Backcast (25 page)

9

Following Signs

Quinn was dreaming. She knew it the way you just knew things. Like when you had those dreams about falling off a cliff or getting chased by a steamroller—you pretty much understood that it wasn't real. Even though it felt real and scared the piss out of you. You just went with it and knew that at some point you'd wake up and everything would be okay.

This dream was like that, too.

She was out on the boat with her fish map. The one Montana said looked like that zodiac symbol for Pisces. She was practicing the routes, driving from one spot to the next to find the fastest ways to get around. She needed to figure that out before the tournament started. She needed to know how to get from one location to the next so she'd have the best shot at catching the biggest fish. The weighins were every afternoon at two o'clock at Dock Street Marina in Plattsburgh. That meant she'd have to be on her way to New York—or, at least, fishing that part of the lake—every day at lunchtime. She wanted to be sure to pull into the marina with plenty of time to spare.

In her dream, the lake was calm and smooth—more like ice than water. All of the tiny islands looked different, too. Long, drooping lengths of red garland connected them to each other. Quinn thought they all looked like they'd been strung together as part of a great, land flotilla. The garland reminded her of the grease pencil lines on her map. It made sense.

Dreams were like that. Ordinary things had a tendency to take on fantastic proportions—especially if you ate a lot of beef before
bed. Just like that time she dreamed that her Harley turned into a black stallion with raven wings and a peacock tail. She knew it wasn't real, but she enjoyed flying across the heavens, anyway. It was only later that she found out this same thing happened to the prophet Mohammed.

She didn't know much about his religion, but she figured he must've eaten a lot of beef, too.

The boat was running well. She'd made fantastic time zipping from one spot on the map to the next. But the smooth, unbroken surface of the water made it impossible to get a line in. She'd cast, but her hooks and rigs just bounced and skidded across the surface. Nothing would penetrate. She even tried heavier weights on the line. No dice.

She decided to try a different lure. Junior's mantra was always “If nothing else works, try a worm.”

Worms were pretty disgusting and she had a hard time imagining why a fish would want to eat one. Even Phoebe pointed that out during their conversation. So Quinn went shopping for fake ones. Junior was helpful there, too. He told her that the color of the worms mattered, but that Lake Champlain bass were picky and she shouldn't waste her money on any of those crazy, day-glow jobbers. Big fish like Phoebe had refined tastes. They were more likely to be attracted by the dust-covered classics found at the back of the rubber worm aisle: black grape, chartreuse, pumpkinseed, blue fleck, and scuppernong. Quinn made sure she had plenty of each on hand.

She was rooting around in her tackle box trying to decide which one she wanted to try when she heard the voice. It stopped her cold.

“Don't waste your time, Einstein. They're not biting today.”

Phoebe.

Nobody else had a voice like that. It sounded like pea gravel in a blender. There was no mistaking who it belonged to.

Quinn wheeled around. Phoebe was watching her from the surface of the cooler. Somehow, the aerator was hooked up and humming. A small column of bubbles rose around her.

“How did you get in there?”

“You tell me.” Phoebe flipped her fat tail. “It's your damn dream.”

Quinn sighed and sat down on a folding chair. “I was gonna try one of these pumpkinseed worms.” She held one up. “But I can't get anything to break through the surface. It's like the lake has a shell on it, and everything just bounces off.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You mean this has happened before?”

“To the lake? No. But I'm sure it happens to you all the time.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“If I have to spell it out for you, you're going to have to give me something to eat.”

Quinn didn't remember packing any food for this dream—but then, she didn't plan for any of the other things that were happening, either. She figured she might as well check.

“Let me see what's in the fridge.”

She walked over to the battered Kelvinator and opened its dented door. The shelves inside were lined with tiny containers filled with tomato aspic. She remembered that Phoebe had liked that the last time. She pulled one out.

“I have more of this.”

“That'll work. Dump it in here.”

Quinn complied.

“Do you want some crackers with that?” Phoebe was already busy sucking up the red goo.

“That depends. You got any hard-boiled eggs in that thing?”

“No. Just a lot of this stuff.”

“Next time, try to plan ahead.” Phoebe continued with her lusty slurping. She had a big appetite. That was one thing they had in common.

“How do I plan ahead for what happens in a dream?”

Phoebe seemed to be taking a moment to consider her response. That was a first. Normally, she'd just roll out some snappy reply.

“Dreams are just extensions of what takes place in your real life. The things you do, the things you don't do. The things you fear or worry about. So you really have more control over the content of your dreams than you realize.”

“I don't get it.”

Phoebe sighed. “Let's try an object lesson. Look down there at the contents of your tackle box. It's full of all kinds of different things: lures, sinkers, flies, hooks, rubber worms. Every one of them is tucked neatly into its own compartment. But if you took them all out, dropped them together into a can, gave the can a good shake, then emptied it all out onto the deck, what you'd have is a big jumble of mess. All the parts would be the same, but the way they'd be mixed-up together would make no sense.”

Quinn blinked. She sort of understood that. Mostly.

“So that's what dreams are? Mixed-up parts of other realities?”

“Quinn Glatfelter, come on down!” Phoebe flipped her tail.

“You mean I got it right?”

“It was bound to happen. But don't get cocky. Breakthroughs for you are few and far between.”

Quinn sat back on her stool. “So why is the water like this?”

“Like what?”

“Hard. Solid.” Quinn looked out across the glassy surface of the lake. “I can't get a line into it no matter how much weight I put on it.”

“That's because it isn't the lake.”

“It isn't?”

Phoebe shook her head.

“What is it, then?”

“It's
you
. It's your subconscious.”

Quinn took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

“Lemme guess,” Phoebe quipped. “You don't know what that means?”

“No.”

“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.”

“Hey? Could you at least pretend to be nice?”

“It's
your
dream. You tell me.”

Quinn slapped herself on the hand.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Quinn slapped herself again. “I'm trying to wake myself up.”

“It doesn't work that way.” Phoebe tossed her head toward the fridge. “Go get yourself a beer.”

“There isn't any beer in there. There's only more of the aspic.”

“Do us both a favor and go check, anyway.”

Quinn got up and went to the fridge. This time when she opened it, the shelves were lined with amber-colored bottles of Backcast Pale Ale.

“What the hell?” She pulled one out. “How did this get in there?”

“You wanted one, right?” Phoebe asked.

“Well. Yeah.”

“Same thing goes for the lake. You want the hard surface to go away? Then you have to make it disappear.”

“How do I do that?”

“You start by imagining a lake that isn't hard and solid. You allow yourself to think about a body of water that's open and fluid—that has depth and dimension. And as you begin to do that, other people in your life will be able to explore it with you. You won't continue to be confined to whatever skates across the surface.” Phoebe tossed her head. “And maybe you'll learn to ditch the damn dog collar.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“Duh? See these liver spots on my ass?”

“You mean you know all this because you're old?”

“They don't call you Einstein for nothin', do they?”

Quinn shrugged.

“Besides. I already told you: this is
your
dream. All of these pearls of wisdom I've been shoveling at you are really coming from your own subconscious.”

“You mean I've already figured this out?”

“If you have to ask me that question, then probably not.”

Quinn heard a faint beeping sound. She looked around the boat but didn't see anything wrong.
Maybe one of the 12-volt batteries was running out of juice?

“It's not a battery.”

Quinn looked at Phoebe.

“It's your alarm clock. Put my ass back in the water before you wake up. I don't wanna spend eternity in this damn tank.”

Quinn put her beer down and approached the cooler.

“I can't put you in the water. The lake is solid. Remember?”

“Just do it.”

Quinn hesitated. The beeping noise was getting louder.

“Take a leap of faith, here.” Phoebe was getting impatient.

Quinn picked her up and carried her to the side of the boat. Phoebe flipped out of her hands and dove into the water. The splash she made was like a small tidal wave. The cold water flew up and hit Quinn in the face. She bolted into wakefulness. Her room was still dark but the first rays of sunlight were starting to creep in beneath the window shade.

Her alarm was still going off.

And her face was wet.

“Do you have a minute?”

Montana caught up with Barb on the lawn between the inn and the barn. Barb was heading for her workshop. She wanted to get a couple of hours in before the afternoon session kicked off.

“Sure.” Barb stopped and faced her. “What's up?”

“I wanted to talk with you about Marvin.”

Uh oh.

“Ah. So you met him?”

Montana nodded. “I was pretty blown away by that revelation.”

“I can imagine.”

“But you knew about it all along?”

“I did. Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“Because it wasn't for me to tell.”

“I just don't get it.”

Montana seemed pretty distressed. Barb thought her reaction to the news about Mavis was oddly disproportionate to the magnitude of the revelation.

“I can understand that it's a surprise. But it's not like her character changed or anything.”

“No. That's true. Marvin is just as big an asshole as Mavis.”

Barb laughed.

“Why is he—she—helping us with the tournament?”

Barb demurred. “Why don't you ask her that question?”

“She told me to mind my own business.”

“That sounds like her.”

Montana threw up her hands. “I'd just really like to know.”

Barb sighed. “Come along with me.”

“I don't wanna keep you from your work.”

“You won't. I can spare a few minutes.”

They walked on to the barn in silence. Once they were inside, Barb turned on the overhead light and hauled out an old wooden stool.

“Have a seat.”

Montana sat down and looked over the small models that Barb had strewn across the workbench. They were an eclectic assortment of tiny, metal fish. Some were standing up like humans. Others had wings. Several of them were twisted up with hunks of glass or wire. One of them was partially submerged inside a piece of rock. Another one was trapped inside a bottle.

“These are incredible.” Montana picked one up. It was a walking fish, and it had two heads. “Are these supposed to be us?”

“Not you,” Barb corrected. “Your stories.”

“God.” Montana twisted the two-headed fish around. “Which one of us is this?”

Barb smiled. “Guess.”

Montana blushed and put the tiny sculpture down. “I'd rather not.”

“Aren't you happy that Quinn can now compete in the tournament?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then what about Mavis's involvement is so unsettling to you?”

Montana didn't reply.

Barb didn't push it. She slowly started to assemble her tools. She wanted to get her prototypes designed for the next couple of essays. Eight of them were near enough to completion now that she felt like she could make serious headway on the forms. The whole concept was really starting to come together now. She liked the
direction it was taking. And if she could just light a fire under the damn Outliners, they might have a ghost of a chance at getting this wrapped up before their time ran out on Sunday.