“If he dies I will not want to go on living.”
Winona and Nate exchanged glances, and Nate took Blue Water Woman’s other hand.
“Enough of talk like that. Shakespeare is not called Carcajou for nothing. Wolverines are the toughest animal around.”
Blue Water Woman let them lead her to a chair. She slumped into it, feeling as if all the life had been drained from her body. “He is not a young man anymore. He pretends he is by ignoring his wrinkles.”
Just then Evelyn came out of her bedroom. She had been listening and wished there was something she could say or do to cheer Blue Water Woman up. A bolt of lightning lit the window, and she nearly jumped. She never had liked lightning. As a little girl, during thunderstorms she would often cower in her bed with the covers over her head. “Is there anything I can do, Ma?”
Winona frowned. “There is nothing any of us can do until this storm lets up.”
“I hope it stops soon.”
So did Nate, but from the sound of things, it would be a while, and every moment Shakespeare spent out on the lake increased the likelihood they might never see him again.
“I am glad Dega is not out there,” Evelyn said without thinking. She had him on her mind a lot of late.
“Why don’t you make us some toast?” Winona suggested, distressed at her daughter’s lapse.
“Sure, Ma.”
Nate was glad no one else had gone with Shakespeare, or whoever did would be in the same dire straits. A thought startled him. What if someone had? He would not put it past his son to tag along, and he had not seen hide nor hair of Zach since the day before. He’d assumed Zach was tending to Louisa, but he never knew with that boy of his. “As soon as the storm ends, I am going out.”
“We are,” Blue Water Woman amended.
“He is my friend.”
“He is my husband.”
“The three of us will go,” Winona interjected.
“I would rather you stayed here,” Nate said casually, so she would not construe it as a command and be insulted.
“Three sets of eyes and ears are better than two,” Winona said, as if that settled the matter.
“Four sets are better yet,” Evelyn piped up.
Nate thought fast. “If all of us are out on the water, who will search the shoreline?” He left unsaid the reason: that McNair, or McNair’s body, might wash up on shore. Pointing at Evelyn, he said, “I want you to ride to the Nansusequa and ask them to help you search the east shore.” She would be glad to be with Dega, and she would be off the lake.
“If you want, Pa.”
Nate turned to his wife. “I would like you to check in on Zach and Lou and make sure she is all right, then search along the north shore.”
“I suppose I should see if Louisa has recovered,” Winona reluctantly conceded.
“Blue Water Woman will search the south shore while I go out in a canoe,” Nate concluded. “That way we cover all there is to cover.” It made sense to him, but would it make sense to Blue Water Woman? Females had an exasperating habit of thinking they knew better than males just because they were females.
“If there is no one else to do it, very well. But if I find no trace of him, I am coming right out in a canoe.”
“We will go out together,” Winona told her.
Nate smothered a grin. “Whatever you two think is best.”
Thunder chose that moment to rattle the dishes in the cupboard. They all gazed at the rain-lashed window.
“Oh, Carcajou.” Blue Water Woman gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles were nearly white.
“He will be all right,” Nate said, reading her expression.
“His heart is my heart. My heart is his.” Blue Water Woman bit her lower lip.
Evelyn felt sorry for her. For some reason, the comment brought Dega to mind. “When I get married, I hope the man I care for cares for me as much as you and Shakespeare care for each other.”
Winona hid her considerable surprise. That was the first time their daughter had ever mentioned marriage in a serious tone. And Evelyn had said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’
Nate was listening to the bedlam outdoors. The storm showed no sign of abating any time soon.
“I hope you find a man like mine,” Blue Water Woman said. She was sorry that she was upsetting them so much, and in an effort to cheer them, and herself, she said, “I should do as Shakespeare always says to do and look at the bright side.”
“There is one?” Evelyn asked.
“All that lightning,” Blue Water Woman said. “If I am lucky, it will strike that stupid steeple.”
Water Womb
Warmth revived him. Blessed, wonderful warmth on his face and neck showed he was still alive.
Shakespeare McNair opened his eyes and squinted against the harsh glare of the midday sun. His face was warm, but the rest of him was cold and wet and a patchwork of pain. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he raised his head and looked about him.
The storm had ended. Far to the east a few thunderheads were visible, but otherwise the vault of sky was a pristine blue. So, too, the lake. The waves had stilled and the surface was undisturbed save for cavorting waterfowl.
“Thank God,” Shakespeare croaked, his throat raw, his voice not sounding at all like it should.
The next fact he established was that he was somewhere in the middle of the lake. That he had survived at all was in no small measure due to a fluke of circumstance some might call a miracle.
The dugout was floating upside down in the water. His head, right shoulder, and right arm lay across one end. Were it not for being buoyed by the canoe, he would surely have drowned.
But how had it happened? Shakespeare wondered. The last thing he remembered was being pitched into the water. He remembered, too, hearing a loud splash that must have been the canoe crashing down next to him. The only explanation he could think of was that the canoe had gone under and bobbed back up—directly under him.
“I’ll be switched,” Shakespeare said, amazed at his deliverance. He patted the bottom of the dugout. Here he had poked fun at it for being a turtle in the water, and the turtle had saved his life.
But his ordeal was far from over. He had lost both paddles. He had lost his knife and his rifle and the harpoons and the net. Worse, he had lost the parfleche with his food. The lantern, too, and they only had the one. Blue Water Woman would take him to task for his carelessness.
He was alive, though, and that was the important thing. Smiling, he sat up, pleased to find he had feeling again in his left forearm. His wrist hurt where the rope had dug into his skin, but his fingers wriggled as they should. Both pistols were still tucked tight under his belt, but the soaking had rendered them useless. His ammunition pouch, powder-horn, and possibles bag had likewise been under water.
Shakespeare sought some sign of land. All he saw was water and more water. Overhead, a gull screeched. Glancing up, he said in jest, “Fetch help, will you?”
Something brushed his left foot.
Shakespeare peered into the water, but it was like peering into a mirror. He saw his reflection, not whatever had brushed against him. He moved his legs back and forth, but it was gone.
A fish, Shakespeare thought. A small fish. Nothing for him to worry about. His first priority was to right the dugout. To that end, he slid off and tread water and put his hands under the canoe. He figured it would be easy to flip over, but when he tried he could only lift it half a foot or so. It was just too heavy. On land he might be able to, but not in the water.
Shakespeare sighed. Here he’d thought his luck had turned. He slid his arms farther under the canoe and bunched his shoulder muscles for all he was worth, but all he did was set his gash to throbbing.