24

Lake Garner / White Lake

Boundary Waters Canoe Area, Minnesota

Still Wednesday, 19 September

As soon as we land on the northeast shore of Lake Garner I take my pack around the corner of the woods to White Lake. Night’s falling fast—it’s two hours later than we made camp yesterday and the day before—and I don’t want people hassling me. Not even Violet. I don’t want to think about what I’m about to do any more than I have to.

Past the spit of land that separates the northeast corner of Lake Garner from the south end of White Lake, I reach the start of the narrow, rocky beach that goes north along White Lake’s western shore. Dump my whole pack onto it.

It’s already deep grays and shadows here. The wooded ground beside the beach rises steeply as it goes north, leaving White Lake at the bottom of what is essentially a zigzagging granite crevasse. As promised, the place is bleak.

I’ve just gotten my wetsuit on when Samwise, Palin’s young relation, comes around the corner.

“Are you going swimming?” she says, surprised.

“Yeah,” I say.

“In White Lake?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I steal a line from Violet Hurst: “That’s where the monsters are.”

She nods, confused. “Have you seen Bark?”

“No. What’s wrong?”

“She was on the boat with me and Violet, and when we were about to land she jumped out and ran into the woods, sort of like you did.”

“You mean she came around here?”

“No. We think she went straight up the hill.”

Which is to say parallel to White Lake, but along the top of the cliff instead of the bottom, where we are. “I wouldn’t worry about her,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll come back. The dog’s dumb, but she does seem to like you guys.”

Samwise looks worried, though. “Will you keep an eye out for her?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks.”

She leaves, and I pick up my fins and my flashlight.

★★★

The water’s cold as shit, and through my diving mask, in the beam of the flashlight, it looks like vegetable soup. Motionless particulates everywhere. Outside the beam of the flashlight you can’t see anything but black.

I should get out of the water and get dressed before Palin’s young relation Samwise tells anyone I’m here. I’m already starting to kick at things that are turning out to not be there when I shine my flashlight at my feet. The slasher-movie soundtrack of my breath through the snorkel isn’t helping.

But there’s something I want to see first. I lift my head out of the water and kick over to the spit of land.

Since Charlie Brisson turned out to be completely unreliable about his leg, I’ve been wondering how accurately he described the spit. Pretty accurately, I’m surprised to find when I reach it. The spit’s just slimy tree roots, with dirt and grass along the top like a buzz cut. With my mask back on I can see that the roots continue to spread out as they go deeper under water, presumably reaching the bottom somewhere below me, or even behind me, farther out into White Lake.

I transfer the flashlight to my left hand and head for the far end of the spit, using my right hand to pull myself across the face of the root wall like it’s a horizontal underwater ladder.

Small fish flash silver in the beam of the flashlight, eating at moss so fine it’s like green mist. None of them come out past the protective framework of the roots, though. I wonder if it’s possible for them to swim all the way through to Lake Garner.

Then the flashlight catches something bright and big ahead of me.

It’s a red-orange granite wall. Confused, I draw up and tread water.

I’ve swum the entire width of White Lake, to the cliff wall on the opposite side. I passed the end of the spit twenty yards back—or what looked like the end of it while I was on land. Beneath the surface, it continues all the way across.

I go back under. There are about six inches of water between the submerged part of the spit and the surface. The spit’s just as wide here as it was at the beach.

Meaning that while White Lake and Lake Garner might share the same water, they are, in fact, separate lakes. Not to tiny fish that can swim through the barricade, maybe, but certainly to anything large enough to eat a human. To something like that, being at this end of White Lake would be like being trapped in a wicker bowl.

Spooky. But at least now I can get out of here. As I swim back the way I came, I try to keep the checking of my feet with the flashlight to a minimum.

Even so, I keep doing it, and one time when I do I see a big gray fin glance out of the light, two feet or so from my ankle. Skin that’s dull like suede but still slimy-looking.

My mask is gone. My snorkel is gone. My flashlight’s gone. I’m just swimming like I’m falling off a building, not even breathing. Trying to decide whether to claw my way over the spit while I’m still at the submerged part or wait for some actual land.

Then I’m on the slope of the spit—the real spit, the above-water part, fins off and gone, running up the ladder of roots, fully aware that if I lose momentum or miss a step I’m going hard into a bunch of spikes. Thrilled to be out of the water anyway. I reach the grass. A tree trunk. Grab it and swing around it to a stop.

Face-to-face with Violet, who’s walked out on the spit to find me.

“Lionel—what happened?”

I turn back to the water. Nothing. It’s still light enough to see the surface, but there’s nothing going on out there that can’t be explained by my twenty yards of freaked-out freestyle.

“Did you see it?” I say.

“See what?”

I don’t answer her. I’m searching the surface.

“Oh fuck,” she says.