I said, “I hope they didn’t use gill nets.”
“No way! They used coarse-mesh ‘pond’ nets. That’s spelled p-o-u-n-d. I never found out why it was pronounced the way it was. In the spring, after the ice broke up, they drove stakes in the lake bottom—tree trunks as long as fifty feet—and they drove ’em with manpower before the gasoline derrick came into use. After that, they set out their nets and visited them every day to scoop out the catch.
When cold weather came, they pulled up the stakes before the ice could crush ’em. Then they spent the winter mend-ing nets and repairing boats.”
“I can see why your grandfather wanted to get out of the business.”
“That wasn’t the reason. He wasn’t afraid of hard work.
It’s a sad story. He lost his father and two older brothers in a freak incident on the lake. They went out in a thirty-five-foot boat, the Jenny Lee, to lift nets. The weather was fair.
Lots of boats were in the fishing grounds, all within sight of 쑽쑽쑽
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Short & Tall Tales each other. Suddenly the Jenny Lee vanished. One minute she was seen by other fishermen; the next minute she was gone. The authorities searched for a week and never found the bodies—never even found the boat underwater. The whole village of Fishport was in mourning. It’s remained an unsolved mystery.”
I stared at Bushy sternly. “Is this an actual fact?”
“It’s the God’s truth! There’s a memorial plaque in the churchyard. Someone wrote a folk song about it.”
“Were there any speculations as to what happened?”
“All kinds, but there was only one conclusion, and you won’t like it. It had to have something to do with the Visitors—like, they could make a thirty-five-foot boat vaporize.
There was lots of talk about the Visitors way back then, you know: Blobs of green light in the night sky . . . Sometimes shining things in daylight. That was before I was born, and they’re still coming back—some years more than others.”
I wanted to believe my friend, but found it difficult. I said, “You once told me about some kind of incident when you were out fishing.”
“Yeah, it was my old boat. I was on the lake all by myself, fishing for bass. All at once I had a strange feeling I wasn’t alone. I looked up, and there was a silver disk with portholes! I had my camera case with me, but before I could get out my camera, the thing disappeared in a flash. Their speed, you know, has been clocked at seventeen hundred miles per hour.”
I listened with my usual skepticism, although I tried 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun not to show it. I thought, Here I am in the middle of the lake with a crazy guy! Watch it!
Soberly, I asked, “Do they accelerate from zero to seventeen hundred in the blink of an eye? Or do you think they have a technology that makes them invisible at will?”
“That’s the mystery,” Bushy said.
“And there’s another mystery. There’s a rash of sight-ings every seven years—documented in diaries and county records as far back as 1850. Does it take them seven years for a round-trip between their planet and our planet? Or is there a time differential? Is our year equivalent to their month?”
I said, “Bushy, we’d better get back to shore. I have to feed the cats.”
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20.
A Scary Experience
on a Covered Bridge
It Was Dark and
Emma Wimsey Was Alone
She taught school. She enjoyed writing. She lived to be ninety and left bundles of school notebooks filled with thoughts and experiences.
—JMQ
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When I started teaching in a one-room schoolhouse near Black Creek, I lived with a farm family and had to walk three miles to school in all kinds of weather. I always went early because I had to make a fire in the wood-stove and trim the lamps and wash the glass chimneys and sweep the floor.
One day in late November before snow had started to turn the brown landscape white, I set out for school in pitch-darkness. There was a covered bridge over the creek, and oh! how I dreaded crossing that bridge in the dark! On this particular day, as I entered the dark tunnel, I saw something that made my knees shake. There was a white object at the far end—small and round and white and floating in the air. I stood stock-still with my mouth open as it came closer, bobbing gently. I wanted to turn around and run, but my feet were rooted to the ground. And then I realized it 쑽쑽쑽
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Lilian Jackson Braun was a face—no body, just a white face! It stated to make noises: “U-u-ugh! U-u-ugh!”
I tried to scream, but no sound came from my mouth.
Then two white hands reached for me. “U-u-ugh! U-u-ugh!”
As the white face came close to mine, I was about to faint, but then I recognized it. I recognized a pale young girl from our church. She was wearing black garments and a black shawl over her head, and she was trying to tell me not to be afraid. She was a deaf-mute.
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21.
A Cat Tale: Holy Terror
and the Bishop
Told by a Retired Clergyman,
the Reverend Arledge Harding
Mr. and Mrs. Harding were vacationing at a bed-and-breakfast on an offshore island, and they were sitting in a porch swing when he told this tale. He was tall and dignified and always wore a French beret, indoors and out. There was a twinkle in his one good eye when he recalled the memorable incident.
—JMQ
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Ican hardly say that we had a Siamese cat, but there was one who accepted bed and board from us—a strong-willed but fascinating creature whom we named Holy Terror. At the time I was vicar of a church in a small town in Indiana, and the parishioners were flattered to hear that the Bishop would be gracing us with his presence in the very near future. Plans were being made to welcome him, and it seemed that an appropriate event would be a private luncheon at the vicarage. Mrs. Harding can serve a charm-ing luncheon, but she always inquires if the guest of honor has likes or dislikes—and how he or she feels about cats.
The Bishop’s office assured us that he was very fond of cats—and also a Bloody Mary before lunch. Unaccustomed as I was to serving drinks, I consulted all available experts and decided on the perfect recipe, after which I took pains to assemble the correct ingredients.