Sydney and the Wisconsin Whispering Woods (6 page)

Alexis picked Biscuit up and carried him onto the porch.

“Oh Alex, don’t bring him in here,” said Sydney. “He stinks.”

“I know,” her friend replied, “but if we don’t keep him in the cabin, he might run away again. I’m not going back there. I’ll get his leash and collar, and then we’ll take him into the lake for a bath.”

“I’ll get them,” said Sydney, walking toward the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Alexis buckled Biscuit’s collar around his neck and hooked the leash onto the collar.

“Maybe the mountain man is keeping farm animals out there in the woods. Go get my shampoo from the bathroom, please,” she told Sydney. “I’ll meet you over by the dock.”

Alexis opened the screen door and led Biscuit outside. He turned and pulled toward the woods. “No way, Biscuit!” she said. “You are
not
going back by that man. I wish you could talk, because I’d love to know what he’s up to.”

Sydney arrived with the shampoo. “Why would he have farm animals in the woods?” she asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Neither does the purple glow or the whispering woods,” Alexis responded, kicking off her tennis shoes and wading into the water. “Come on, Biscuit.” She held tight to his leash as the dog bounded into the lake splashing water all over her shorts.

“Okay, let’s think about what we know,” Sydney said as she opened the cap on the shampoo bottle. “We have a mountain man living in the forest. There’s a spooky, purple glow in the woods, and something goes
whoosh
and talks. And a wolf, or whatever, belongs to the guy, and he has it tied up.”

“Toss me the shampoo,” said Alex. “And he has a manure pile. So that shovel probably belongs to him.” She squeezed a generous amount of shampoo onto Biscuit’s back. Then she tossed the bottle back to Sydney.

“And did you hear what he said about people finding out about him?” said Sydney. “He said if anyone found out what he was doing, it would be in the newspapers and on television. He’s up to no good, Alex. I just know it.”

“But he’s kind to animals,” her friend said. She was busy scrubbing Biscuit and had him so covered with lather that he looked like a little lamb. “Don’t look now, but here comes that Duncan kid.”

Duncan Lumley was heading for the dock carrying a fishing rod and tackle box. When he saw the girls washing the dog, he scowled. “What are you doing that for?” he said, walking right up to Sydney, almost getting in her face.

She took a step backward. “We’re giving our dog a bath.”

“Well, get him out of there,” said Duncan. “You’ll scare the fish away.”

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Sydney said. “You act like you own the place.”

“I do,” he said. “We come here every year.”

Alexis rinsed Biscuit off and led him out of the water. He shivered, sending a shower of water all over Duncan.

“Hey!” Duncan cried, jumping backward. “Knock it off!”

“So what do you know about the guy who lives in the woods?” Sydney asked indifferently.

Alexis shot her a look. She couldn’t believe that Sydney had asked Duncan such a thing.

The boy grinned. “I know all about him,” he said. “He’s the ghost of Jacques Chouteau.”

“Who’s Jock Show Toe?” Sydney asked.

Duncan smirked and shook his head. “Don’t you know anything? It’s a French name.” Then, with a phony French accent, he said,
“Jacques Chouteau.”

Duncan’s attitude irritated Sydney, but she tried to hold her temper. “Yeah, well, who is he?”

The redheaded boy walked onto the dock and opened his tackle box.

“I’m not telling,” he said. He took a stubby, white Styrofoam container out of the box and opened the lid. He reached inside and pulled out a night crawler. “Catch.” He flung it toward Sydney.

Sydney didn’t flinch. The worm fell at her feet and quickly dug into the muddy soil.

“That’s one less worm that you’ll have for bait,” Sydney announced. “Come on, Alexis, let’s go.”

“Yeah, you should go,” Duncan told them. “I need to do some serious fishing.”

Alexis walked ahead of Sydney, tightly holding Biscuit’s leash. He trotted a few steps forward and then stopped to shake the water off his soggy fur coat. When they were almost to the front porch, Biscuit decided to lie down and roll in the dirt.

“No, Biscuit!” Alexis said. She swept him into her arms and hurried through the door. “There,” she said, setting him on a chair. “You behave yourself. You’ve gotten into enough trouble today.”

Sydney stepped inside and closed the door. “We need to talk to Mrs. Miller in the office.”

“What about?” Alexis asked.

“We need fishing poles. That brochure on the kitchen table says that the resort has some we can use. I also want to find out where to get bait.”

“But we have dough balls,” said Alexis, pointing toward the pizza dough thawing on the kitchen counter.

“I know,” said Sydney. “But I think we each should fish with a different kind of bait. It’ll give us a better chance at catching fish.”

The girls shut Biscuit on the porch and headed up the driveway toward the office.

“Do you think Duncan told the truth about a ghost in the woods?” Alexis asked.

“I don’t believe anything he says,” said Sydney. “He was just trying to scare us. You didn’t believe him, did you?”

Alexis kicked a stone to the side of the driveway. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said. “That guy in the woods is probably a very nice man—but I wish I knew that for sure.”

Sydney opened the front door to the office, and the girls went inside.

Mrs. Miller wasn’t at the desk. From somewhere inside the house came the sound of a soap opera on the television. Sydney rang the little metal bell next to a sign that read R
ING FOR
S
ERVICE
.

“Hey, look at this,” said Alexis. She pointed to a painting on the wall. It showed a man dressed in a heavy fur coat with a big fur collar and a warm fur cap. In his left hand, he proudly held an animal skin. A caption at the bottom of the picture said J
ACQUES
C
HOUTEAU
, F
UR
T
RAPPER
.

“Wow,” said Sydney. “He really did exist.”

Mrs. Miller pulled aside a curtain that hung in the doorway dividing the office from the living quarters. “Did you ring the bell?” she asked. She turned on the television behind the desk to her soap opera.

“I’m just wondering if we could get some fishing poles,” said Sydney. “Alexis and I entered the contest.”

A commercial interrupted the program, and Mrs. Miller turned her attention toward the girls. “Good for you!” she said. “Mr. Miller can certainly fix you up with some poles. Do you each have a fishing license?”

“No, ma’am,” Sydney answered. “I didn’t know that we needed one.”

“You might,” said Mrs. Miller. “My husband owns the bait shop. Go up to the road and turn right. In a little while you’ll come to a restaurant called The Wave. The bait shop is next door. Charlie, that’s my husband, will get you all fixed up.” The commercial ended, and she turned back to the TV.

Sydney wanted to ask about the picture of Jacques Chouteau, but she could tell Mrs. Miller was too preoccupied with her program. “Thanks,” she said as she and Alexis walked out the door. “See you later.”

Charlie’s Bait and Tackle was in a small, rundown building. It looked like an old garage set behind the parking lot of the restaurant, not far from the lakeshore. When the girls opened the front door, a strong, fishy smell filled their nostrils. They stood near a tank where hundreds of tiny gray fish darted to and fro. Fish trophies hung on the paneled walls. Around the trophies, the walls were lined with fishing poles and hundreds of fishing lures, spoons, and flies. An old paddle was propped in the corner behind the service counter. The words F
ISH
T
ALES
T
OLD
H
ERE
were carved into it. A revolving rack on the counter held different kinds of fishing lines, and the front of the counter was a glass display case filled with various sizes of hooks.

“May I help you?” said a bald-headed man sitting behind the counter.

“The lady at the resort sent us,” said Sydney.

“That would be my wife, Betty,” the man said. “I’m Charlie.”

Sydney walked over to the counter. “Mr. Miller, we need a fishing license and some poles,” she said. “And we’d like some bait, too, please.”

The man smiled. “How old are you girls?”

“Twelve,” said Sydney. “Almost thirteen.”

“Kids under sixteen don’t need a license,” he said. “What kind of poles do you need?”

Alexis joined Sydney by the counter. “We’re not sure. The brochure at the resort said that you have some poles that we can use,” she said. “We’re competing in the fishing contest.”

“You are, are you?” said Mr. Miller. “Well, good for you. Usually, girls don’t fish.”

His comment irritated Sydney.
Why does everyone around here think that girls don’t fish?
she thought.

“We’re entering the dockside contest,” she told him. “We’re planning to catch the biggest fish.”

“Well good. I hope you do,” Mr. Miller said as he disappeared into a room next to the counter. He quickly returned with two fishing rods. “These are rods with reels,” he said. “They’re for the big fish.”

Alexis took the pole and inspected it. “I’ve fished with cane poles,” she said. “But I’ve never used one of these.”

“I have,” said Sydney. “But I’m not very good at it.”

“Then come on outside, and I’ll give you a lesson,” Mr. Miller said.

It took a few tries for the girls to get comfortable using the rod and reel. Soon, they cast the line into the water like pros. The reel allowed them to hang onto the pole and throw the line a good distance into the water, way out where the big fish swim.

Mr. Miller was friendly and helpful. He seemed genuinely pleased that the girls had entered the contest. He told them that they could use the poles for free, and he gave them some bait—a small pail filled with water and two dozen tiny gray fish called minnows. He also gave them a Styrofoam container like the one Duncan had, filled with squirming night crawlers.

Neither of the girls liked the idea of using live bait, but Mr. Miller convinced them that they had to. “You can’t fish without live bait,” he said. “If you want to be serious contenders in the contest, then you have to get over being squeamish.”

Sydney had one more question before she and Alexis left the bait shop. “What do you know about Jacques Chouteau?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s quite the legend around here,” Mr. Miller said. “Jacques Chouteau was a French fur trapper. He hung out in northern Wisconsin way back in the 1800s. Mostly, he trapped beavers around here. Then he skinned them and sold their pelts to the Indians across the lake.”

Mr. Miller took two ice-cream bars out of a nearby freezer case and handed one to each of the girls. He opened a can of soda for himself and sat down on a stool behind the counter.

“They say Jacques made camp somewhere in the forest around here, though I don’t know exactly where. There’re caves deep in the woods, a bunch of ‘em hidden under mounds of earth and among the trees, so you don’t even know that they’re there. Folks say old Jacques hid his furs inside those caves—and his money, too.” Mr. Miller took a long drink of soda before he continued. “One day, he told folks he was gonna take his canoe over to the other side of the lake to do some trading at an Indian camp. That’s the last anyone saw or heard from him. He set out across the lake on a nice, clear day, and he never came back.”

Sydney licked the last bit of her vanilla ice cream off the wooden stick. “A kid at the resort says the ghost of Jacques Chouteau haunts the woods. Is that true?”

Mr. Miller put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward.

“Well, it just might be,” he said mysteriously. “The legend says that Jacques Chouteau died in the woods, and his soul cries out sometimes. It moans, begging for someone to come and save him—”

Suddenly, the door swung open, and the girls jumped. The man from the lunch counter at the ice cream shop came inside. He had two buddies with him, and when he saw the girls with their fishing poles, he laughed.

“You girls are really serious about fishing in the contest, aren’t you?” he said. “You haven’t got a chance.”

Sydney was about to give him a piece of her mind when Mr. Miller came to her defense. “Now, Fred,” he said. “Leave ‘em alone. I think they’ll do just fine.”

The man named Fred walked past the girls like they were invisible. He took a spool of fishing line from the rack on the counter and paid for it. “My boy, Duncan, is gonna win the dock contest,” he said. “He doesn’t need these girls getting in his way.”

Sydney felt her face turn hot. She was tempted to speak when Alexis tugged on her arm. “Let’s go,” she said. She thanked Mr. Miller for his help, and then they walked out the door.

“So that’s Duncan’s dad,” Sydney said as they walked back to the resort. “It figures. They’re both rude.”

“We don’t know them that well yet,” said Alexis. “I’m sure there’s something good about them. I don’t think they’re bad people. I remember on one TV show I watched, everyone hated this dad and son because they seemed obnoxious. But they turned out to be really nice.”