LAKE OF THE SWANS
Book 2 of 3
Chapter 52
Before departing Toddy Rocky, the family split into work groups. One group worked to ‘sweep the trail’ as they called it, meaning to erase their tracks. It was okay to leave some tracks pointing south, as they wanted their southbound trail to be evident. The family then continued backtracking north by way of the river to the old crossing where they struck camp, took care of their animals, and ate supper.
After supper, Onak went off alone to kneel along the river’s edge. The waterway’s corridor was not one of aspens in that place but of pines. Their highest eaves, gently swaying in the night breeze, framed the sky as a river of stars—faraway and out of reach—like his home. And yet, just there beside him, he could hear the water flowing to the sea.
Praying in his native tongue, the Inuk lifted his eyes to the great mystery of existence, unknowable, enigmatic, and yet so omnipresent as to fill the sky from the highest star all the way down to his very core, where, feeling its touch, Onak appealed to heaven, asking “Kusak” to see him home.
A stone’s throw away, Fischer recorded the family’s journey with pen and parchment, fastidiously working by the light of an oil lamp.
Meanwhile, at the center of camp, John, Laureal, and the rest of the family sat cross-legged in a semicircle, with Noah and Sophie in particular having the eyes of children at storytime. Before them, Rutin and Emma stood with a well-stoked campfire behind them. Side by side, their human forms outlined by the light of dancing flames, their faces cast in shadow, gave them a ghostly appearance.
Elkhart extending his arms to all that surrounded them, “Behold…the Great Spirit’s labor of love!”
Oh, Great Spirit!” cried Emma. “What have we done to deserve this gift?”
“The rivers and lakes, the forests and glades, the plants and animals, the sun and rain, the moon and stars…and here in the midst of it, like goslings yet to take wing, our spirits fledge under Heaven’s eave!”
“Oh, Great Spirit!” both elders began in unison. “We lift our voices in praise and gratitude!”
All then rose and began to sing. Jessie, Laureal, and others swayed and sang their hearts out while John mouthed words he could never fully remember.
All then sat except the de-facto-Patriarch and Matriarch who remained like pillars before the fire—
“For all the wondrous gifts we see,” Elkhart continued, “the most valuable of all is the gift we cannot see, for it is a gift beyond earthly measure, a gift greater than this world has space to hold. And yet, such a sense are we given for it, as to be keener than the nose of a bear, sharper than the eye of an eagle!”
“It is our soul!”
“Our treasure to keep forever!”
“And ever…if we so choose.”
“Noah, can you tell us what we must do to keep our treasure?”
“We have’ta feed the good wolves!”
“That’s right. We are to feed the good wolves. And where do they live, Sophie?
“Inside us…in the hills and valleys.”
“Exactly! They roam the hills and valleys of our hearts and minds. But…the bad wolves are in there too, aren’t they?”
“If they try to get me,” proclaimed Sophie, her eyes grown wide, “I’ll tell them I’m with the Great Spirit!”
“That’s right! We ask the Great Spirit for his help. He guides us through the shadowy places, and leads us out into sunlit meadows. He guides us through the hills and valleys within because that’s where our virtues and vices tangle in the great war between good and evil…and every wolf, is in every one of us.”
The Matriarch called on Mia to rise and recite the Spirit Story, that epic poem known to all Kasskatchens, “Come forth from the glades of heaven; seven wolves ever loyal to the Lord of Light. Leapt out from the black void of hell, seven wolves enslaved to the Master of Deception. Flashes of light, and darting shadows, deep within the contours of my soul.” So began a tale of many verses, and Mia recited them all.
After the poem, all stood for a final round of singing. The twins were then put to bed, and those who chose to shared personal stories of salvation. Throughout it all, John remained silent. He never shared the tragic account of his introduction to the family. But it was no secret, at least not to Rutin, Harley, and Anders. They had been told the entire story. John was a killer, and so were they. John would kill anyone that got between him and his ticket to the moon. They would kill anyone that encroached on their land and way of life. What had been done was done, and in the ensuing survival struggle, they had banded together. John had become part of the clan, and the clan had incorporated his mission into its own. Each had their incentive, and their incentives bound them as one. But as we know, there was more to their merger than all that. The power of love lay at the heart of it. And, as we also know, Laureal had made a stand at the time of their union. There could be no path of finger-pointing, no path of loathing, no prolonged confusion or sorrow. She had warned about cheating oneself out of happiness and fulfillment. She had warned about coming to a bitter end and losing one’s soul to the darkness.
Retired to their tent for the night, husband and wife lie together on a caribou blanket padded by a bed of evergreen boughs. On his back with eyes to the ceiling, John thought of a story Elkhart had told that evening. Elkhart did not tell of his exploits as a frontiersman. He neither wallowed in nor bragged of the toll he had paid for the good name he had earned among the frontier folk. Instead, he told of an earlier time in his life when he fell into a hole from which he could not escape, save that the Great Spirit, upon hearing his pleas, reached in and lifted him out, whereupon he was given a new life.
Drifting off, John did not know he’d fallen into a dream. Everything seemed perfectly real. He was showing Cody how to shoot his air rifle, passing his training as a Seeker to the boy. They had hung a target on an abandoned hut for target practice. The hut was so deteriorated that one could see through it. They hadn’t fired five rounds when there came a chorus of cries and, to John’s horror, he realized that another hut stood in the woods some distance behind the abandoned hunt. John’s heart sank, for he knew the cries belonged to a mother, wife, and daughter—
“John,” shaking him by his shoulder. “John!”
John came around in a cold sweat, breathing heavily.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Auh,” letting out a gasp.
“Are you okay?”
Slowly, he nodded, “Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” rolling up on his side.
Laureal scooched around and curled into the fetal position, her back pressed into John, spooned up within his form. At six months pregnant, she had experienced an easy pregnancy up till then, thanks in large part to what her mother and grand-mother called the ‘Art of Living.’ Emma and Jessie knew nothing about the science, and yet they knew exactly what their young woman and her unborn child needed. And they made sure to get it fresh and clean from forest and stream. Tout eggs and venison liver fully cooked, grouse and goose stock, baked nuts and wild grains, tubers, berries, and more. Minerals like iron and zinc. Vitamin C, B6, B12, and D. Not to forget omega-3 fatty acids.
John could feel Laureal breathing, her ribcage gently rising and falling—the curve of her shoulders, her waist, and hips, her outline in the moonlight.
“Are you asleep?” he whispered at last.
“No…not yet.”
“I felt him move,” said John, his hand on her tummy.
“So did I,” turning her head to smile at him.
“Do you think he can hear us talking?”
“I’m sure he can…or she can.”
“Hello in there,” softly.
The lovers chuckled lowly.
“Sweetheart?”
“Yes,” turning her head to his.”
“I know you wish we were homebound, and I want you to know I have not forgotten our dream.” Then, gently brushing her hair from her face, “We will build our home by the river, and when the river freezes, we’ll go for sleigh rides.”
“That’s a mighty big claim for a man going in the opposite direction.”
Laureal’s lack of enthusiasm for John’s obsession was no secret, and still, she had come along. And John, to his credit, saw virtue in her for it—
“I know you’re disappointed in me.”
Laureal sighed as if to let it go, “No…I refuse to be.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I love you. And I don’t want to feed the wrong wolves.”
“I love you too,” kissing her. “I don’t want to feed the wrong wolves either.”
Weighing the benefits against the risks, the family decided to stay an extra day. They would use the time to remove weeds, bushes, and saplings that crowded the memorial to those who had died in the disaster of the river crossing. This would serve two purposes. The primary purpose was to honor those who lost their lives in the disaster. The secondary purpose was to leave a trail that gave the appearance of a family that, having rebuilt itself, could afford to clean up the previously abandoned site. In this, the family not only celebrated their success but also left as perfect a trail of deception as humanly possible. Any would-be tracker following their trail would find a series of well-established camps going southwest into Emerson territory, a vast area on the far reaches into which one could easily assume the family had continued.
Understanding that their best two hunters were Harley and John, Rutin sent the former to hunt in the forest across the river while keeping the latter in camp to employ his giant in the cleanup work. Concurrently, Emma sent Jessie and Rowe out net fishing, while Mia and Laureal gathered nuts and berries.
By mid-morning, the sun beat down hot from a cloudless sky—not ideal for clearing brush but perfect for walking in a river with a seining net. Twelve feet apart with seine poles in hand, Jessie and Rowe passed their net through an eddy pool along the east shore—
“Looks like we’ve cleaned this hole out,” said Jessie as they lifted an empty net.
Rowe glanced downriver. “Should we go further?”
“Oh, I think we’ve got all we need,” smiling.
They began rolling up their net, slowly stepping towards one another, taking care to keep it centered and tight around the poles.
“Catch anything?” called a voice from the woods across the river.
Jessie stopped dead in her tracks, “Harley…is that you?”
“Don’t shoot,” came a jovial reply, whereupon Harley stepped into the sunshine along the opposite shore, a whitetail deer slung over his shoulders.
Jessie was visibly relieved, “Oh, Harley…you just took a year off my life.”
“I didn’t mean to,” waist deep, making his way towards her, struggling mightily in the current, the added weight of the deer, along with his powerful build, helping him to keep his footing.
Jessie waited as Harley crossed. “You caught me off guard,” she added, her tone absolving him of any wrongdoing.
“More like on guard…if you ask me,” said Harley who, having made it through the swift current, stood knee-deep in glimmering water.
If only for a moment, they held one another’s eyes while, all around them, nature played its calming rhythm through the music of flowing water and singing birds.
Jessie couldn’t help but love the man before her. It wasn’t because they had once been the savage world’s equivalent of a homecoming king and queen. It wasn’t because he had been the strongest, quickest, brightest, and bravest of all the boys, for he had also been wild and ornery. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was so handsome, but that wasn’t it either. All those years ago, Jessie had been madly in love with him, and she still loved him, although not as a girl. Presently, her lips turned up at the corners, “That’s a nice looking deer you have.”
Walking towards camp, the three stopped to pet Ellie. Sleek and sweaty from clearing small trees and brush, the giant had been turned loose for a refueling break along the shore while the humans did the work of mopping up.
“As big as she is,” Jessie began, “she doesn’t waste a single blade of grass,” stroking Ellie’s boulder-sized shoulder.
They looked on as Ellie’s subtle movements put the beauty of nature’s design on display. The giant always had one foot slightly forward while grazing, and there was good reason for it. Not one step was to be wasted but rather taken calmly, slowly, and deliberately, and only when the process required it. Her long powerful neck and huge head swept from right to left and back again like a scythe in ultra-slow motion. Her lips moved over the ground like a pair of clippers. Her incisors cut new mouthfuls of grass even as her molars ground up the prior mouthful. Not a single atom of energy was wasted. The grass was left to grow back, and only then did Ellie take the next step.
“It’s almost funny,” Jessie began, “when we cut grass and put it in a pile before her, she steps all over it and grinds half of it into the ground.”
Continuing towards camp, Harley noticed a fish pen built of rocks in the shallows. The pen had sticks placed across its top, on which pine boughs had been laid to make a lid that would keep the fish from jumping out—
“You must have caught something?” he asked.
Jessie shot a smile at Rowe. “We did pretty well.”
The holding pen was one of two in which Jessie and Rowe had stored appropriately twenty trout. It would be fresh trout for all that evening. The deer, on the other hand, would be processed for later consumption. The meat would be cut into strips and smoked into jerky, some of which would be pounded and stone-ground to make pemmican in the form of delicious energy bars, which, as we already know, were made of tallow, meat, honey, nuts, and berries.
Laureal and Mia returned to camp with a basket of berries, some hazelnuts, and butternuts stolen from squirrel caches. In a nutshell, half the family has spent the morning in a natural grocery store where the shelves were never full or empty but ever-tasking the shoppers to hone their skills in the art of living. And, as Emma liked to say, an attitude of gratitude made for a well-stocked pantry.
To smoke the venison, the family built a tent of pine boughs to serve as a smokehouse. Mr. Fischer, having caught up his journal and feeling anxious to make himself useful, insisted on being the one to stay up and maintain the smoke-fire that night, so the jerky would be ready to store come morning.
The following morning, feeling satisfied with their cleanup job on the memorial, the clan departed northward on the River Montreal. Weya, having once again refused to board the raft, swam across the river to run the animal trail above the west shore, and Yike went with her. Thanks to the swift nature of the river, including long stretches of mild rapids, the family flotilla quickly covered seventeen miles without event, whereupon their scouts, Harley and Cody, arrived at the large hook from which the family planned to portage to Spearhead Lake.
“Change of plan,” said Harley, ruddering from the stern, turning their canoe toward an eddy pool along the west shore.
Cody looked over his shoulder, his expression one of confusion, “Why?”
Harley nodded ahead to the river’s hook, “That water may be navigable for us, but if we were in a clumsy raft…not so much.” Then, as they coasted into the eddy pool,” We’ll let the raft go ahead of us. That way, if they get into trouble, we’ll have their back.”
The eddy pool lay in the first bend of the hook and, as part of the original plan, the dugout was to stop there and let the raft go first for the purpose of avoiding a collision between the two at the putout point—the reasoning being that the raftmen might be unable to stop at the putout and would ram the dugout. The two smaller canoes, which could be more easily taken out of the water, had initially planned to go first to the put-out where they could be unloaded and taken out of the way before the raft arrived. This was the plan prior to seeing the state of the river in the hook.
Next to come along, Rowena spotted Harley and Cody waving from the eddy, “What are they doing in there?” asked Rowe.
“I think Harley’s worried about the raft,” Jessie replied, observing the river ahead, using pry strokes to turn their canoe in the swift water.
“What’s up?” asked Rowe as she and Jessie coasted into the eddy.
“The current runs hard along the wall in there,” Harley replied, referring to the way the river swept through the hook. “We’ll let the raft go first. That way, we can bring up the rear in case of trouble.”
The ‘wall’ in question was a cutbank, not of dirt but limestone. Formed over eons of erosion, its long curved wall owed its uncommon existence to three natural factors. One, the river flowed into a rugged group of hills that forced it into a complex hook. Two, a deposit of shale, long since eroded away, had given the hook its initial shape. Third, the soil of the conifer forest, being highly acidic—a result of decomposing pine needles—made the water acidic, which in turn accelerated hydraulic erosion, aided by natural chemicals that dissolved limestone. The result was a curved wall of limestone standing twelve feet in height. It did not form the entire outside bank of that particular section of the hook but a significant portion of it and, at present, the high water swept against it with great force. Not a problem for the canoes, as they could stay away from it. Not so easy for a heavy raft.
Floating in the eddy, Harley reached out with his paddle and hooked it onto Jessie’s gunwale. “We need to make room for the dugout,” drawing her close with a suggestive little smile.
Smiling even as she shook her head, Jessie rolled her eyes and looked out over the river.
Next to enter the bend, Elkhart ordered the dugout crew to paddle backward, in effect acting as brakes to slow the big canoe while he ruddered.
Stroking backward in unison with two paddlers on the right side and two paddlers on the left, the dugout crew effectively slowed their craft and coasted into the eddy.
“I hope I haven’t surprised you too much,” said Harley.
“Not at all,” Rutin replied, having seen what Harley had seen. A stone’s throw ahead, the added force of high water in the hook rushed along the limestone cutbank like liquid in a centrifuge.
“Can they make that?” Mia asked, thinking of the raftmen and Anders in particular.
“They’ll have to,” Elkhart replied matter-of-factly.
The raftmen knew what to expect, thanks to the de-facto-Patriarch who had shared his knowledge of the hook with them. In particular, he had told them the cutbank would fall away at the northwest corner, and reaching that corner was the objective. From there began a portage through a gentle land saddle surrounded by rugged terrain. The only place a large raft could be disassembled and moved to Spearhead Lake.
Scarcely a minute more had passed when the raft came into view and, seeing it, Laureal turned to Elkhart, her expression speaking to her surprise and concern, “They’re going so fast!”
It’s easy to forget how swift the river is while moving with it,” said Harley.
“Funny how sitting at a standstill affects one’s perspective,” Fischer added, nearly punch-drunk from staying up all night to smoke the venison.
“Why don’t they slow down?” Sophie asked, her thinking, being that of a child, assumed the men could use their poles.
“They can’t,” Elkhart answered calmly. "The current is too strong, and the raft is too heavy."
Had the raftmen attempted to slow down, they would have busted their poles or, worse, their arms. In such water, they could only move side to side, and even that presented a challenge. It had been easy to land the raft in the calm along the shore of the old river crossing. Likewise, in the slow water above Toddy Rocky. Now, however, watching them from her stationary location in the eddy, Laureal realized the full measure of the raft’s momentum. And knowing it would only increase in the hook, it appeared the raftmen would have no choice but to execute a controlled crash landing if such a thing existed.
“DON’T BREAK MY RAFT!” Harley shouted jokingly.
Looking back as they swiftly cruised past, Anders replied dryly, “We have to take it apart anyway.”
“What’s so funny?” Sophie cried, her eyes turning up to Laureal, “Why do they talk like that?”
Laureal did not reply—her mouth open with bated breath, she followed the raft with her eyes.
Carried into the hook, the raftmen fought to stay away from the stone cutbank. Stabbing and pushing with their poles, it appeared they had picked a fight they could not win.
“Brace!” Anders shouted as they neared the limestone.
“SMASH!” The raft struck the wall and went slowly rotating out of control. A series of horrific sounds followed as the rapids held them to the limestone face. Grinding and scraping, sliding and turning, they skidded along.
Julian shouted out in disbelief, “It’s slowing us down!”
Unexpectedly, the wall acted like a friction brake, slowing them even as rapid waves broke over the deck. Fortunately for everyone, they had grooved the logs to shield the bindings. Otherwise, the rocks would have cut the ropes and torn the raft apart.
“We must be living right!” John shouted laughingly, for it appeared the wall would slow them to the end where they could land and put out in the corner.
The men shot smiles of victory back and forth while, unbeknownst to them, some yards ahead and closing fast, an isolated deposit of shale had washed away years before, leaving a cave-like pocket. Naturally camouflaged, it presented a potential disaster.
Seeing it too late, Anders lost his smile, “We’ve got to get off this wall!” And stabbing his pole against the limestone, the big man pushed with all his might.
Skidding towards the pocket, the raftmen pushed to escape with everything they had, but they could not overcome the awesome power of the river. Good fortune may have carried them past the danger, but it was not to be. The corner of the raft went into the pocket with a mighty “CRASH!” and the men were thrown to the deck.
With its corner trapped in the pocket by the power of the river, the raft began to nose down with its leading edge following the undercut of the cliff, which continued below the surface to the bottom of the deep channel. Simultaneously, the raft’s opposite end was being pushed upward by the tremendous hydraulic force of the water that came against it. Not only was the river holding them pinned to the cliff—it was slowly but surely rolling them over!
Scrambling to their feet, the raftmen pushed against the cliff with their poles, expending their every atom to free themselves from the pocket—
“PUSH MEN! PUSH!” Anders shouted. Then, “Everyone on three…one, two, three, PUSH! Again…one, two, three, PUSH!”
Their efforts were in vain.
All could feel the raft tilting, nosing down the wall while, on the upstream edge, its backside crept upward. Twenty thousand pounds of logs, men, animals, and gear—soon to be overturned!
In a knee-jerk reaction, Summerfield planted his pole in his floor anchor while shoving the opposite end against the rock roof of the pocket’s overhang ten feet above. He acted not a moment too soon. The pole wedged immediately and halted the raft’s upward movement, then bowed with such tension as if to explode into shards.
“CRACK!” The pole kicked out of place and stung the devil out of John’s hands. Certain that his pole had broken, John quickly realized he was mistaken. The sound had not come from the wooden pole but from a freak vibration in the limestone slab that comprised the roof of the pocket. Long on the verge of dislodging, the slab began to slide, slowly but surely, sliding away from the cliff top!
“Onak!” Julian cried, “Get out of there!”
The Inuk, being on the corner closest to the cliff, stood in the pocket as the great slab teetered. Pulling his quick-release knot, Onak leaped for his life while, directly behind him, five tons of limestone hit the deck and slid off the corner with such force that it pushed the raft away from the cliff. At the same time, a large wave was produced, part of which rebounded in the pocket, spraying up and out like a great liquid umbrella over the river. Simultaneously, loose rocks tumbled helter-skelter across the raft’s deck. Ellie reared her head and let out a high-pitched squeal, her eyes bulging, her enormous hooves planted firmly, her ropes stressed to the breaking point. Lower down, the pups yipped as though fatally wounded when in reality they were only terrorized. Scrambling on hands and knees, Onak snatched his pole just before it rolled overboard.
The raft held together thanks to its construction and the buffering effect of the water, which cushioned the impact of the cave-in.
Waiting on no one, the river swept the raft and its rattled occupants to the northwest portion of the hook where the cut-bank gave way to a gentle shoreline.
Quick to gain his bearings, Anders stabbed his pole into the riverbed and let out a mighty groan. The others followed suit, pushing for all their worth to gain the gentle corner. Their momentum suggested disaster even as their efforts paid off. Into the stony shallows they careened as if riding a runaway sled—scrapping, skidding, and jarring, they came to rest partially beached along the shore.
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