Pricksongs & Descants (20 page)

○ ○ ○

Imagine Qu
e
nby and Ola at the barbecue pit Their faces pale in the gathering dusk. The silence after the sudden report broken only by the whine of
mosquitoes
in the damp grass, a distant whistle. Quenby has apparently tried to turn Ola away, back toward the house, but Ola is staring back over her shoulder. What is she looking at, Swede or the cat? Can she even see either?

○ ○ ○

In the bow sat Carl. Carl was from the city. He came north to the lake every summer for a week or two of fishing. Sometimes he came along with other guys, this year he came alone.

He always told himself he liked it up on the lake, liked to get away, that
’
s what he told the fellows he worked with, too: get out of the old harness, he
’
d say. But he wasn
’
t sure. Maybe he didn
’
t like it. Just now, on a pitchblack lake with a stalled motor, miles from nowhere, cold and hungry and no fish to show for the long day, he was pretty sure he didn
’
t like it
.

○ ○ ○

You know the islands are out th
ere, not more than a couple hun
dred yards probably, because you
’
ve seen them in the daylight All you can make out now is here and there the pale stroke of what is probably a birch trunk, but you know there are spruce and jack pines as well, and balsam firs and white cedars and Norway pines and even maples and tamaracks. Forests have collapsed upon forests on these islands.

○ ○ ○

The old springs crush and grate like crashing limbs, exhausted trees, rocks tumbling into the bay, like the lake wind rattling through dry branches and pine needles. She is hot, wet, rich, softly spread. Needfu
l.
“
Oh yes!
”
she whispers.

○ ○ ○

Walking on the islands, you
’
ve noticed saxifrage and bellwort, clintonia,
shinleaf,
and stemless lady
’
s slippers. Sioux country once upon a time, you
’
ve heard tell, and Algonquin, mostly Cree and Ojibwa. Such things you know. Or the names of the birds up here: like spruce grouse and whiskey jack and American three-toed woodpecker. Blue-headed vireo. S
carlet tanager. Useless informa
tion. Just now, anyway. You don
’
t even know what makes that strange whistle that pierces the stillness now.

○ ○ ○

“
Say, what
’
s that whistling sound, Swede? Sounds like a goddamn traffic whistle!
”
That was pretty funny, but Swede didn
’
t laugh. Didn
’
t say anything.
“
Some bird, I guess. Eh, Swede? Some god damn bird.
”

“
Squirrels,
”
Swede said finally.

“
Squirrels!
”
Carl was glad Swede had said something. At least he knew he was still back there. My Jesus, it was dark! He waited hopefully for another response from Swede, but it didn
’
t come.
“
Learn something new every day.
”

○ ○ ○

Ola, telling the story, laughed brightly. The others laughed with her. What had she seen that night? It didn
’
t matter, it was long ago. There were more lemon pies and there were more cats. She enjoyed being at the center of attention and she told the story well, imitating her father
’
s laconic ways delightfully. She strode longleggedly across the livingroom floor at the main house, gripping an imaginary cat, her face puckered in a comic scowl. Only her flowering breasts under the orange shirt, her young hips packed snugly in last year
’
s bright white shorts, her soft girlish thighs, slender calves: these were not Swede
’
s.

○ ○ ○

She is an obscure teasing shape, now shattering the sheen of moonlight on the bay, now blending with it. Is she moving toward the shore, toward the house? No, she is in by the boats near the end of die docks, dipping in among shadows. You follow.

○ ○ ○

By day, there is a heavy greenness, mostly the deep dense greens of pines and shadowed undergrowth,
and glazed blues and the white
ness of rocks and driftwood. At night, there is only darkness. Branches scrape gently on the roof of the guests
’
lodge; sometimes squirrels scamper across it. There are bird calls, the burping of frogs, the rustle of porcupines and muskrats, and now and then what sounds like the crushing footfalls of deer. At times, there is the sound of wind or rain, waves snapping in the bay. But essentially a deep stillness prevails, a stillness and darkness unknown to the city. And often, from far out on the lake, miles out perhaps, yet clearly ringing as though just outside the door: the conversation of men in fishing boats.

○ ○ ○

“
Well, I guess you know your way around this lake pretty wel
l.
Eh, Swede?
”

“
Oh yah.
”

“
Like the back of your hand, I guess.
”
Carl felt somehow encouraged that Swede had answered him. That
“
oh yah
”
was Swede
’
s trademark. He almost never talked, and when he did, it was usually just
“
oh yah.
”
Up on the
“
oh,
”
down on the
“
yah.
”
Swede was bent down over the motor, but what was he looking at? Was he looking at the motor or was he looking back this way? It was hard to tell. It all looks the same to me, just a lot of trees and water and sky, and now you can
’
t even see that much. Those goddamn squirrels sure make a lot of noise, don
’
t they?
”
Actually, they were probably miles away.

Carl sighed and cracked his knuckles.
“
Can you hunt ducks up here?
”
Maybe it was better up here in the fall or winter. Maybe he could get a group interested. Probably cold, though. It was cold enough right now.
“
Well, I suppose you can. Sure, hell, why not?
”

○ ○ ○

Quenby at the barbecue pit, grilling steaks. Thick T-bones, because he
’
s back after two long weeks away. He has poured a glass of whiskey for himself, splashed a little water in it, mixed a more diluted one for Quenby. He hands her her drink and spreads himself into a lawnchair. Flames lick and snap at the steaks, and smoke from the burning fat billows up from the pit. Quenby wears pants, those relaxed Bided bluejeans probably, and a soft leather jacket The late evening sun gives a gentle rich glow to the leather. There is something solid and good about Quenby. Most women complain about hunting.trips. Quenby bakes lemon pies to celebrate returns. Her full buttocks flex in the soft blue denim as, with tongs, she flips the steaks over. Imagine.

Her hips jammed against the gunwales, your wet bodies sliding together, shivering, astonished, your lips meeting—you wonder at your madness, what an island can do to a man, what an island girl can do. Later, having crossed the bay again, returning to the rocks, you find your underwear is gone. Yes, here
’
s the path, here
’
s the very tree—but gone. A childish prank? But she was with you all the time. Down by the kennels, the dogs begin to yelp.

○ ○ ○

Swede was a native of sorts. He
and his wife Quenby lived year
-round
on an island up here on the lake. They operated a kind of small rustic lodge for men from the city who came up to fish and hunt. Swede took them out to the best places, Quenby cooked and kept the cabin up. They could take care of as many as eight at a time. They moved here years ago, shortly after
marrying
. Real natives, folks born and bred on the lake, are pretty rare; their 14-yearold daughter Ola is one of the few.

How far was it to Swede
’
s island? This is a better question maybe than
“
Who is Swede?
”
but you are even less sure of the answer. You
’
ve been fishing all day and you haven
’
t been paying much attention. No lights to be seen anywhere, and Swede always keeps a dock light burning, but you may be on the back side of his island, cut off from the light by the thick pines, only yards away from home, so to speak. Or maybe miles away. Most likely miles.

○ ○ ○

Yes, goddamn it, it was going to rain. Carl sucked on a beer in the bow. Swede tinkered quietly with the motor in the stern.

What made a guy move up into these parts? Carl wondered. It was okay for maybe a week or two, but he couldn
’
t see living up here all the time. Well, of course, if a man really loved to fish. Fish and hunt. If he didn
’
t like the retrace in the city, and so on. Must be a bitch for Swede
’
s wife and kid, though. Carl knew his own wife would never stand still for the idea. And Swede was probably pretty hard on old Quenby. With Swede there were never two ways about it That
’
s the idea Carl got.

Carl tipped the can of beer back, drained it. Stale and warm. It disgusted him. He heaved the empty tin out into the darkness, heard it plunk somewhere on the black water. He couldn
’
t see if it sank or not. It probably didn
’
t sink. He
’
d have to piss again soon. Probably he should do it before they got moving again. He didn
’
t mind pissing from the boat, in a way he even enjoyed it, he felt like part of things up here when he was pissing from a boat, but right now it seemed too quiet or something.

Then he got to worrying that maybe he shouldn
’
t have thrown it out there on the water, that beercan, probably there was some law about it, and anyway you could get things like that caught in boat motors, couldn
’
t you? Hell, maybe that was what was wrong with the goddamn motor now. He
’
d just shown his ignorance again probably. That was what he hated most about coming up here, showing his ignorance. In groups it wasn
’
t so bad, they were all green and could joke about it, but Carl was all alone this trip. Never again.

○ ○ ○

The Col
e
man lantern is lit Her flesh glows in its
eerie
light and the starched white linens are ominously alive with their thrashing shadows. She has brought clean towels; or perhaps some coffee, a book. Wouldn
’
t look right to put out the lantern while she
’
s down here, but its fierce gleam is disquieting. Pine boughs scratch the roof. The springs clatter and something scurries under the cabin.
“
Hurry!
”
she whispers.

○ ○ ○

“
Listen, Swede, you need some help?
”
Swede didn
’
t reply, so Carl stood up in a kind of crouch and made a motion as though he were going to step back and give a hand. He could barely make Swede out back there. He stayed carefully in the middle of the boat He wasn
’
t completely stupid.

Swede grunted. Carl took it to mean he didn
’
t want any help, so he sat down again. There was one more can of beer under his seat, but he didn
’
t much care to drink it His pants, he had noticed on rising and sitting, were damp, and he felt stiff and sore. It was late. The truth was, he didn
’
t know the first goddamn thing about out board motors anyway.