LAKE OF THE SWANS
Book 2 of 3
Chapter 49
That evening, after the meeting in the longhut, Rutin, Harley, Anders, John, Onak, and Julian sat around a campfire in the backyard meadow.
In the dark of night, Onak sat with his back to the campgrounds so that he would not stand out in the fire’s illumination. Further concealing his identity were the trees that shielded the backyard meadow from the main campground, which, at that hour, was quiet, the people having spent themselves on the celebration. This is not to say that the rumor of a runaway slave wasn’t spreading through the camps, given that every elder had witnessed him. And that was okay because, soon enough, all would know of him—it was part of the plan.
Presently, Rutin used a stick to draw a rough outline of the Lake of the Swans in the dirt—
“From the north end of the lake, the gauntlet runs north-northeast to Roderick’s Grounds,” drawing a line and a circle, respectively, to represent the gauntlet, and Roderick’s Grounds located approximately two hundred and fifty miles due north.
“Now, directly west of the gauntlet and running parallel to it is what’s called the Bear’s Claw.” Using his stick, Rutin drew a series of parallel lines to represent the Bear’s Claw, in reality a series of parallel ravines cut by ice-age glaciers.
“The Bear’s Claw is a region unto itself,” Rutin continued. “It is made of many 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 for several hundred miles 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 that they previously 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 would have to start all over again with a new expedition. And by then, there would probably be snow on the ground.”
“A misdirection play,” John uttered, visibly impressed.
Julian looked to Rutin, “It just might work.”
“Yes…I think so. I think 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 northwest end of the Lake of the Swans to the river crossing where the old Emerson clan had met their demise. “John, when you break off from the decoy expedition at the north end of the lake, you may be tempted to take this route,” pointing to where the Montreal River emptied into the lake. “It connects to the old Emerson river crossing. 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 two more days travel around the south end of the lake…well, you see John how that could be a problem. He 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 more boats to continue north. And we’re going to need a raft for the horse. Harley, you have a good ax, and so do the Emersons, but we will need at least one more. And we don’t have time to make one. Anders, we’ll fund you to buy one 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.
“We will also need several shovel-headed axes for building a dugout canoe,” 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, almost too big for the river, but we can make it work,” said Harley, having got a good look at the Montreal River months earlier while on his way to the lake in his search for Jessie.
“It will take three tiers of logs,” Harley continued. “Balsam Poplar floats well, grows large, and there’s plenty of it 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. It’s okay that we leave signs of a camp at the old crossing, even a substantial camp. That is to be expected. But from that camp, it must appear that we turned south towards Emerson territory. Any clues to the building of a raft would give away our true intent.”
“Cutting, trimming, and dragging twenty trees without a trace is a tall order,” John stated.
Falling into thought, they sat gazing at the map that Rutin had drawn in the dirt.
Harley was first to break the silence, “From the old river crossing, we could cut a trail south along the west side of the river to Montreal Lake. 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 a camp, harvest the logs, and build the raft and canoe. In this way, anyone tracking us could assume we built a raft to go south on the lake because the land trail from there along the lakeshore is nearly nonexistent for fifty miles. Fifty miles is a long bushwhack! And because a tracker is going to know we have a big horse, rafting might seem logical in his mind. A raft could be poled, and towed by canoes, and because the lake extends south into Emerson territory, and because it is known that the Emersons have a permanent campsite at the south end of the lake, it stands to reason that the raft needn’t be a one-time thing, but rather, something the family could use again and again. 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 I do not believe most trackers would go 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 head off into the unknown wilderness of the north.”
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 by raft on the lake when, in truth, we will have rafted the river to backtrack north without leaving a trail?”
“Exactly,” replied Harley, “a short day’s travel north on the river from the lake to the old crossing, and from there north, again on the river.”
“But altogether,” Anders began, “your plan would add four or five days.”
“Yes, three days clearing trail along the west bank of the river to Montreal Lake, and another day getting back to the old river crossing after building the raft. It depends on how authentic you want our southward trail 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 raft at the river crossing and high-tail it north from there. On the other hand, if it is worthwhile to throw trackers off our trail in a big way, then I say build the raft at the lake.”
Anders turned to Rutin, “How long before the High Council takes action?”
“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 High Council sends a contingent to assume control of the expedition, it may not arrive until late summer or early fall. 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. Moreover, I cannot imagine any of them going to such great lengths as Montreal Lake. It is possible, though, that the High Council has already dispatched an investigator or two. Such representatives might arrive at the rendezvous at any time and start asking questions. They might then follow our trail. Any way you look at it, we are taking a gamble, but for now, we will plan on building the raft and dugout at the lake.”
Elkhart next turned to John, “You and your party will reach the old river crossing first. From there, continue by cutting a trail south to the lake as Harley suggested. We will be a day or two behind you if things go as planned and will probably catch up to you while you are yet clearing 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.
“His trusted stallion, Fireaway,” referring 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.
Rutin continued, “I would say leave Ellie behind, but when winter comes, she’ll be worth her weight in gold. And fortunately for us, the water levels are high this year. We should be able to float her without running aground. Still, the big raft with the animals will be a handful.
“The pups will slow us down,” Anders commented.
“Yes, but they too will be worth their weight in gold come winter, ”said Rutin.
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. In the wild, wolf pups can accompany adult pack members on hunts at twelve weeks of age, but usually tire out early and return to the den or rendezvous site on their own. The Emerson pups could be counted on to walk trail for hours, but not all day. Perhaps a good thing inasmuch as their need for rest breaks would also allow the clan’s elders opportunity to do the same on the trek to Montreal Lake.
“There’s something more, and it will not be easy,” Rutin began, “but at least we’ll only need to do it once.”
“What would that be?”
“We will need to disassemble and portage the raft.”
The men shared looks of concern.
“The portage path is easy,” Rutin quickly added. “We can use the horse to haul the logs. It’s about a half-mile over smooth terrain. Beyond it lies a route known only to myself and a handful of others. No more portages…just a vast series of connected rivers and lakes, with the south wind at our backs.”
Rutin pointed to the map with his stick, “From the old river crossing, it’s not a day’s travel north on the River Montreal to the portage. See how the river becomes like a snake, right here,” pointing with the stick. “You can’t miss it. It turns hard west, then south, then back west, then north, then east, all in a tight series of hooks, and from the last hook’s most northwest point, it’s a half-mile portage to Spearhead Lake. The only thing is, we have to make the portage without showing signs of it. Otherwise, we may as well abandon our vanishing act and just high-tail it into the north like Harley said.”
“We could bundle the logs and pull them with rollers on rails,” said John.
“We could use the smaller raft logs for rails,” Harley added. “It would take multiple trips, and it would 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 trail 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, when we get to the portage, go ahead of us to Spearhead Lake and build a rudder and sailing masts for the raft.”
“If we have time while at Montreal Lake, I could pre-build them there and then install them at Spearhead Lake. In that way, we’ll already have them, and 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 have vanished from the old river crossing without leaving a trail to follow.” Rutin then drew a representation of Spearhead Lake in the dirt—
“Few people have seen this lake. Its southern shore is a straight shot north-northwest in the wind shadow of the forest. This means we can use sails and, as long as we do not stray too far from shore, we won’t get swept out into the waves. This should make for a short day’s travel. Then, from the lake’s northern end, it’s another day’s travel on a slough that cuts northwest through a muskeg bog. We should be able to stay on the water without having to face the muskeg. The slough empties into an unnamed river (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 at the farthest known corner of the realm. Once there, we will leave our boats and continue on foot.”
Onak, being quick to notice the change in Harley’s and Anders’ expressions, asked, “What comes next?” worriedly.
“The Hills of Mire-Moor,” Harley replied. “They form a natural barrier that protects the northernmost reach of our realm.” And turning his eyes back to the map, he added, “I’ve never been there.”
“Nor have I,” said Anders, who, like most, had only heard the old stories, told and retold around Kasskatchen campfires.
“Mire-Moor can be gotten around,” stated Elkhart, himself one of a rare handful 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 a bog plain vast as a sea, dotted with hills like so many cliffy islands rising to wooded crowns. Around mid-morning, the mist clears from the foot of the hills to reveal a flat seaway of lush green grass, meandering sloughs, wildflowers, and lakes. To the untrained eye, it appears a summer 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 green grass and strange flowers that grow nowhere else. Almost funny until the earth gives way and one falls through and into lies beneath.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Harley cut in, “it’s not just bog muck that one falls into. There’s something beneath the grass. Something that eats the bones even as it preserves the victim’s flesh 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 is said that, when autumn’s moon falls full in Mire-Moor, the faces of its victims rise to the surface like so many fish gasping for air, slimy and blackened, like rotted leather, each an expression of death itself.”
“Now we’re telling 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 what 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 remains of the map, “Looks like I might get a chance to see if what my grandfather used to say is really 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 breed there?” asked John.
“All together in a giant nest, according to Grandpa.” Harley used his hands to indicate something gigantic.
“Is that 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 surmised, “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 asked, his dark eyes harboring a touch of fear even as he felt certain Harley was pulling their legs.
“Harley’s referring to an old folktale,” Rutin put in, his tone suggesting they move on.
John turned to Rutin, “I don't believe I've heard the tale.”
“Tell him, Rutin,” Harley prodded.
“It can wait,” said John, not wanting to disrupt their meeting.
Rutin looked from John to Harley and back again. “The long and short of it, according to the story, is that the first ravens 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.
“Nothing like a ghost story to forget one’s fears,” Harley facetiously added.
Whether the story held a grain of truth or not scarcely mattered. Folktales, fables, and ghost stories told in firelight were the oral artwork of Kasskatchen culture. From the larger-than-life Roderick sagas to the fairies that 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 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 the chips don’t fall too far out of place.”
“Do you think folks will buy it?” asked Mia.
“If we do not appear anxious but only prudent…they’ll buy it. However, the truth will come out sooner or later. Let’s just hope that by the time it does, we’ve been given an opportunity to redeem ourselves.”
Out back, Harley and Anders retired to their wickiups. 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 little crook in an arrow, a man can just shrug his shoulders, call it good, and move on. And that’s okay. Words are better than arrows when it comes to striking compromises between clans.”
Returning his eyes to the embers, Rutin let out a wistful sigh, “It wasn’t always like this. Long ago, after the unification of the clans, 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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