calm.
Rob sat immobile. Stunned. Then he saw it. Just a foot from where the duck had disappeared. A swelling in the water that indicated something large had flashed just beneath the surface. The water had become engulfed in darkness, and Rob was relying on the light of the moon as his eyes followed the reflective swells and swirls. Whatever they were, there were several of them, probably fighting over the remains of the duck. Then suddenly something rose in a spray.
86
It was a fish. A salmon. Gargantuan in size. At least four feet long, with a girth as thick as a man’s body. It sailed upward into the air, its body vibrating as it crossed the circle of the moon. It crashed back into the water with a resounding smack, like the sound of a boulder being dropped from high altitude.
Then everything went silent. All traces of movement were gone.
Rob watched the water as mist gathered on its surface, and became so thick that everything was obscured. In moonlight, the lake had come to look unearthly, like a crater of steam.
He picked up the fish he had caught, rose on trembling legs, and headed slowly back to the cabin.
On a far shore of the lake, John Hawks sat alone, in darkness, gazing across at the island. Tiny spots of light showed in the windows of the cabin there. He remembered, when he was a boy, the sense of mystery attached to that island. There had been no cabin there then; the Indian children used the island as a test of their courage. When any one among them could swim back and forth to it without stopping, particularly at night, they had taken a major step toward joining the ranks of their elders.
There was said to be a spirit living on the island. An angry spirit whose face and form were uncommonly beautiful. According to legend, the spirit had been banished to the island by jealous siblings, and in its loneliness it had become demented. The sounds of dawn and dusk were attributed to this spirit; the cry of the loon, the moanlike call of the moose. The spirit was called N’ayh’an’tak’tah. Literally translated, it meant Crazy Beautiful. It was also the name of the island.
The cabin on the island was built by Morris Pitney, and thereafter the island was declared off Umits to the Indians. Many believed that that was why the Pitneys had suddenly, within two months of each other, died. Crazy Beautiful had killed them. Her methods had
87
been bizarre. They had slept with their mouths open, as whites commonly did. The spirit N’ayh’an’tak’tah was a woman; her breasts were filled with poison. As they slept, she dripped her poison into their mouths.
When Hawks recalled legends such as these, he understood why the whites looked upon the Indians as children. The whites did not understand that an unbridled imagination was a gift to be cherished, given only to man. Those Indians who became absorbed into the white world lost it quickly. It took careful nurturing to maintain. The old man, M’rai, had nurtured the gift well. His imaginary visions were crystal clear, and he could describe them in such detail that it seemed as though they were real.
After the confrontation at the roadblock, Romona had taken Hawks to the old man’s encampment, where she treated his wounds with valerian root and peat moss. It had taken the sting from the flesh, but not from the spirit. In the hours that elapsed. Hawks had sat in silence, staring into the fire at the old man’s encampment while M’rai spun tales of the creatures of the forest. He spoke of K’hrah’nitah, his secret lagoon, where the tadpoles grew so large that they could be eaten like fish. Where the inchworms spanned half the length of a man’s hand.
The old man urged them both to come to the pond and see, but they refused. They would not trespass into the sacred lagoon. They would not disappoint him by failing to see the things he saw.
After M’rai retired, Hawks and Romona sat without speaking, their eyes fixed on the glowing coals
Rob sat immobile. Stunned. Then he saw it. Just a foot from where the duck had disappeared. A swelling in the water that indicated something large had flashed just beneath the surface. The water had become engulfed in darkness, and Rob was relying on the light of the moon as his eyes followed the reflective swells and swirls. Whatever they were, there were several of them, probably fighting over the remains of the duck. Then suddenly something rose in a spray.
86
It was a fish. A salmon. Gargantuan in size. At least four feet long, with a girth as thick as a man’s body. It sailed upward into the air, its body vibrating as it crossed the circle of the moon. It crashed back into the water with a resounding smack, like the sound of a boulder being dropped from high altitude.
Then everything went silent. All traces of movement were gone.
Rob watched the water as mist gathered on its surface, and became so thick that everything was obscured. In moonlight, the lake had come to look unearthly, like a crater of steam.
He picked up the fish he had caught, rose on trembling legs, and headed slowly back to the cabin.
On a far shore of the lake, John Hawks sat alone, in darkness, gazing across at the island. Tiny spots of light showed in the windows of the cabin there. He remembered, when he was a boy, the sense of mystery attached to that island. There had been no cabin there then; the Indian children used the island as a test of their courage. When any one among them could swim back and forth to it without stopping, particularly at night, they had taken a major step toward joining the ranks of their elders.
There was said to be a spirit living on the island. An angry spirit whose face and form were uncommonly beautiful. According to legend, the spirit had been banished to the island by jealous siblings, and in its loneliness it had become demented. The sounds of dawn and dusk were attributed to this spirit; the cry of the loon, the moanlike call of the moose. The spirit was called N’ayh’an’tak’tah. Literally translated, it meant Crazy Beautiful. It was also the name of the island.
The cabin on the island was built by Morris Pitney, and thereafter the island was declared off Umits to the Indians. Many believed that that was why the Pitneys had suddenly, within two months of each other, died. Crazy Beautiful had killed them. Her methods had
87
been bizarre. They had slept with their mouths open, as whites commonly did. The spirit N’ayh’an’tak’tah was a woman; her breasts were filled with poison. As they slept, she dripped her poison into their mouths.
When Hawks recalled legends such as these, he understood why the whites looked upon the Indians as children. The whites did not understand that an unbridled imagination was a gift to be cherished, given only to man. Those Indians who became absorbed into the white world lost it quickly. It took careful nurturing to maintain. The old man, M’rai, had nurtured the gift well. His imaginary visions were crystal clear, and he could describe them in such detail that it seemed as though they were real.
After the confrontation at the roadblock, Romona had taken Hawks to the old man’s encampment, where she treated his wounds with valerian root and peat moss. It had taken the sting from the flesh, but not from the spirit. In the hours that elapsed. Hawks had sat in silence, staring into the fire at the old man’s encampment while M’rai spun tales of the creatures of the forest. He spoke of K’hrah’nitah, his secret lagoon, where the tadpoles grew so large that they could be eaten like fish. Where the inchworms spanned half the length of a man’s hand.
The old man urged them both to come to the pond and see, but they refused. They would not trespass into the sacred lagoon. They would not disappoint him by failing to see the things he saw.
After M’rai retired, Hawks and Romona sat without speaking, their eyes fixed on the glowing coals
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