In Darkest Depths (4 page)

For another week Shakespeare and Nate kept diligent watch—and saw nothing, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. It got so Shakespeare took to pacing back and forth and muttering under his breath.

“You are letting it get to you,” Nate commented late one afternoon, as he raked the lake with the spyglass. “I have not seen you this wrought up in a coon's age.”

Shakespeare shook a fist in the general direction of the creature's watery realm. “I thought for sure we would have seen it a few times by now and have some idea of its habits. At the very least we should have found out whether it is a fish or something else.”

“We need more time,” Nate said. “More patience.”

“Maybe you can afford to wait, but I can't,” Shakespeare said. “As everyone keeps reminding me, I am getting on in years. I would like to find out what this thing is before I am looking up at the world through freshly dug dirt.”

“You have twenty good years left in you.”

“My creaking joints say different,” Shakespeare said, and to get back to the issue very much on his
mind, he pointed at the lake. “The thing has to have a pattern. Once we have that, we have him, her, or it, as the case may be.”

“You're guessing,” Nate said.

Shakespeare plopped down on the bench and shook his head. “No, I am not. Everything has its habits. Deer, bear, buffalo, birds, bugs, you name it. They do certain things in certain ways. They graze at the same time each day, or at the same place, or they wait for prey at the same spot, or visit the same patch of wildflowers.”

“That is true to a point. But we are dealing with a fish.”

“Are we?” Shakespeare rejoined. “We don't know what it is. But let's say you are right. Let's assume it is a fish of some kind. What do fish do? What pattern do they stick to?” He answered his own questions. “Fish swim and eat. That is pretty much it. Some, like catfish, stay down low. Bass like to stay near the shore and hide in weeds. Trout like fast-flowing streams and rivers.”

“How does any of that help us with
it
?” Nate nodded at the lake.

“What do we know about it so far?” Shakespeare asked, and again answered before his friend could. “We know it is alive and big. To get that big, it had to eat a lot of whatever it eats. To stay alive, it has to go on eating. Follow me so far?”

“That is logical, yes.”

“But what does it eat? Plants? I don't think so. Few fish do. Worms and bugs? Not enough of either to be had. Which tells us that the thing must eat other fish.”

“Possible,” Nate said.

“Probable,” Shakespeare amended. “But what kind of fish? Fish near the surface or fish down deep?”

“Mostly down deep,” Nate reasoned, “or we would see it near the surface more than we do.”

“Good point, Horatio. So if it spends most of its time down in the depths, how are we to lure it up?”

Nate shrugged. “I am open to ideas.”

“I wish I had one.”

“All this talk is getting us nowhere,” Nate said. He stood, gave the spyglass to Shakespeare, and moved toward the stairs. “I'd better get home. Winona will have supper on soon and she does not like it when I am late.”

“Off you go, then,” Shakespeare said. “Be careful not to trip over the ball and chain on your way down.” He raised the spyglass to his right eye and the water came into sharp focus. Sweeping it from one end of the lake to the other, he said to himself, “Where are you, beastie? We will make you some sport if only you will show yourself.”

But all Shakespeare saw was water and more water, and ducks and geese and sundry waterfowl swimming or floating or taking wing or landing. In his disgust at this state of affairs, he watched several mallards. The spyglass made it seem as if he could reach out and touch them. A male caught his interest. It was quacking up a storm. Why, he could not imagine, since the lake was as tranquil as nature allowed.

The mallard's yellow beak, the brilliant green plumage on the head, the deep chestnut brown of the front of the body, all were brought out in vivid relief by the bright rays of the setting sun.

Then suddenly the mallard was gone.

Shakespeare blinked, not sure what he had seen. One instant it had been there, quacking like crazy, the next it had disappeared under the surface. It did
not dive. It did not sink. It shot straight down as if wrenched from below. He kept the telescope trained on the spot, thinking the mallard would reappear. It did not.

“There are more things in heaven and earth…” Shakespeare began, but he did not finish the quote. He was studying the other mallards. Most had taken wing. One female was paddling around and around near where the male had vanished. The male's mate, Shakespeare reckoned, and was touched by her devotion. Evidently ducks were not strangers to the noblest of all emotions.

Presently, the female took flight as well. But Shakespeare flattered himself that he detected a certain reluctance in her movements.

By then the sun had set, and gray twilight was spreading like a fog across the water.

Shakespeare lowered the spyglass and scratched his snowy beard. “I wonder,” he said.

The next morning, the sun had not yet risen when Shakespeare climbed to the steeple. He was bundled in a heavy buffalo robe against the chill. At that altitude, even in summer, the nights could be downright cold. He had left Blue Water Woman asleep in bed. Waking her would only result in more criticism of his quest, and Shakespeare could do without that. Besides, she would be up in half an hour.

The lake lay quiet under the last of the starlight. As with most living things at that hour, the geese and ducks were silent. It was so still that a splash somewhere well out on the lake lent Shakespeare hope that at least one creature was abroad.

“Show yourself today, consarn you,” Shakespeare
said to the empty air. “I defy you to prove yourself in the great heap of my knowledge.”

A pink blush soon tinged the eastern horizon. On land the songbirds roused in avian chorus. Out on the water the ducks and geese stirred, their cries adding to the racket.

As soon as it was light enough, Shakespeare surveyed the lake from east to west and north to south. He saw no sign of the creature.

Indulging a hunch, he concentrated on the water birds. The variety would excite a naturalist. Of ducks alone, in addition to the mallards there were buffleheads, mergansers, and goldeneyes. There were teals and grebes and coots. A few storks had shown up. Swans were conspicuous by their grace and beauty. A flock of Canadian geese were sticking close together. A killdeer had waded a short way out from shore and was giving itself a bath.

Shakespeare smiled. God, how he loved the wilderness. He could never live anywhere else, not once he had supped at the feast of nature's table and tasted of nature's many delights.

So many feathered fowl were cavorting about that Shakespeare could not make up his mind which to watch. The mallards were closer to shore than they had been the night before, and he suspected that if the thing in lake came out of the deep to partake of its breakfast, it would do so farther out.

A group of green-winged teal, with their cinnamon-red heads and rainbow-hued plumage, seemed as likely as any others, and were near the area where the male mallard had disappeared the night before. Shakespeare counted twelve, six males and six females, floating serenely.

The rising sun lent a golden glow to the lake. The light became so bright that Shakespeare had to squint against the glare. He saw the teal bob up and down on the waves, then realized, with a start of surprise, that there was no wind to speak of and the lake was virtually undisturbed. There should not be any waves.

That was when he saw it.

Something
—it could well have been a giant mouth—came up out of the water and in the blink of an eye closed on one of the male teal. Before the bird could so much as lift a wing, it was swallowed whole. The rest of the teal took immediate panicked wing.

His body taut, Shakespeare raked the spot for further sign, but the thing did not reappear. After a while he stopped and leaned back with a smile. “So. Our water devil likes water fowl. Interesting.”

At last Shakespeare had a tidbit of information he could use. The question was, how to use it best? He had an idea, but to put it into effect he would need Waku's canoe.

He watched the lake for another half an hour, then went down the stairs and around the cabin to the front door. The aromas that greeted him as he opened the door caused his belly to growl. “Good morning, one I love,” he said cheerfully as he entered.

Blue Water Woman was fixing eggs with strips of fried venison and toast. She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “What is so good about it?”

Shakespeare sank into his chair and stretched his legs. “Can't a man say good morning to the other half of his heart without her being suspicious?”

“I know that tone and that look,” Blue Water Woman said. “You are up to something.”

“Perish forbid,” Shakespeare said. “I live but to please you and wait on your every whim.”

“What is the white expression?” Blue Water Woman pretended to try and remember. Suddenly she rounded on him, shaking a large wooden spoon. “You are full of it.”

“Such language, madam,” Shakespeare declared. “I am shocked.”

“What new silliness have you cooked up?”

Shakespeare sniffed and quoted, “Were I like thee, I would throw myself away.”

“Were I like you, I would need a keeper,” Blue Water Woman held her own.

“Say what you will. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.”

“So you
are
up to something,” Blue Water Woman said. “And I think I know what it is.”

“I say thee, ha,” Shakespeare said smugly.

“I was talking to Tihikanima yesterday. She says you paid her husband a visit.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Strange that you never mentioned it to me. I asked her what you and Waku talked about and she said that Waku would not tell her.”

“Good for him!” Shakespeare declared. “A man with backbone is worth his weight in wildcats.”

“Waku also said that none of them were to use their canoe unless they checked with him first, since you might have need of it on short notice.”

“Dang him. If he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse.”

“Now, now. Not everyone can be as sneaky as you.”

“Speaking of horses, I would my horse had the speed of your tongue.”

Blue Water Woman made circles in the air with the wooden spoon. “Now, what would you want with a canoe? It is too big for you to play with in the wash tub when you take your yearly bath.”

“Go to, woman. Throw your vile guesses in the devil's teeth, from whence you have them.”

“Funny that you should mention a devil,” Blue Water Woman jousted. “And the answer is no.”

“I did not realize I had asked a question,” Shakespeare said, worried now.

“You intend to go out on the lake after the water devil, and I will not have it. If you will not act your age, at least respect my feelings.”

“When have I ever not?” Shakespeare rallied. “And I can't catch something that lives in water if I stay on land.”

“Why catch it at all?” Blue Water Woman wanted to know. “Why not let it be?”

“I would hate for a perfectly good steeple to have gone to waste.”

“I am serious.”

“As am I.” Shakespeare thrust out his jaw in defiance. “We cannot go on living here without knowing what it is.”

“Who says? We have lived here this long without knowing. You know that my people believe water devils are bad medicine. Why show them, and me, such disrespect?”

“Honest to goodness,” Shakespeare said in exasperation. “Leave it to a woman to twist a man's considerate nature into an attack on her.”

“Where is the consideration in you refusing to listen to me?” Blue Water Woman demanded.

“Most excellent accomplished lady,” Shakespeare quoted. “The heavens rain odors on you. When did you become a tyrant?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I am old but I am not puny. I am a man, I have a will, and I will by God breathe as men breathe. If you wanted to marry a milksop you should have found a man who lets you tell him what clothes to wear.”

“You are changing the subject again.”

“No, I am not. The point, dearest tickle-brain, is that were a bear to come nosing around our cabin, you would have me deal with the bear. Were a fox or a coyote to become interested in our chicken coop, you would have me deal with the fox or the coyote. But let something in the lake pose a possible danger, and suddenly I am too old or too feeble or I do not respect your feelings.” Shakespeare came out of his chair. “Look me in the eyes and say that again. Look into the eyes of the man who has given all that he is to make you happy and tell me I am worthless.”

Blue Water Woman swallowed and averted her face. “I cannot.”

“Then there will be no more talk of betrayal,” Shakespeare said. “I have to do it and that is that.”

“Damn you,” Blue Water Woman said, but she said it softly.

“I love you, too, apple of my eye. Now how about breakfast? I cannot fight dragons on an empty stomach.”

“What do you think of our craft, Horatio?”

On his knees in the stern, Nate King smoothly stroked his paddle. He had used canoes before, in particular a Shoshone canoe that belonged to Touch the Clouds, his wife's cousin. The difference between the Shoshone canoe and the Nansusequa canoe was as night and day. The former was small and light and fast and responded superbly to every dip of the paddle; the latter was big and heavy and cumbersome, all of which combined to give it the speed and response of a brick. And because it was so heavy, the gunwales rode low to the water, barely a foot above the surface. A high wave might easily swamp them.

“I didn't hear you…” Shakespeare McNair prompted.

“It will do,” was the best Nate could come up with.

“I think of everything, if I do say so myself,” Shakespeare crowed. He indicated the net piled between them. “We should practice, so when the moment of truth comes we will be ready.”

“You really expect to catch the thing with that?”

“Why else are we doing this if not to catch it and kill it?” Shakespeare responded.

Nate slowed in his stroking. “I thought you just wanted to learn what it is. What is this talk of killing?”

“Since when do you mind getting rid of an animal that could prove a menace?” Shakespeare rejoined. “You killed that grizzly, remember? And we had to make worm food of those wolverines.”

“The griz tried to break into our cabin, and those wolverines were out for our blood,” Nate noted. “I have no quarrel with this water devil, or whatever it is.”

“You will change your mind. Wait and see.” Shakespeare scanned the lake. They were drawing near where the mallard and the teal had been taken.

“I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty,” Nate teased. Only, now that he thought about it, he recalled that McNair had urged him to slay the grizzly the day they arrived in the valley. Other instances came to mind, leading him to say, “You like to nip danger in the bud, is that it?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Shakespeare admitted. He knew of too many men and women, red and white, who had lost their lives because they did not take a threat seriously enough.

“The water devil does not need nipping,” Nate said. “The thing never comes up on land. We have nothing to worry about.”

“We don't know that it always stays in the water,” Shakespeare pointed out. “We
assume
it does.”

“If it's a fish, we leave it alone.”

Shakespeare twisted to look at him. “Where is your sense of adventure? Of sport?”

“I only kill when I have to,” Nate said. “To feed my family or protect them, or to defend myself.”

“You have never hunted for hunting's sake?”

Nate answered honestly. “When I was younger, yes, but only a few times.” He was well aware that most men did not share his view. Most liked to hunt and fish for the challenge and the thrill. He suspected he had his mother to thank for his outlook; she would never harm so much as a fly.

“What do these feathered yacks think they are doing?” Shakespeare wondered.

A dozen buffleheads had swum into their path. Shakespeare applied his paddle to veer the dugout around them, but it was slow to respond. Fortunately, the nervous buffleheads swam faster. He waited until the canoe was clear to say, “I have hunted since I was old enough to hold a gun and fished since I was old enough to swing a pole. To me this critter is no different than any other. I aim to catch it, come what may.”

“If you ask me—” Nate began, and stopped. To their north, perhaps forty feet away and just under the surface, something was moving. Something big. He pointed and exclaimed, “Do you see what I see?”

“By my troth!” Shakespeare blurted. Thanks to the play of the bright sunlight on the surface and the dark murk below, he could not be entirely sure of what he was seeing.

“Is that the thing we are after?”

“There is only one way to find out,” Shakespeare said, and sheared his paddle so the canoe swung toward it. He had brought the spyglass, but it was under his buckskin shirt, and anyway, another half dozen strokes and they would be near enough to have a good look. “Faster!” he urged, stroking harder.

“Maybe we shouldn't get too close,” Nate cautioned.

“Nonsense.” Shakespeare leaned forward, eager for a better look. But the creature was no longer
there. He stopped paddling and looked on both sides of the canoe, but it was gone. “Damnation!”

Secretly, Nate was glad. He was worried his friend might draw a pistol and shoot the thing.

“Where in blazes did it get to?” Shakespeare leaned farther out. The sunlight penetrated about six feet down. Below that lay the shadowy realm of the unknown.

“Off to take a nap.”

Shakespeare ignored the barb. He had a new habit of dozing off after big meals. Eating brought on a lassitude he could not shake. “If you are going to pick at me with your bowie, the least you could—” He abruptly stopped.

Down in the dark, something had moved. A giant shape was almost directly below them and rising fast.

“There!” Shakespeare cried.

“Paddle!” Nate shouted. He did so, but he had only stroked twice before the canoe gave a violent lurch and lifted half a foot out of the water. Grabbing the sides, he clung on as the canoe smacked back down with a loud
whomp
and water splashed in.

The creature promptly disappeared.

“Did you see him, Horatio!” Shakespeare said, laughing in delight. “Did you see the size of him?”

Nate had seen little beyond the suggestion of great bulk. “We need to get out of here.”

“No! It might come back.”

“That's what I am afraid of.” Nate peered down, and sure enough, the bulk was rising toward them again. “It is going to hit us again!”

The next instant the creature did just that, this time striking the bow. Shakespeare grabbed hold of the prow as the canoe once again canted up out of
the water and came smashing down with a gigantic splash.

The creature was already gone.

Nate could not get out of there fast enough. He worked his paddle furiously, then saw that instead of helping, Shakespeare was laughing. “We need to
go
! We need to go
now
!”

Still shaking with mirth, Shakespeare said, “Be at ease, Horatio. The canoe is too heavy to tip over. We are safe enough.”

“Like hell,” Nate said. He had the impression that the creature had not really tried to upend them. So far. “You might have a death wish, but I do not. Paddle, consarn you!”

“You would worry a wart to death,” Shakespeare said, and reluctantly dipped his paddle.

Nate chafed at how slowly the canoe turned. Once the bow was pointed toward shore, he pumped his arms, spray flying from under his paddle. McNair, however, was more intent on peering over the sides and only half exerting himself.

“Why am I doing all the work?”

“Because I have yet to get a good look at it,” Shakespeare said. “And unlike you, I have not yellowed my britches.”

“It's only common sense,” Nate said angrily.

An unusual sound behind them, a sibilant sort of hiss that reminded Nate of nothing so much as the hiss of a snake, made him snap his head around. Sixty feet out, and closing, was a growing swell such as they had occasionally witnessed from shore. “It's after us!”

Shakespeare swiveled, and cackled. “I do believe it is! What a stroke of luck!”

“Did you leave your common sense at home today?”
Nate asked, applying himself to his paddle with renewed vigor. “Help, damn it!”

“Mercy me, the language you use!” Shakespeare said, but he bent to his paddle with a strength uncommon for someone who had seen as many years as he had.

“I did not count on this!” Nate said. He'd figured the creature, whatever it was, would fight shy of them. But not only was it not scared of them, twice it had bumped them from below, and now it appeared to be bearing down on them with the clear intent of ramming the dugout.

Shakespeare's grin faded. He had not counted on this, either. Here he had been trying for days to come up with a way to lure the thing to them, and it had proven ridiculously easy. All they had to do was venture out on the lake.
Getting back to land
now posed the problem. His cockiness to the contrary, they were at a severe disadvantage. Their adversary was in its natural element; they were out of theirs. It did not help that their canoe was as slow as molasses.

The hissing grew louder.

Nate glanced over his shoulder. The swell was only thirty feet away, and closing. The water the creature displaced, cascading over its huge form, was the source of the hissing. “It's gaining!”

Shakespeare could see that for himself. As big and heavy as the canoe was, the creature was bigger and likely heavier. If it should strike them at full speed, the result would not be pleasant. He glued his eyes to the swell, and when it was only six feet from the stern, he bawled, “To the right, Horatio! Swing us out of its way!”

Nate exerted every sinew in his body. The hissing
became even louder, eclipsing all sound except the hammering of his heart. He nearly whooped for joy when the dugout angled to one side and the swell went hurtling past.

“We did it!” Shakespeare shouted.

Nate yipped in delight.

But their elation proved premature.

The swell subsided as the creature began to submerge. But just when it appeared the thing would sink out of sight and go on its way, the leading edge of the swell began to turn, and as it turned, it grew in size.

“It's circling back at us!” Nate exclaimed.

Shakespeare experienced a twinge of regret. He would hate for Nate to come to harm when it had been his brainstorm to come out after the thing. He suspected Nate had tagged along more out of concern for him than from an abiding interest in the creature.

“Paddle harder!”

Shakespeare shifted.
God in heaven, the thing is fast!
It would be on them in no time. He stroked his paddle like a man possessed.

Nate was doing the same.

The shore was impossibly far away. They would never reach it in time. Desperate to keep from being rammed, Shakespeare stopped paddling and swooped his hand to his waist.

“What are you doing?”

Shakespeare did not answer. He whipped out a flintlock and thumbed back the hammer. He aimed for the front of the swell, for where he figured the creature's head would be.

Nate froze with his paddle partway raised. A ‘No!' was on the tip of his tongue, but he did not give voice to the shout.

Shakespeare fired. At the blast the pistol spewed smoke and lead. He thought he saw the slug strike the water. But the swell—and the creature—kept coming. He grabbed for his other pistol, determined to stop it if he could. As his fingers wrapped around the hardwood, a miracle occurred: the swell changed direction and passed within spitting distance of their canoe.

Nate was mesmerized. He longed to see the creature clearly, but all he saw was moving water and a dark silhouette. He caught sign of a fin, or imagined he did, and then the thing was past and the swell was rapidly dwindling as its source dived for the depths. The hissing faded. In seconds there was nothing to mark the creature's passage beyond ripples and a few frothy bubbles.

“That was close,” Shakespeare said, exhaling in relief.

“You wounded it or scared it off,” Nate said, grateful whichever the case might be.

“Did you get a good look at it?”

“No. Did you?”

“Would that I had.”

“All that we just went through and we still have no idea what we are up against.”

“If it had struck us…” Nate let the statement dangle.

“Our broken bodies would have washed up on shore in a day or two and my wife would get to tell mine she told me so,” Shakespeare said with a grin. Sobering, he lowered the pistol he had not realized he was still pointing at the water. “Do you still doubt that it is dangerous?”

“It can be,” Nate allowed. “But so long as we stay off the lake, we should be fine.”

“Then I take it you are going to ride over to Waku's and tell him and his family they can't fish anymore. And after that, you will go over to your son's and inform Zach and Lou that there will be no more swimming or bathing in the lake. Winona and Evelyn will need to—”

“I get the point,” Nate broke in.

“So what will it be? Do we let the critter alone, or do we make the lake safe for us and our kin? What wouldst thou of us, Trojan?”

“I am from Troy now?”

Shakespeare quoted, “A true knight, not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word, speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue; not soon provoked, nor being provoked soon calmed.” He paused. “Have you been provoked, sir? Is it war or is it peace?”

“It is war,” Nate King said.