Shivering from the cold, Shakespeare reached up to pull himself out of the water. But the smooth hull defied his grasp. The Nansusequa had stripped the bark, and the hull was as smooth as glass. He had nothing to hold on to.
“When it rains, it pours,” Shakespeare muttered. He had to get out of the water. The longer he was in it, the colder he would become. He might become so cold he could barely move, and once that happened, it was a slow sink to the bottom, and oblivion.
“If I ever go out on this lake again, someone should shoot me,” Shakespeare said to the canoe. He refused to give up. Moving to the near end, he extended both arms and tried to wriggle and shimmy his way higher. His soaked buckskins were so slick that twice he slipped back, but at length he had half his body on the dugout. All it would take was for him to swing a leg up.
Then something brushed against his foot. Again. Shakespeare glanced down. There could be no mistake. It was not his imagination. “Surely not,” he said.
As if in answer, ten yards away a swell rose. A small one, but since the wind had died, it could only be caused by one thing.
Shakespeare scrambled higher and slipped back. He tried again and again, and each time it was the same. The whole time, the swell circled the canoe, coming closer with each pass. It was within six feet when desperation lent him extra strength. He got a leg up out of the water. That was all the extra leverage he needed.
Prone on the overturned dugout, Shakespeare watched the swell go around and around. “What are you up to, devil fish?” To reach him it would have to show itself; he half hoped it would. One look. One good look was all he wanted.
The hiss of the swell again reminded Shakespeare of the hiss of a snake. He considered using a flintlock, but his pistols were so waterlogged they would surely misfire. He turned his head in time to see the swell slow and fade as its source sank. But the fish did not dive. It hovered just below the surface. Shakespeare had the impression it was studying him even as he was trying to study it. He prodded his memory, but he had never heard of a fish that behaved like this one. None in his personal experience, either, unless he counted the time a bass paced the bull boat he was in.
“What do you want, damn you?” Shakespeare asked the great shadowy bulk. His life, most likely. But the fish would have to work for it. He was too fond of living to give up without a struggle.
Shakespeare rested his cheek on his hand. The fish could float there all day. He needed to get to land and out of his wet buckskins. “Come closer so I can shoot you.”
As if it had heard, the fish swam nearer.
Shakespeare strained his eyes trying to make out details. The thing was so close he could almost reach down and touch it, and all he saw was shadow. Impulsively, he flung out a hand, and the shadow moved back out of reach.
“You are toying with me, damn you.”
Suddenly the shadow erupted into motion, making another circuit of the canoe.
Taking a gamble, Shakespeare slid further down and clutched at the swell. He could not quite reach it.
Determined not to be thwarted, Shakespeare eased lower still and held his arm a few inches above the surface. The swell reappeared, sweeping around the other end of the canoe, and he smiled. He had outfoxed the finny so-and-so. Spreading his fingers, he thrust them at the onrushing water. In a twinkling his hand was immersed and he flailed about for a solid body, but all he felt was water. “Impossible!” he bellowed.
Not if the fish had dived just as he reached for it. Shakespeare had forgotten how ungodly quick the thing was. Despite its size, it was aquatic quicksilver.
The surface was once again smooth and serene.
Shakespeare clambered back up. He was tired of the cat and mouse. Most especially, he was tired of being the mouse. It was high time he used the one advantage he had over the fish: his mind. Used it right, since so far the fish had gotten the better of him at every turn. “No more,” he vowed.
Shakespeare drew one of his flintlocks, thumbed back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. As he expected, there was a click and nothing more. A misfire, thanks to the soaking he’d taken.
One eye on the lake, Shakespeare cleaned the weapon as best he was able, given that he did not have a dry cloth to work with. He used his sleeve to wipe the pan clean of the wet powder, then puffed to dry it, and blew down the barrel a number of times.
Opening his powder horn, Shakespeare carefully upended it over his palm. Powder trickled out. Some was wet and some was not. He cast it over the side. He poured another handful and cast that over the side. A third handful had enough dry grains to suit him.
Shakespeare reloaded. Sliding the ramrod from its housing, he tamped a ball down the barrel. Since all his patches were soaked, he did without. The pistol should fire. He just needed to wait until the fish was right on top of him.
Waiting. That was the key. Shakespeare scanned the surface in all directions, fervently hoping the fish would come back. The minutes dragged, and he was about convinced it wouldn’t, when forty yards out the swell reappeared, rising until it was a foot high. As before, the fish circled the dugout.
Shakespeare extended the flintlock but he did not shoot. Wait, he told himself. Wait, wait, wait. As the fish had done the last time, the circles were narrowing. From forty yards to thirty-five and from thirty-five to thirty. At twenty yards Shakespeare fidgeted with excitement. At ten yards his palms were sweating.
Keep coming! Shakespeare mentally shouted. Another circle or two and it would be close enough. He thumbed back the hammer.
The next time the fish swept past, it was only five yards out.
Shakespeare intended to shoot it in the head. The only other way was the heart, and he could not be sure of hitting it. As huge as the creature was, the ball might not even penetrate far enough to reach it.
Another circle, and now the fish was only four yards from Shakespeare when the swell hissed by.
Shakespeare did not move. He remembered the time he squatted motionless for over two hours when he was after a bighorn. Compared to that, this was nothing. He sighted down the barrel and grinned when the swell filled his vision.
Only three yards out.
Then two.
Shakespeare licked his lips, but he had no spit to wet them with. His mouth was dry. He held the flintlock with both hands to steady it.
Only a yard separated the dugout from the swell as the fish coursed by for what would be the next to last time.
Shakespeare leaned down so the flintlock was practically touching the water. He shifted, eyes glued to the end of the canoe where the fish would reappear. Inwardly, he ticked off the seconds: one, two, three, four, five. The swell swept into sight and hissed toward him. This time the fish was practically rubbing the canoe.
Shakespeare had it dead to rights. His elbows locked, he held his breath and lightly curled his finger around the trigger. He was primed to fire.
Then the unexpected happened.
The swell slowed and split down the middle as a pea pod might split, revealing peas of a different sort: the creature’s eyes. Its head rose into plain sight, and those eyes, a pair of golden peas with black in their centers, gazed up at Shakespeare. Their eyes met.
Shakespeare gasped. His whole body trembled.
The fish had stopped and was floating there, staring. It made no attempt to attack.
“No!” Shakespeare said softly.
With an almost casual sweep of its powerful tail, the fish dived.
Shakespeare stared at the bubbles that marked its descent. He lowered the pistol and slowly let down the hammer.