blue Water Woman asked, tears brimming in her eyes. She had hurred to the King cabin when she discovered Shakespeare was gone. “You are his best friend.”
Nate glanced at Winona, who was pouring steaming cups of tea. She sadly shook her head. “Listen to it out there,” he said. Thunder conveniently boomed, stressing his point. “Look out the window.” He had done so just a moment ago. “See how bad that storm is.”
“All the more reason I must try to find him,” Blue Water Woman pleaded. She had wanted to go out earlier, but Nate had advised her to wait until the fog broke. Now the storm had swept in, and she was so worried, her insides were twisted into a knot.
Nate gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “A canoe would not last five minutes in this storm. It would be torn to pieces.” He was sorry he said it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Shakespeare is in a canoe.”
“Yes,” Nate said, mad at his stupidity. “But he took the dugout, not the bark canoes. It will not fall apart on him.”
Blue Water Woman bowed her head and her shoulders drooped. “What was he thinking?” she asked softly. “Why did he go out again? Alone?” She was hurt that he had not taken her. Even more hurt that he had not told her he was going.
Nate shrugged. “You know how he is. When he wants to do something, he never lets anything stand in his way. I am the same way.”
“I warned him the water devil is bad medicine, but he would not listen,” Blue Water Woman said.
“Men,” Nate said. “We are all born with rocks between our ears.” He grinned, but she did not grin back.
Winona came over and clasped Blue Water Woman’s hand in hers. She was worried, too, greatly worried, but for her friend’s sake she hid it. “Come. The tea is ready. Have a seat and calm your nerves.”