LAKE OF THE SWANS
Book 2 of 3
Chapter 39
For seven years, the rendezvous at the Lake of the Swans had grown in popularity as an alternative to the annual rendezvous in the super-village of Grandal, roughly two hundred miles southeast by way of canoe and portage trails.
Presently, business was brisk, the campgrounds hummed with human activity and, fortunately for Cody, Jessie had found a responsible teenager to work part-time at the Emerson family market stall, which in turn allowed her son and his girlfriend a few hours each day on the rock with their friends.
On the wholesale end of the family business, Emma had commissioned another significant sale with a company of Voyageurs who, like those before them, arrived in their freight canoes bearing wool, cotton, iron, and other products from the East. The company’s captain, having previously traded in Grandal where he’d heard of the rendezvous, ventured to the far lake where he struck deals with several families, most prominent among them being the Emersons.
Word of Emerson’s mosquito repellent had spread to Grandal and beyond, where, in the absence of air conditioning and screened-in porches, evading the bloodsuckers was big business. The repellent in question—a secret formula that we shall learn more of later—had its roots in an old family recipe, which Emma and Jessie, though much trial and error, had modified to create a product of truly remarkable value. For now, however, let us return to the present where Jessie had taken her shift in the family’s market stall. She had just finished a sale when, looking north over the bazaar to the monolith, she saw the figure of a young man standing at its highest perch. He appeared to be psyching himself up to jump. She could hear the shouts and merriment of youth, undoubtedly a jury of peers cheering him on. Squinting, she realized the young man was her Cody. And before her heart could skip another beat, he did a swan dive into the blue.
“Oh Lord,” gasping with her eyes clamped shut, “I didn’t need to see that.”
“See what…if I may ask?”
No more had Jessie opened her eyes than her mouth fell open—not drop-jawed, but open and unable to manage a single word.
Directly before her, the teenage boy she’d fallen madly in love with now stood as a man of thirty-nine years—his eyes still shining with that old familiar light. “Hello, Jessie.”
“Harley,” yet to recover from her shock, “I…I did not expect you so soon.”
“I didn’t know you were expecting me,” and losing his smile, “I guess that maybe I should have.”
“You didn’t get my message?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t know I was here?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Jessie’s eyes fell to the ground, her disappointment welling up inside. It had scarcely been a month since she’d resolved to send a message telling how very much she would like to see him. Now in a state of confusion, she was caught off guard when a woman stepped up and asked to purchase some insect repellent—
“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” Jessie responded without thinking.
Taken aback, the woman asked no questions but went away, and Harley picked up where he’d left off—
“When I heard the bad news, I went looking for you. I went to your winter home. I thought you might still be there. Then I went to your summer home, and your kin told me that you’d been there but had gone. They thought you might be here.” Pausing, Harley’s expression turned to heartfelt empathy, “Jessie, I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Harley,” Jessie uttered softly, deeply touched. And then it dawned on her. He’d missed the message she’d sent because he’d already gone searching for her. And he had been searching for nearly a thousand miles! Unable to find words, she gazed up at him, a misty look in her eyes.
“It’s good to see you, Jessie.” Harley smiled his old smile, which, having been humbled by the years, had only gotten better.
If only for a moment, the former lovers stood in perfect silence, seemingly the only two souls on earth, there in the midst of the noisy bazaar.
At last, Harley gestured in the direction of the monolith, “You were looking over yonder, and, it appeared something had disturbed you.”
“Oh, that,” said Jessie, grieved even as she accepted what she could not change, being time itself. “My son Cody…he did a swan dive off the top of the rock.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And I can tell by your tone…you approve.”
“Of course, I approve.”
Even in her great happiness, Jessie shook her head, “Some things never change.” But even as she spoke, she knew Harley was not the wild boy she had fallen in love with. He had lost his wife and youngest child several years prior when a fever from the east swept through the realm. At that time, she had sent him a note, one of many through the years—a scrap of fawn hide on which she’d painted a pair of eyes shedding a tear and, as always, a heart.
With nowhere to be and all the world to explore, John and Laureal paddled up the eastern side of the lake.
“I agree,” John concurred, “we shouldn’t try to cross,” looking west across the lake.
“It’s a long way,” Laureal reaffirmed, referring to a span of open water some fifteen miles wide.
“We’ll continue north,” John stated. “East shore, west shore…I’m happy as long as we’re going north.”
Laureal turned around, “John,” frowning, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything.” And after a few paddle strokes, “I just thought we might go and have a little look-see…that’s all.”
His thoughts never far from his mission, John’s desire could be attributed to stories he’d heard back at the campgrounds. For while only a handful of souls had actually ventured into the Gauntlet of the North, many a man had been quick to speak of it around their campfire. The gauntlet began just beyond the north end of the lake—a place where the earth changed so dramatically, it could not be called land or water but something in between. A realm all its own, beyond which lay the mythical land of the midnight sun, and of course, the monolith. Or so John believed.
“John,” contritely, “it’s too far.”
“I know.”
Laureal, more than anyone else, knew the depth of John’s convictions. His zealotry was, in all likelihood, matched only by her own. And just then, reading his eyes, she knew she need only acquiesce and he’d set to paddling like a man possessed. Their honeymoon would become a reconnaissance shortie for his mission and, she did not appreciate it—
“John…even with the wind at our backs, we’d be days just to get a look at the opening to the gauntlet. Then, with the wind against us on the return, we’d have to break our backs, and here I am with child. We’d be so late getting home, Mom and Grandma would have a search party out looking for us.”
“I said, I know!” sharply.
It was not a bad thing, perhaps, that they paddled on in silence. The feel of warm sunshine on their skin, the gentle motion of the water beneath them, and the sheer vastness of it all flooded their senses with a richness other than their own, even as they were a part of it. It worked on them like the wind and water that smooths the rocks.
Around noontime, an inlet appeared along the shore where a large stream, or small river, emptied into the lake. Like a lazy ribbon glittering with the color of the sky, the stream appeared unique, for it came not through a bog, but a sandy delta several hundred yards wide. Here and there across the breadth of the delta, skeletons of great trees lay as testament to a long-past flood, their bleached white bones standing out against the sand and pebbles. Large stones also lay here and there, smoothed by water and time.
Enchanted, the lovers gazed at a picture framed on either side by willows gently swaying like curtains in a summer breeze—a natural avenue, brightly lit against the dark forest, it drew their eyes further in where butterflies fluttered above luminous patches of pink and white orchids.
Laureal turned to John just as he turned to her, and reading one another’s eyes, they turned their craft towards the stream. With only a mild current, the channel was easily entered, and looking to its bottom, the canoeists saw beds of pebbles shining like jewels among polished boulders, all seemingly within their reach when, in fact, they lay four, five, six, or more feet below.
“Oh, John,” lifting her eyes and glancing about, captivated by the magic of nature, “this is perfect!”
“We can strike camp if you like.”
Nodding and smiling, “Let’s go a bit further and see what’s around the bend.”
Rounding the bend, our hero and heroine knew they had found one of those rare places that lay hidden in the perils of the wild. A place so perfect that even the mosquitoes were kept at bay, thanks to wide sandy beaches, flowing water, and the breeze that followed the causeway.
Seemingly from the blue, a butterfly landed on either of Laureal’s arms.
“You’ve gained a pair of friends,” said John, watching as the butterflies slowly fanned their wings, keeping time with Laureal’s paddle strokes.
“It’s a sign,” looking back at him with a smile.
Scarcely had the lovers paddled a hundred yards further when a loud growl took them by surprise. More growls followed and, judging by their ferocity, it was only natural to assume that a pair of wolves were having a faceoff along the shore. To John and Laureal’s great astonishment, however, the growls came not from wolves but a pair of geese!
“I didn’t know they could do that,” turning to John in disbelief.
“Nor I!”
The geese, a lone pair that had only just come into view, stood on the beach just beyond the water’s edge. Like snakes ready to strike, their heads upon their coiled necks were turned skyward where, high above, a white-headed eagle soared. The mother goose had her wings out with tips to the ground, beneath which sheltered a clutch of fuzzy goslings.
It was uncommon for geese to rear a brood after the season had passed, but it happened on occasion, for example, when a pair lost their first brood to predation, or when one mate died and the other had to find a new mate and start over.
“He’s coming down,” said John, watching as the eagle dove earthward.
Laureal cried out in alarm, “He’s after their babies!”
The growling hit a crescendo, and a “SWOOSH!” filled the air as the eagle swooped directly over the geese in an attempt to scatter them in a panic and expose the defenseless goslings.
The gander and dame held together, their brood huddling beneath them in terror.
John watched as the eagle circled back up into the air. It climbed higher than before, all the while keeping an eye on its quarry. To John’s mind, it appeared evident that the eagle correlated increased height with increased velocity. He looked on as it folded its wings and turned earthward like a missile.
“John! Shoot it!”
John drew his bow only to hesitate, and at once it was too late—
“SWOOSH!”
Feathers flew loose, floating hither and thither. Sheer momentum combined with natural acrobatics carried the swooping raptor a stone’s toss back up into the air where it banked low like a fighter jet looking to pluck up an exposed gosling.
The gander and dame held their ground, growling in defiance. The goslings, yet beneath their mother, piled on top of one another in a trembling heap.
Again, the eagle climbed into the sky, this time even higher than before.
“Shoot it, John!” clutching the gunwale. “Don’t let it get them!”
John drew aim as the eagle began its dive, but he could not bring himself to shoot.
“John! Take the shot!”
“It’s not my place,” lowering the tip of his arrow.
“John—” in distress!
Like a thunderbolt the eagle came down, the air whistling around its feathers. The black talons out like razor-sharp knives—each with a grip ten times stronger than an adult human—spelled doom for the goslings. But then, at precisely the right moment, the father goose leaped into the air, flipped his body upside down, spread his wings to shield his family, and kicked straight up with such force that his thick feet, the only things that could withstand the raptor’s talons, smashed into the extended claws and, the eagle was thrown off!
Incredibly, the gander continued his somersault to land on his feet like a world-class acrobat.
“Oh my, Lord!” cried Laureal, turning to John with a dropped jaw.
Equally astounded, John looked on while the eagle, who’d had enough, vanished over the treetops not to be seen again.
“That,” exclaimed Laureal, “was a sign!”
“You think so?” doubtful but happy, sky-high simply from seeing it.
“Yes, I do!”
John smiled broadly.
“Seriously, John…it had to be. I’m not sure what was said to us, but, Grandmother will know.”
Padding a hundred yards further, the lovers spotted their campsite—an island of driftwood atop a beach of sand and gravel. Not a twisted pile of wood but a natural work of art, bleached white by the hands of sun and time. It sat in the breeze, a campsite well away from the mosquitoes in the woods.
Striking camp, John and Laureal hung their wet gear to dry, stored their semi-perishables in the shade of a drift log, and took their .50 caliber rifle for a visit to a nearby blackberry patch where they shouted fair warning to any bear that might be in the vicinity. Then, with fresh-picked fruit, they ate a late lunch, including cured pork, smoked lake trout, and breadcakes with seeds and nuts baked in. They went swimming and dug clams along the water’s edge. The sun sank low. The forest fell dark. The moon came out and, being nearly full, illuminated their private avenue of sand and pebbles in grayscale.
Stretched out on his side with his head propped on his hand and arm, John looked on as Laureal fished clams from a boiling pot. The pot had no fire beneath it. Instead, she had made a shallow impression in the pebbly sand, into which she pressed an oiled piece of deer hide. She then ringed it with small rocks to form a cooking pool, into which she placed fire-heated stones. The hot stones subsequently boiled the water, cooking the clams. John put his nose out to catch an earthy whiff of clams and herbs. He could only watch because Laureal had ordered him to lie still. She said he had done most of the work paddling that day.
So it was, John lay watching as Laureal seemed to play a child’s game—clam by clam, separating the meat from the open shells, discarding one, plopping the other back into the pot—the fire and moon playing softly on her feminine features.
“Is it good?” watching as he took his first taste.
“Oh yeah!” lifting his eyes to meet hers.
Sharing from the steaming pot, they lay together with clamshells for spoons and firelight to see by.
“I cannot get over what we saw today.”
“Me too,” dipping his spoon into the pot. “I’ve seen geese abandon their young to save themselves, and it makes me wonder, how can one be so heroic and another so cowardly when they’re only animals?”
“You know what gets me?”
“Oh, I know what gets you.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah,” smiling, “those fuzzy little goslings.”
“Well, yes, and no. What got me was how that father goose threw himself between death and his family.”
“That was spectacular, although I’m partial to eagles,” said John, fishing around in the pot, getting a clam in his spoon along with the other ingredients.
“He defeated the eagle,” said Laureal.
“I wouldn’t take it that far.”
“He saved his family.”
“Agreed.”
“John…you’re a lot like that father goose.”
“No, I’m like the eagle.”
“No, John, you’re like the goose.” And fishing in the pot, “There’s only one left.” She extended it to him, “Here, darling, you eat it.”
“You eat it, sweetheart…for our Little Bear,” nodding to her tummy.
Having polished off the clam, Laureal set her spoon down and lifted her eyes to John’s.
“What?” he asked, suspicious of her knowing smile.
“You would protect us…just like that father goose.”
“What about the baby eaglets?” John asked, feigning a humble tone. “Don’t they need to eat too?”
“Well, yes, of course they do.”
“That’s right. And if we were eagles, I’d bring you a wounded gosling, and you’d show our babies how to finish it off.”
“John!”
(Laughing.)
“You said that just to get a rise out of me!”
“Yeah. I did. But it’s true all the same. I’d have brought you a gosling, or perhaps a baby rabbit…still kicking.”
“Mr. Summerfield!” rising in protest, “you are a horrible man!”
Turning away, Laureal stepped to the edge of their camp. Across the beach, the waterway glimmered like quicksilver under the moon. From its shores, choirs of frogs sang while, from the forest behind, their cousins the treefrogs also sang. The frogs of the trees, and frogs of the stream, countless voices singing their hearts out in hope of finding a mate. A great horned owl called to its mate. The pair met on a moonlit branch and rubbed beaks in a duet. Their chicks, having left the nest but not the neighborhood, came and joined in a singing family ensemble. Even the water in the stream seemed to lift its voice in the magic of the moonlight, gliding here and there around rocks and snags on its way to the lake.
Laureal glanced over her shoulder, “Goose.”
“Eagle.”
Turning to face him, “Goose.”
“Eagle,” standing up.
“Goose!”
“Eagle,” stepping towards her.
“Goose!” loudly, even as she took a step back.
“Eagle!” coming towards her, his arms out like a winged raptor, swooping on its prey.
“Goose!” shouting and spinning, breaking into a run.
“Eagle!” laying chase.
Sand and pebbles flew from the heels of long powerful legs as Laureal put on a burst of speed. Unfortunately, she had to turn to avoid the stream, and as she ran along the water’s edge, John got the advantage of taking an angle on her. Shrieking, she juked at the critical moment. He pulled his arms in to avoid tackling her, and his momentum carried him headlong into the stream—
SPLASH!
Winded on the shore, Laureal could scarcely breathe for laughing. John, meanwhile, looked up at her, his head the only visible thing above the water’s surface.
Quieting and pursing her lips, Laureal drew solemn, “You wouldn’t bring me a wounded gosling, would you?”
Gazing up at her, he shook his head, “Quack-quack.”
“Geese don’t quack…you silly!”
“Honk-honk,” swimming to and fro like a goose. “Honk-honk.”
Thrilled with life and, not unaware of his baiting, Laureal giggled all the more. Falling silent, she gazed on John and, wading in, joined him in the glimmering stream, their eyes softly shining in the grayscale of night.
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