“What kind of mutt do you call yourself?” Dawg growled as he came closer. His teeth were stained and pitted like old linoleum.
“Nonviolent,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t catch the tremor in my voice.
He snorted, sending a waft of rancid breath my way, and started to circle me, sniffing. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s this humiliating sniffing routine that passes for a handshake in the dog world. I would have suggested that he “give me five,” but I was a little too nervous. Besides, I didn’t have the feeling Dawg was the kind of old dog who was keen to learn new tricks. In fact, I didn’t have the feeling Dawg was too keen at all.
“Watch this,” he said, when he’d tired of sniffing. He sauntered over to the campfire, stopping only when he was so close that his mangy fur took on a red glow. I exchanged puzzled glances with Chester and Howie, wondering what it was we were supposed to be watching.
The Monroes, meanwhile, had moved down the slope to their campsite. Bud, who had gone back to his fish, ignored Dawg, while Spud just stared off into space, slowly turning his knife in his hands. After a moment, Dawg barked. The two men looked up and Bud started to shout, “Lookee, Spud. Hot dawg! Hot dawg!” His wild laughter made him sound like a demented goose. From the way Dawg and Spud curled their lips, I gathered that this was meant to be a big joke. Suddenly, I had the feeling I knew how prehistoric cavemen might have entertained themselves. I decided maybe television wasn’t such a bad invention after all.
“Gee, Uncle Harold,” Howie said, “What do you think?”
“I think Chester’s right,” I replied. “The woods are full of spirits tonight.”
“Evil spirits?”
“Stupid spirits,” I said.
Chester mumbled something, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the can opener in the distance. Dinner was about to be served, and I wasn’t going to miss it.
AFTER I’D EATEN, while Toby and Pete and Mr. Monroe renewed their attempts at keeping the family’s improvised tent upright, I joined Howie and Chester for a stroll along the lake’s edge.
“This isn’t so bad, is it, Chester?” I said. “It’s a beautiful night. The moon will be out soon.”
“It’s a full moon tonight,” Chester commented.
“I’m full, too,” said Howie.
“Listen to the water lapping the shore,” I suggested.
“Watch where you step,” Chester countered. “You never know what’s been washed up.”
“The trouble with you, Chester, is that you’ve lost your capacity to enjoy the simple things in life.”
“That isn’t true,” Chester replied. “I enjoy you.”
“Thank you.” I sighed deeply. “The world is full of wonder,” I said. I often get philosophical after meals. “Behold its majesty. Marvel at its creatures great and small.”
“Not to mention weird,” said Chester. He nodded toward a figure sitting on its haunches several yards ahead of us. I could tell from the potatolike silhouette that it was Dawg.
He was looking out at the horizon, waiting for sunset, perhaps, or dreaming of sunsets past. When we approached, he shared his thoughts with us. “You could spit till you’re dry,” he said, “and never make a lake.”
Chester hissed, a cat’s way of booing.
“You come here often?” I asked Dawg, hoping to compensate for Chester’s lack of good manners.
“Cheez,” Chester said under his breath, “why don’t you ask him his sign?”
“Not so often,” said Dawg, apparently oblivious to Chester’s rude remark. “Bud and Spud, they … they don’t get out much.”
“Well,” Chester said, loudly enough for Dawg to hear this time, “it was certainly nice of the warden to let them out for Saint George’s Day.”
There was a glimmer in Dawg’s eyes. Of a pretty low wattage, mind you, but a glimmer nonetheless. “Saint George’s Day,” he said. “Funny you should mention that.”
“Funny?” said Chester. “What strikes you as funny?”
“Just before we came here, Bud said something about it being a special day soon. He said … he said …”
The glimmer faded, and I wondered how long we’d have to wait for the bulb to be changed. “ ‘He said?’ ” I prompted hopefully.
“He said,” Dawg went on, “that this was the night to find it.”
“Find it?” Howie squealed. He was beginning to shiver a little, as the wind coming off the lake turned colder. I felt a chill go through me, too. “Find what?”
“I don’t know,” said Dawg. “He didn’t say. But I do know one thing. Bud’ll find it, and Spud’ll know what to do with it.”
A sudden whiz and thunk grabbed our attention. In the distance, Spud walked to a tree and pulled his knife from where it had lodged.
“Oh, yeah,” Dawg said. “Spud’ll know what to do, all right.”
Chapter 3
Things Are Not
What They Seem
“SOMEONE’S in the kitchen with Di-nah, strummin’ on the old banjo. And singin’, fee-fie, fiddly-eye-oh. Fee-fie, fiddly-eye-oh-oh-oh-oh …’ ”
Hearing the Monroes’ voices raised in song, seeing the warm glow on their faces, watching them sharpen their sticks in preparation for marshmallow treats, I was content. It had been only ten minutes since Dawg had made his ominous remark at the water’s edge, ten minutes since I’d felt the cold wind run through me, but all that might as well have happened in another lifetime. For now there was nothing more on my mind than peace on earth, good will to men, and the unopened bag of marshmallows lying at Toby’s side.
“Listen to the happy campers,” Chester said of the Monroes. I glanced over my shoulder to where he lay stretched out on a log, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “How innocent they are in their merrymaking. While out there somewhere in the shadows of the night—”
“It isn’t dark yet,” I observed.
“In the woods it is always dark,” he said. “In the forest of the soul it is always night.”
“Chester,” I said, “have you been reading Stephen King again?”
“Howdy, folks.”
I was spared a book report by the arrival of Bud, Spud, and the inevitable Dawg.
“Well, hello, Bud,” Mr. Monroe said. “We were just about to toast some marshmallows. Would you and your brother care to join us?”
Bud smiled awkwardly, as if he’d long been out of practice. “Why, sure, that’d be right nice. That fire isn’t going to last long, though. Who made that thang?”
Pete cried, “I did!”
“Well, I don’t know who taught ya about fires, young fella, but that one’s got about as much life in it as a toad what’s jes shook hands with a steamroller.”
“I’m a Boy Scout of America,” Pete said proudly. “I learned how to make a fire from the Fieldbook.”
“Page one seventeen,” Toby said, coming to his brother’s defense.
“You cain’t build a fire from a book,” Bud scoffed. “I’ll get that thang goin’ again in no time. Say, I tell you what. It isn’t going to get dark for another twenty minutes or so. Why don’t you-all go for a walk along the crick? There’s a purty falls up there. You folks know this part of the lake?”
“We’ve never been here before. We have a cabin cross t’other side,” said Mr. Monroe, looking as surprised as the rest of us at what had come out of his mouth. I wondered if it was just a matter of time before we were all saying “thang” and “howdy.”
“Well, now, Spud knows these parts like he knows his own name,” said Bud. “He can git you up Latawata Crick to Breakneck Falls afore dark. And by the time you get back, I’ll have this fire going good and strong.”