LAKE OF THE SWANS
Book 2 of 3
Chapter 49
That evening, after the meeting in the longhut, Rutin, Harley, Anders, Onak, John, and Julian sat around a campfire in the backyard meadow.
In the dark of night, Onak sat with his back to the campground so that he would not stand out in the fire’s illumination. Further concealing him were a few trees that shielded the back-yard meadow from the main campground, which, at that hour, was quiet anyway. But even in the dark, the rumor of a runaway slave was spreading. After all, every elder had witnessed him. Soon enough, all would know of him, a reality that Elkhart, Carlton, and Black-Spear had incorporated into their secret plan.
Presently, Elkhart turned to the Enuk, “Mr. Onak, if you would, please tell these gentlemen what you told Carton, Black-Spear, and myself.”
Onak looked from Elkhart to the others. “After we exit this area to the northwest, if we then travel due north by the sun and stars, we are certain to find a great inlet where the ocean at the top of the world reaches into the land like the hand of a giant with five rivers extending like fingers in every direction. And because the rivers extend east and west for a tremendous distance, we are certain to find at least one of them, which we can then follow to the inlet, and my village at the mouth of the greatest of the rivers, which is key to finding the monolith. This is all very important to know, but...we will have a more direct route. We will be following the caribou, and they will lead us to the greatest river, as it is the boundary they must cross to enter the rich grasslands of the coastal plain.”
Onak had referred to what had once been known as the Bathurst Inlet, and the greatest of the five rivers, the Burnside River. Once across the ‘Great River,’ as Onak’s people called it, it was only a mile further north to step over the Arctic Circle, and enter the fabled land of the midnight sun.
Elkhart next used a stick to draw a rough outline of the Lake of the Swans in the dirt—
“This is how we’re going to dupe the High Council. From the north end of the lake, the gauntlet runs north-northeast to Roderick’s Grounds.” He drew a line to represent the gauntlet. Then, an ‘x’ for Roderick’s Grounds, located approximately one hundred twenty miles to the north.
“Now, directly west of the gauntlet and running parallel to it is what’s called the Bear’s Claw.” Rutin used his stick to draw a series of parallel lines to represent the Bear’s Claw, in reality a group of ravines cut by ice-age glaciers.
“The Bear’s Claw is a region unto itself,” he continued. “It is made of long ravines, like marks made by a grizzly on a tree trunk. These ravines are sharp and deep. Some have elongated lakes at their bottoms, others have bogs. They begin here, at the north end of the lake, and continue north-by-northeast, paralleling the gauntlet to form a natural barrier between our route and the route of any group that might follow the decoy expedition. Hopefully for us, this means that by the time anyone back here realizes we did not go southwest into Emerson territory…any expedition sent to follow the decoy expedition would be too far afield to recall and, at the same time, hopelessly separated from us by the Bear’s Claw, itself a vast expanse of forbidding terrain. The organizers in Grandal would have to start all over again with a new expedition. And by then, it would be late in the season. There might even be snow on the ground.”
“A misdirection play,” John uttered, having studied military tactics as a graduate of the Order.
Julian looked to Elkhart, “Do you think it will work?”
“Yes…I believe it will. Or at least, I believe it will buy us the time we need. We will start by making the decoy expedition look convincingly real. We must each do our part. No overacting, just serious business. In this way, I believe we’ll pull it off.”
Using his stick, Rutin next drew a curvy line in the dirt to represent the Montreal River, which connected the Lake of the Swans to Montreal Lake with the old river crossing in between. “John, when you break off from the decoy expedition, you may be tempted to take this route,” pointing to where the Montreal River emptied into the northwest corner of the Lake of the Swans. “Do not attempt it. The current is too strong, and, up that way, the river’s course is a continuous series of hairpins. Instead, continue down the west side of the lake. Travel at night. Retreat into the woods before dawn. Do not build any fires. Live on cold food. Do not come out until dark. Be invisible and swift, like a raiding party. And John, you’re the strongest, so put Mr. Fischer in the bow of your canoe. Keep him working, but don’t overwork him. He wants to be a part of this with heart and soul, but if by chance your unique manner of travel leads him to have a change of heart, and he decides it would be better to be back in the comfort of these campgrounds which, at that point would only be a few days hike around the south end of the lake…well, you see, John, how that could be a problem. Mr. Fischer already knows too much. Therefore, it is incumbent on you to make certain he stays the course.”
Rutin next turned to Harley and Anders, “When we reach the old river crossing, we’re going to need a large dugout canoe, and a raft for the horse. To build these things, we’re going to need tools. The Emersons have a good ax, and so do I, but we will need at least one more, and we don’t have time to make one.”
Rutin turned to the big man, “Anders, we will fund you to buy an ax at the bazaar. That should look perfectly normal. A big man needs a big ax or two. So that’s at least three good axes.”
“I can cover the cost,” said Anders, “but I appreciate your offer.”
“I have a large hatchet,” said John.
“As do I,” Harley and Anders put in simultaneously, which brought smiles from all three.
“We will also need several shovel-headed axes for building the dugout,” Rutin added. “We can purchase one without appearing out of the ordinary. To get a second one, I’m sure Mr. Timmerman has several and will be happy to contribute one to our cause.
“He would love to come along.”
“Indeed, he would. And we’re fortunate to have his backing.”
“We’re going to need a big raft to support the weight of John’s horse,” said Harley, “almost too big for the river, but we can make it work.”
Harley had gotten a good look at the Montreal River months earlier while searching for Jessie. “It will take three tiers of logs,” he continued. “Balsam Poplar floats well, grows large, and there’s plenty of it in the old growth on the west side of the river.”
“Very good,” said Rutin. “We will build the raft and dugout at the old river crossing, and the sooner we get them made and out of there, the better. However, we must cut, haul, and assemble the logs in such a way as to leave no clue that we made a raft and a dugout. It’s okay that we leave signs of a camp, even a substantial camp. That is to be expected. But from that camp, it must appear that we turned south towards Emerson territory, when in reality, we will go north on the river, and disappear into the wilderness by a water route that few know of.
“Cutting, trimming, and dragging a large number of trees without a trace is a tall order,” John stated.
Falling into thought, they sat gazing at the makeshift map, just there in the dirt at their feet.
Harley was quick to break the silence, “The river is high this season. It’s too swift for upstream travel. But, from the old river crossing, we could make it look like we went south by land trail. We could begin by cutting a trail south along the west side of the river to Montreal Lake.” He drew a line in the dirt to represent the trail. “There’s already an animal trail there. We would only need to widen it. In doing so, we would establish a perfectly normal-looking trail southward towards Emerson territory. Then, at the north end of Montreal Lake, we could set up camp, harvest logs, and build a raft and dugout without any need to hide our work because anyone tracking us would assume we built the crafts to go south on the lake. They would assume so because the land trail from there along the lakeshore is nearly nonexistent for fifty miles, and fifty miles is a long bushwhack! Also, a tracker will know we have a horse giant, so rafting would probably seem logical in his mind. And because the lake extends south into Emerson territory, and because it is known that the Emersons have a hunting camp at the south end of the lake, well…it stands to reason that a raft and dugout would not be a one-time thing, and therefore all the more sensible. An experienced tracker would take such things into consideration, but to verify, he would need to make a round trip of one hundred miles, just to see if we landed at the south end of the lake, and he would be on foot, and I do not believe most trackers would bushwack that extra hundred miles. They would stop at the north end of the lake, and in their minds, common sense, logic, and reason would envision the family going south towards familiar territory, the safety of home, and well-established hunting camps, especially when one takes into consideration that a family with small children, a pregnant women, old folks, and a gaggle of puppies would never do anything so rash as to venture into the unknown north during the last half of summer.”
Anders shook his head, “What are we getting ourselves into?”
Somewhat bewildered, Julian looked to his mentor, “Is this not like the daring things you and your men did, beyond the Five Seas?”
Onak, who would walk through fire for his freedom, looked from one man to the next, “So, all we need to do is make things appear as if we had gone south on the lake by raft and canoe when, in truth, we had backtracked north on the river without leaving a trace?”
“Exactly,” replied Harley.
“It does seem like a good plan,” Anders confessed, lifting his gaze from the map to the men, “although, it would delay our ‘disappearance’ by four or five days.”
“Outside the time we’d spend building the raft and dugout anyway, it would add two or three days clearing trail from the old river crossing to Montreal Lake, and another day getting back to the old crossing,” Harley explained. “It depends on how authentic you want our ruse to look. We will not fool even the worst tracker by building a large raft at the old crossing. And if that’s acceptable, then fine…in that case, I would forget about trying to hide the evidence and, instead, just build the crafts at the old crossing and high-tail it from there. On the other hand, if it is worthwhile to throw trackers off our trail, then I say build them at the lake.”
Anders turned to Rutin, “How long do you think we have before the Council’s men come looking for us?”
“Well…our representatives will depart in a day or two on their journey to Grandal. So, give or take several days, they will go before the Council on the half-moon. Then, if the Council sends a contingent, it may not arrive here for several more weeks. However, rogue treasure hunters are likely to show up before then, although they would have to travel unseen so as not to cross the Council. It is possible, though, that the Council has already dispatched an investigator or two. Such represent-atives might arrive at the rendezvous at any time and start asking questions. They might then follow our trail. Any way we look at it, we are taking a gamble, but for now, we’ll plan on building the raft and dugout at Montreal Lake.”
Elkhart next turned to John, “You and your party will reach the old river crossing first. From there, continue by widening the animal trail along the west bank of the river, south to Montreal Lake, as Harley suggested. We will be a day or two behind you if things go as planned. Hopefully, we’ll catch up in time to help you clear the trail.”
“Putting Ellie on a raft will be tricky,” said John
“Not as tricky putting her in a canoe,” Harley countered with a friendly grin.
“Roderick put his horse in a canoe,” Anders threw in, smiling.
“His trusted stallion, Fireaway.” Julian referred to a popular Roderrick tale.
“I haven’t heard that one,” said John.
“Fireaway was somewhat smaller than that behemoth of yours, John.”
Chuckles went around.
“Fortunately for us,” Rutin began, “the water levels are high this year, what with all the rain, so we should be able to float Ellie without running aground.”
“When winter comes,” Julian began, his tone enthusiastic, “a powerful horse and a few teams of sled dogs will be worth their weight in gold.”
Elkhart smiled painfully, “Until then, they’ll all have to go on the raft. It will be a handful and then some, but…we’ll manage.”
At twelve weeks of age and weighing between eighteen and twenty-five pounds, the pups were healthy, loved to frolic, and regarded themselves as part of the Emerson pack. They could be counted on to walk trail for hours on the way from the Lake of the Swans to Montreal Lake, but not all day. And perhaps that was a good thing inasmuch as their need for rest breaks would also allow the clan’s elders opportunity to do the same.
“There’s something more, and it won’t be easy,” Rutin began, “but at least we’ll only need to do it once.”
“What would that be?”
“The water route I spoke of,” Rutin began, “to access it, we will need to disassemble and portage the raft.”
“Portage the raft?” Harley echoed, his eyes wide. “When you said we’d be taking a little-known water route, I thought you meant something west of Hidden Lake,” referring to what had once been known as Egg Lake, and a complex of sloughs and lakes to its west.
“It’s not a difficult portage,” Rutin countered, his tone as reassuring as it was pleading. “The ground is smooth. Not a half mile to travel. And beyond that, a vast series of connected rivers and lakes…all with the south wind at our backs.”
Using his stick, Elkhart added to the map, “It’s a route known only to myself and a handful of others. The only thing is, we have to make the portage without leaving sign of it. Otherwise, we may as well abandon our vanishing act and just high-tail it into the north like Harley said.”
“You say the ground is smooth…is it firm enough to bundle the logs and have Ellie pull them with rollers on rails?” asked John.
“Yes.”
“Well then, it’s doable,” Harley began, the wheels in his head turning. “We can use the raft’s smaller deck logs for rails. It would take multiple trips, and it’d be slow going, but a team of two people could rotate the rollers to keep us moving along. Another team could go ahead of us, clearing the ground and tying limbs out of the way. On the last trip, we could be followed by a team of sweepers to put the place back to how it was when we found it. The work could be done in one long day, I would hope.”
“We will plan on it,” said Rutin. “And Harley, I forgot to mention, we’re going to need a rudder and sailing masts for the raft.”
“We can build those at Montreal Lake. By doing everything there, we’ll leave that much less evidence for trackers to follow.”
“Very well. If we can manage this, and I believe we can, then we will be way ahead of the Council.”
Using his stick to scribe the dirt, Rutin next drew a representation of Spearhead Lake, which, at its name indicated, was shaped like a spear, at the west end of the portage—
“Spearhead Lake points north-northwest. Its southern shore runs unbroken in the wind shadow of the forest, so we can use sails, and as long as we don’t stray too far from shore, we won’t get swept out into the waves. This should make for a day’s travel. Then, from the lake’s northern tip, it’s another day’s travel on a slough that runs northwest through a muskeg bog. I haven’t been there for many years, but hopefully, we’ll be able to stay on the water without having to face the muskeg. The slough empties into an unnamed river,” referring to what had once been known as the Smoothstone River. “The river is moderate in size and contains no serious rapids. It meanders north for three days and empties into a realm more water than land for six or more days of sailing in remote wilderness. From there, we will continue up a system of lakes connected by rivers and sloughs. This will put us in the farthest known reaches of the realm. Here,” drawing in the dirt as he explained, “we will leave our boats and continue on foot.”
Harley pointed to the map. “If I’m not mistaken, those are the Hills of Mire-Moor,” referring to where they would begin on foot. He lifted his gaze to Elkhart, “Can we get through there?”
“I would hope we could find another route,” Anders added. The big man, like all but a handful of Kasskatchens, knew of the place only through the old stories, told and retold around campfires.
Fast to notice a change in their expressions, Onak asked, “Is this something to worry about?”
“Mire-Moor can be gotten around,” stated Elkhart, himself one of a rare few to have traveled to a realm so remote as to be myth in the Kasskatchen psyche.
Elkhart explained for John and Onak, “Mire-Moor is vast as a sea. It forms a natural barrier that protects the northern-most reach of our realm. It’s a bog plain dotted with cliffy little hills, like islands, most with wooded crowns. Around mid-morning, the mist clears from the foot of the cliffs to reveal a flat plain of lush green grass, meandering sloughs, cattails, and ponds. In summertime, it appears a strange kind of paradise, but it is not what it seems. To be drawn out onto its magic carpet is akin to walking on water. Not wet, just undulating with every step amid strange little flowers that grow nowhere else. Almost funny until the earth gives way and one falls through and into what lies beneath.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Harley cut in, “it’s not just bog muck that one falls into. There’s something down there, beneath the grass. Something that eats out the eyes even as it preserves the victim like some kind of trophy.”
Onak’s large round eyes grew all the wider, “What’s down there?”
“No one knows,” Harley replied with a shake of his head, “but it’s said that, when the autumn moon falls full in Mire-Moor, the faces of its victims rise to the surface like so many fish gasping for air, their eye sockets empty, their skin like the mud that holds them captive, blackened and slimy.”
“Now we’re telling the old tales,” Rutin protested. And frowning at Harley, he tossed his stick into the flame, “The place is bad enough without them.”
Looking from one man to the next, Elkhart’s sober expression spoke to reality, “Years ago, Carl and I saw a bull moose get swallowed up there like it was nothing. We were stocking the big fellow. He was grazing happily in a rich green field. Then, with but a step more, he fell through the grass and, after a moment of struggle, vanished. The grass then closed up as if nothing had been there at all.”
Using his boot, Rutin erased all he had drawn, “That was as far as Carl and I went, and I know of no one who has been farther.”
Harley lifted his eyes from the destroyed map, “Looks like I might get a chance to see if what my grandfather used to say is true.”
“What’s that?”
“Whenever he saw ravens flying north in spring, he’d say, ‘There go the ravens, off to the Hills of Mire-Moor.’”
“What do they do there…breed?” John asked.
“All together in a giant nest, according to Grandpa.” Harley used his hands to indicate something gigantic.
“Is this true?” Onak whispered to Anders, suspicious of Harley even though, as a boy in the Arctic, he’d seen giant nesting colonies of terns and puffins.
“I doubt it,” Anders replied lowly.
“Well, maybe not in one big nest,” Harley confessed, “but I should think it the perfect place for them to raise their young, what with all their thieving and trickery.”
“If the ground can swallow a moose whole, then what would remain for a raven?” John’s dark eyes harbored a touch of fear, even as he felt certain Harley was pulling his leg.
“Harley’s referring to an old folktale,” Rutin put in, his tone suggesting they move on.
John looked from Rutin to Harley and back again, “I don’t believe I’ve heard the tale.”
“Tell him, Rutin,” Harley prodded.
Elkhart stared at Harley.
“Someone should tell him,” Harley said at last, breaking into a smile.
Rutin shifted his steel-blue eyes to John. “I’ll give you the long and short of it. The story tells of the first ravens, which weren’t birds at all, but a hapless troop of brigands that wandered into the hills of Mire-Moor. Having camped on a fen, they heard whispers in the dark, seemingly coming from all around them. At first, they thought it might be the breeze up in the cliffy hills, but they soon realized the whispers came from under the grassy plain. So naturally, they put their ears to the ground. The whispers promised to feed them, to clothe them, and, by some unnatural power in the depths of the bog, give them wings to fly. In return, the men and women need only bring others to the bog, which might require a little deception and trickery. The humans, a questionable group of outcasts who had only stumbled into the place, agreed and went to sleep. Then, when dawn came, so heavy hung the mist, they could not find their hands before their faces, and yet, the bog had kept its end of the bargain, for they were clothed in feathers black as night. And when they tried to speak, their voices came out so raspy as to be a chorus of gurgles and croaks.”
“Caw…kraa!” Harley blurted out.
(Nervous laughter erupted.)
“Don’t believe a word of it!” Rutin exclaimed, laughing with them, the lines on his leathery face flickering in the firelight.
Whether the story held a grain of truth or not scarcely mattered. Folktales, fables, sagas, and ghost stories told by firelight were the oral art of Kasskatchen culture. From the larger-than-life Roderick sagas to the fables of fairies who disguised themselves as butterflies, from the salmon king’s palace shimmering in the depths of the lake to the towers of the thunder eagles high in the clouds—such stories were many, most of which contained a lesson for young and old alike.
While the men joked, in part to soothe their fears, Emma, Jessie, Mia, and Laureal sat by the light of oil lamps in the longhut—
“Our plans have changed,” said Emma. “Instead of moving to the west shore and setting up camp to restock for winter, we will make a list of what we need, and purchase it all at the bazaar. While doing so, we will tell people that we decided it prudent to head home directly because we had to leave our winter dwelling unoccupied, and we do not wish to arrive there only to find some unexpected difficulty at the onset of the winter season.”
“Grandma…that sounds like lying.”
“Indeed, child…it is. And it is strictly forbidden in our family. But this one time we’re going to break our own rule and hope that, by the time the truth comes out, we’ve been given an opportunity to redeem ourselves.”
Out back, Harley, Anders, and Julian retired to their wickiups, and Onak departed for his secret camp. Only John and Rutin remained around what remained of the fire.
“Mr. Elkhart,” John began, “If I may ask, what is so terribly wrong in Grandal that we should face such an undertaking without seeking their considerable resources?”
Elkhart lifted his eyes from the embers, “Out here on the frontier, if you do not make your arrows to fly true, you will go hungry.” Then, nodding in the direction of Grandal, “Over yonder, men of words do not use real arrows. So, if there’s a crook in the arrow, a man can just shrug his shoulders, call it good, and move on. And that’s not necessarily bad. Words are better than arrows when it comes to striking compromises between clans. So one can live with a little crook here, and a little crook there, at least…until the crooks get out of hand.”
Returning his eyes to the embers, Rutin let out a wistful sigh, “It wasn’t always like this. After the unification of the tribes, in the days of my grandparents’ grandparents, Grandal rose to become a place not only in beauty alone but in the beauty of what it aspired to. And on that kind of beauty, it prospered for many lifetimes to become as a great tree loaded with fruit. Had it only been a real tree, there would have been a season to send people on their way so that they might keep their natural balance. But they lingered beneath its eaves. And what had begun as shade turned to shadow. And in the shadow, they gorged until they could no longer be recognized.”
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